WHAT IF ?!

I was 11 or 12 years old when we shot our neighbor in the ass. Some explanation is needed here.

My father was not a hunter, but we did have a shotgun and a bolt action 22 on the farm. The 22 was used primarily to shoot rats in the chicken coops when we were cleaning out the chicken shit. It was a summer day and my cousin was visiting for a few days. We decided it would be fun to do some target shooting with the 22 and stuck some tin can lids on the door of the outhouse for our targets. The outhouse, unused for years, sat adjacent to one of the barn sheds which was sided with corrugated tin. I honestly don’t remember if we asked permission to do this, but it is extremely unlikely that my mother or father would have given us permission if we did ask. Neither Walter or I were aware of the power and range of the 22. Because of the way the buildings were located we were shooting at an angle that allowed the 22 longs to go through the outhouse, through 2 tin walls of the shed, and through a field and our vineyards, to reach the small cluster of homes situated about 150 - 200 yards away.

I don’t know how many rounds we shot before we heard someone yelling at us from one of the houses. After that everything is lost, or repressed in my memory. Apparently one of our shots hit a pregnant neighbor as she was hanging clothes to dry. To everyone’s immense good fortune the bullet literally grazed her buttocks. The local doctor came to the house and declared she was fine, though understandably frightened and angry, anger that paled beside that of my parents. Afterwards, all I can remember is Walter and I standing by the window in my bedroom, scared beyond anything I had known, not knowing what we had done and what was ahead for us. To this day, I still get an emptiness in the pit of my stomach when I think about this, and how so many lives could have been devastated by just a few inches difference in that bullets trajectory. I can only begin to imagine what my mother and father were feeling and thinking. Fortunately this occurred around 1950, before litigation became a social sport.

CHRISTMAS

I like Christmas. I enjoy the spirit of goodwill and anticipation that it brings to us individually and as a community, as well as the frantic reaching out to others as we struggle to prepare for the big day. It is a celebration that has become so large that it can hold different meanings for so many people, far beyond its celebration of the birth of Christ. It is a holiday that evolves for us over the years as our families evolve and young children become young adults and have families of their own. It transcends time and distance, but never completely.

For me, Christmas is becoming mostly a time for remembering, a time to recall young children, parents, and my extended family and friends. It is a mixture of sweetness and sadness, a time I cherish because I have so much to remember. Life has been very good to me.

This year there will be no family joining us, and Patience will be working Christmas and the day after. But we will not be alone (that is not possible in Lowertown), if all goes well Lindy Loo will provide us with 4 newly born puppies to care for. I look forward to that, and I look forward to sitting quietly listening to Christmas music and thinking about all of the Christmas eves and Christmas days I spent with my parents and my family. I will remember just how rich my life has been. I will think about my dear friends who have given so much to me over the years, especially in my times of need. I will remember the love that I have received, and I will remember the loved ones I’ve lost. And somewhere in the course of all this remembering there will be time for a glass of wine and dish of pasta. How could I ask for anything more?

My sincere thanks and best wishes to everyone.

GET OUT OF HERE...AND DON’T COME BACK

I don’t know if those exact words were ever spoken, but the message was loud and clear to Augie and me.

We had to be 17 years old because I was driving the family ‘51 chevy. Neither of us was much bigger than we were some 6 or 7 years earlier when we had our “fight”. But we were both good looking, at least we thought so, and we were great dancers, we thought that too, so we decided to drive to a local hop in Hammonton, a town with a rough reputation, about 10 miles from Landisville. As usual the details are hazy, but I do remember that we connected with 2 girls and were enjoying ourselves when we got word that we were not welcome there, and it would be wise for us to think about leaving...soon! Considering ourselves lovers and not fighters, we accepted the “offer”, and mustering all the cool we could, headed for the door with our new girl friends, Augie and friend about 5-6 feet in front of me. Gathered about the exit were a number of very Italian looking guys (neither Augie or I resembled our genetic ancestry), all of them 6 ft. and 250 lbs., or so they seemed. The one thing about that evening that I recall with perfect clarity occurred as I walked out...I heard someone say, “why don’t we get that little bastard”!

Now, I don’t know why, but all of my life what ever name I’ve been called has always been preceded by the word “little”. My best friend, Richie Genoni, on those rare occassions when I beat him in a game of OUT in basketball would always call me a little shit, or a little bastard, never you shit or you bastard. Anyway, for what ever reason, they did not “get me” that night, but they did follow us in their car for several miles before they got tired. We then took the girls home, and maybe even parked for a while. One thing is certain, we did not go back to Hammonton.

I often wonder what became of Augie, the last I heard he married Eleanor Berti.