by Robert Hodum
Shooting Rats
Shooting rats with slingshots off the top of the garbage dump on the grounds of Veterans Memorial Hospital was one of our entertainments on long July afternoons. The big kids used marbles, the large glass cat eyes for the job. They filled the slings of our store-bought slingshots perfectly. We’d go in groups of four or five, commando style, slipping through an opening in the V.A. fence. We’d stealthily work our way through the woods to a hill that overlooked the dump’s mounds of medical waste and garbage.
Most days we hit more garbage than rats, but the infrequent thud against the engorged body of one of those beasts was worth the walk and the risk of getting caught. The rat would either flop to its side and disappear over the crest of the dump or jump in the air, screeching.
The occasional patrol car or garbage wagon that would appear at the perimeter of the hill of refuse interrupted our target practice. The few times that we were chased, we’d be deep in the woods before security got within grabbing distance. We considered ourselves rugged frontiersmen, looking out for an unknown enemy as we walked home through our woods. Davey Crocket must have done something like this on the frontier.
Bragging rights usually went to the adventurers among us that had store-bought, metal slingshots and the strongest arms. These were the “big kids” as we respectfully called them. We were the “termites”, which we tried not to take personally. One day we’d be one of them, and rank on our little compatriots.
Some of these guys had uncanny marksman skills. Each of their shots on impact made a rat jump, rolling it into one of the heaps of medical waste at the dumps. Their marbles sometimes passed on through, kicking up a ketchup-like splatter. Other times they’d blow a leg off or impact a chubby rat belly. More often than not the marble ricocheted into the woods, digging up a whisk of dirt. That dumps was littered with marbles that never hit their marks.
Sometimes I’d get a turn with a metal slingshot, other times I’d bring my homemade one, fashioned out of the odd piece of tree branch that had a Y-shape. Big rubber book straps could be tied or nailed to the arms of the Y, making a workable slingshot. I couldn’t target well with mine, and if I got off the lucky shot that would hit one, the rat would hop and scamper off, probably wondering what mosquito had just bitten him.
I never had a red-kill dot on my slingshot, but secretly I felt relieved that I never did. Dad warned me never to shoot at anyone. I’d promise contritely, knowing that rats weren’t part of that demographic, but I knew in my heart how disappointed he’d be if he knew what we were up to out there. I stopped going out to the VA after I heard that one of the big kids got arrested. It never occurred to me that trespassing on federal land was far worse than blasting some disease ridden rats. We termites focused on building things which turned out to be not only legal, but much more fun.
Hammers, Nails
and the Dumps
If anything, we were junior builders. We pilfered hammers, nails, saws, and screwdrivers from our fathers’ toolboxes and garages, and rarely returned them until the adults noticed their absence. One shout from an irate dad and the tools would magically reappear, muddy of course, in their toolboxes or in a corner of the garage, but never in their proper places. Placement and positioning weren’t something we spatially understood or cared much about.
We left shovels, rakes and many a hoe out in the rain and were responsible for the premature rusting of almost all of our fathers’ tools. But somehow that got overlooked when we took our dads out to see the creations that had cost the tools their youth. All dads were proud of sons who could make something out of refuse. Somehow the spilled paint on the garage floor, the tipped-over can of nails in the corner of the basement, and missing two by fours from the wood stock were irrelevant. Granted, they always had to duck down to squeeze into our creations and crane their necks to see into their corners, but dads always appreciated our work. Moms expressed appreciation, but were more concerned about the tares in our clothes or the paint stains on our sneakers.
We built our own tree houses in the wild cherry trees that grew out behind our homes. We’d often use our dads’ choice two by fours from their wood stock. The cherry tree was the easiest to climb and provided perches and level branches to best nail flooring. Walls would be cardboard or vines, roofs were optional but you had to have a rope to lift up cargo and treasure boxes, weapons or pets. The tree house was a certainty in our neighborhood. They were great for hiding out from the folks, telling stories and for the occasional summer nap. They were defended at all costs and were not to be entered without invitation or expressed approval from the owner.
We’d keep our comic books or baseball card collections there as well as food wrapped in this new stuff called aluminum foil, and, if you had one, a small thermos or cooler with drinks. A blanket on the floor would complete the rustic décor. We’d visit one another’s tree forts, always asking permission to enter before starting to scale the tree. We’d share building tips, studying the vantage point and views and simply luxuriate in the forts shade on a hot summer day. Sometimes we’d mount mock raids on one another, throwing wild cherries and crab apples during the attack. At the end of the day, we’d compare bruises and scrapes, stained fingers from the fruits’ juice. Besides having a great time, I came away with a sense of accomplishment. That was a house that I built. And you’d be ready for hours of defending your fort from renegade Indians who were typically the main threats to these inner sanctums … besides, of course the most feared beasts of all … girls!
Space ships and tanks were fashioned out of old cardboard boxes. Newspaper was used to fashion multi-winged paper airplanes and parachutes for our plastic soldiers. We’d use milk crates as chairs on the sets for our talk shows. Then we’d dress up and pretend to be Zachary the Ghoul, Mr. Green Jeans or Sky King. Soupy Sales was our hero, who we watched on Saturday mornings while our parents slept.
Soapbox racers were our favorites and the ultimate achievement, requiring ball bearings, axels, rope, wheels and seats, steering gear made with rope, wood drag-brakes, nailed to the frames and scrape along the ground to slow our speed. We’d get a lot of this stuff from the local dump where my Uncle Eddie worked. He’d see us coming, open the gate, and wave us on to the mountains of garbage.
The smell of decay called us to this treasure island of partially hidden gems. I liked the smell of that place, and the taste of burned garbage and paper from the incinerator that lightly coated my throat. Old baby carriages, rickety chairs, planks of wood and other useful items jutted out from the piles of moldy grass clippings, cardboard boxes, broken toys, filthy stuffed animals and dolls, and tons of paper and food refuse. We’d climb up the slippery sides of this muck and grab what we could, pulling hard to dislodge these prizes. We’d rub our filthy hands on our pants legs, and move to the next pile.
If we found baby carriages or broken wagons with functioning wheels, we’d load them up with our other discoveries and take turns pushing their waddling carcasses towards the gate. We’d end our visit throwing rocks into mud puddles and at the seagulls that feasted on the raw garbage. Uncle Eddie would stop us at the gate, inspect our finds, and pretend to calculate a price. He’d muster up a stern look and remind us that nothing was free in this world. We’d hold our breath, knowing we didn’t have a quarter between us, and wait his price. He’d pause, straight-faced. With a wink, he’d wave us out, laughing.
That was my Uncle Eddie, always a smile, a joke, and a poke in the chest to say hello. I’d see him and Aunt Loretta and my three cousins for Christmas, Easter and birthdays. I loved Uncle Eddie’s stories and Aunt Loretta always gave me a big smack of a kiss on the cheek. Cousin Greg jazzed up go-cart and motorbike engines, and raced them around his neighborhood. Once he built a model racetrack in his family’s basement. He carted in dirt for the terrain, and hand-raced model cars, reenacting demolition derbies. The table was littered with wrecks and plastic car parts, which he’d re
build and start all over. Cousin Loretta, always the Beatle fan, would lead our family in dancing to the group’s recent LP. My cousin Eddie, the youngest and most agile of the three, would do flips out of whatever tree he was dangling from, and challenge us all to footraces that we all knew we’d lose to him. It was absolute joyous chaos when our families got together.
Sock Fights
When my cousin Mike slept over, which was either on a Friday or a Saturday every couple of months, we secretly looked forward to being sent off to bed! When we were tucked in and the lights were turned out, the sock wars would begin.
We’d wait to hear our moms’ footsteps going down the stairs after wishing us a good night’s sleep. The sound of chairs being dragged close to the kitchen table and the clinking of our parents’ last cups of tea or coffee were background to the din of multiple conversations. This was their last occasion to talk national or family politics for the evening, and agree on pick-up times after Sunday mass and lunch for my cousin. When we heard the Goodbyes exchanged at the front door, the slam of Aunt Dot and Uncle Warren’s car doors, we knew that battle trumpets would soon be sounding.
We’d take off our sleep socks and stuff them with dirty underwear from the day. I’d fish out clean socks and undies from my dresser and we’d push them deep into the feet of our socks. These were excellent bludgeons that we would swirl wildly overhead and bash one another without doing any serious harm.
If we were ambitious enough, we’d stretch an old pair beyond recognition and use, cramming a T-shirt as far into the sock as possible. This one would be a super mace with a Fruit of the Loom tag-flag sticking out of the top of the hideously swollen garment.
We’d be knights, like those in the jousting scene from the movie, El Cid, bashing one another with spiked battle maces. We’d jump over pillows or use them as shields, rolling off the bed in a reenactment of dramatic death scenes. The sting of the full blows to the face lasted only seconds, and never interrupted our uncontrolled thrashing at one another. All was done as quietly as possible, sometimes in the dark, other times under the beams of the flashlights that I had hidden under my bed.
Sure, we’d always get out of hand, laughing or hitting the floor too hard, knocking a bedside lamp over or smashing against a wall. And then it would come, the high volume voice of authority, “Robert!!! Cut that out!”
I was no longer Bobby. It was Robert, and that was serious. Notice, it wasn’t Michael’s name shouted from the bottom of the stairs. He was the guest. So, when the battle was unleashed in his basement where we’d do sleepovers on Cook Street, a similar siren-like voice used his name. That was sleepover etiquette.
We’d cover our laughs, get a few extra raps in, empty out our socks, and click off the flashlight.
Certainly, we’d spend our days like all the other kids, running the fields, battling dinosaurs or fighting off giant octopi from my picnic table. During inclement afternoon visits, we’d head down to the basement, build castles from wood blocks and with a high-powered toy cannon that shot weighed, rubber-tipped missile-shaped cannon balls, blast them to pieces.
That might sound deceptively simple. Of course, it was anything but that. We’d pride ourselves on building the most blast-resistant structures possible out of store-bought or homemade blocks. Having the last castle standing did not assure one of victory. It wasn’t about taking down the fort, it was all about survival, the survival of the number of plastic soldiers on our teams that remained standing. Our designs included safe rooms, enforced corners and double-walled towers that might provide safe havens impervious to the impact of the cannon’s shots. We kept score and bragged about our exploits through dinner. At least until our parents had heard enough, and we were told to finish whatever we had on our plates. I typically left only smudges on my plate, which must have been the explanation for my wearing kid-sized husky pants with the expandable waist.
However, my cousin Mike picked at his peas, ate them one by one, and buried his meat in his mashed potatoes, nursing his glass of milk. I was advised to stay away from the table as he suffered through this. Peeking around the corner, I’d remind him of what was waiting for us; the much anticipated rubber-band gun battles.
We kids had been warned by parents and teachers never to shoot rubber bands at one another. You’ll loose an eye, they’d say. Of course, we never listened, pulling them tight between thumb and forefinger and letting them fly. Shooting at one another or innocent bystanders on the sly was common practice in school. At home, we’d just throw rocks.
But, my Uncle Warren one Christmas completely legitimized rubber band shooting, much to the chagrin of our moms, by presenting Mike and me with wooden pistols that fired rubber bands. Hand painted a light blue and lathe carved in his basement workshop, these pistols, accompanied by a package of ammo, provided entertainment for a good part of our childhood. His advisories made clear by a stern voice and a soul-piercing stare, Uncle Warren showed us how to load and discharge our gifts. Our plastic soldiers and toy animals bore the brunt of our improving marksmanship. We’d spend hours entertained by these magical simplicities.
During the heat of battle more than one errant shot would strike us, but by and large, we respected his rules and never deliberately shot one another or anyone else. We proudly showed off these cherished gifts to our friends, reciting the rules of use and conduct that Uncle Warren clarified for us that one Christmas.
His “Follow the rules and you’ll have fun” echoed as we started to play. Sometimes rules were that easy to understand, and get right.
Cigar Smoke
Around the Table
Grandma Cross died in 1962, a year before Kennedy’s assassination. I missed her very much. I stopped going to the Cross house in Huntington, and never watched wrestling again. I wasn’t allowed to attend her wake and burial. So, I stayed home with my older sister, Fran. Turns out that what happened at the wake rivaled what Grandma Cross and I used to watch on Saturdays.
My grandparents, John and Louise, had eleven children. Aunts Ronnie, Jeanie, Jessie, Dot, Alice and Uncles Eddie and Billy formed my living relations that I identified as the Cross family. My Mom’s brothers, John Francis Jr., Paul and Francis Thomas, I never knew. Paul passed before his first birthday, John Jr. died after his fourth year, and Francis Thomas, died in a fire at the family home in Brooklyn at the age of two.
The remaining siblings, raised in Brooklyn, lived raucous, crisscrossing lives as children and young adults. Cross siblings shared beds; three youngest girls in one and the two remaining boys in another. The nightly antics and teasing wouldn’t stop until their dad appeared in the threshold with a belt in hand. Jean and Mary, the two oldest daughters, had aged out of sharing beds, but not a room. Jean found work and left home first. Mary, my mom, her younger siblings’ caregiver, got the kids fed and off to school. John oversaw workers on Brooklyn dairy farms and had sundry other jobs, and Elizabeth laundered clothes for the neighbors.
Grandpa John Cross, born in 1887, and Grandma Louise Haupert Cross, born a year later, Brooklynites, lived in Huntington the last twenty-five years of their lives. They came to many Sunday dinners at our house in East Northport. Grandma Louise Haupert Cross, raised on a family-run dairy farm in Brooklyn with her eight siblings, William, Jessie, Robert, Mary, Frederick, Daniel, Godfrey and John, had Scottish and German ancestry. My Mom spoke of the trolley ride her family would take to visit the Haupert clan “out in the sticks”, Greenpoint, Brooklyn. The Cross children, urbanites all, ran wild through the farm’s fields and barnyard. These family trips out to the countryside seemed to be one of Mom’s most cherished childhood memories.
Between her accounts of playing with the cows and chickens, jumping out of the hayloft, Mom spoke of a family tragedy that happened on that farm. Irish childhood stories always seemed to have a dark lining to them.
It turned out that one afternoon when Louise was a child, she and her little b
rother, Robbie, were playing hide and seek in the barn. Robert had hidden in a mound of hay. One of their uncles, pitching hay into the cow stalls, stabbed into the same mound with his pitchfork and struck little Robert. They discovered him when he started to bleed out. He died in the family living room.
My mom, Mary Louise, born in 1913, was one of the oldest of this clan, and during the Depression, at age sixteen, was the principal caregiver for her younger siblings, Dot, Billy, and Eddie. It was these three that I knew best.
All of the Cross siblings, at least those that survived their childhoods, were Depression kids that shared beds and clothes, and had shoes whose withering soles they repaired with old newspapers.
Mom would go off to school exhausted after making sure her siblings were dressed and fed. Once, she rested her head on a closed railroad crossing bar, and fell asleep. When the train passed, the bar rose, lifting her several feet in the air before she woke. She fell to the ground and landed on her face. With scratched cheeks and a swollen jaw, she was afraid to tell her parents that she had fallen asleep, and considered telling them that she had fought during recess. The fight they might have excused, but allowing yourself to be vulnerable by falling asleep in public, they surely wouldn’t have forgiven. She told the truth and got whacked.
My grandpa John Cross worked as a foreman on a local dairy farm in Brooklyn. He carried a loaded gun to work everyday. John kept his great grandfather’s shillelagh, the Irish walking stick, within reach, joking that it’d be useful just in case his kids got out of line. He was quite the storyteller when he’d take breaks from chain-smoking his stogies. Louise was the laundress for the neighbors.
According to Mom’s stories, Uncles Eddie and Billy were neighborhood hellions, and rarely went to school. As young adults, Eddie joined the Air Force and Billy, the Submarine Service during World War II. They both survived, but not without their own personal reminders; Eddie had a gimp, which he said was due to the time he fell out of a plane during takeoff, and Billy, like so many other submarine men, suffered from serious trauma issues and acute insomnia. He passed away in California in his forties. Aunt Dot, the youngest of the living siblings, was always a respectful child and married Warren Delph, whose family was from the British-controlled Islands in the Caribbean. He did aerial reconnaissance for the OSS in the Pacific during the war.
