In winter, the ice-covered brook behind Timmy’s and my house was a whole different world. I still have, to this day, the skates from my seventh grade, on which I bumped up and down the river.        

My skate shoes were worn to the point of exposing a nail digging into my heel, so I had to pad my skates and wear thick socks.”

Trudy, Teddy, Timmy, I, and sometimes Nike were totally unaware of the cold current coursing below us. The group’s solution to ice cracking under our skates below Timmy’s house, was to move about five feet up the brook ‘til we’d pretty well cracked up the whole stretch from my house, on up to Teddy’s. 

If anyone were high up staring down at the scene, they would see the equivalent of about half a small city block of cracked-up ice.  With no more crack-free ice to skate on, it was time they reluctantly hung up their skates for that day. 

Pre-ice skating age, Trudy and I gave both of our mothers a start, when we decided to cross the brook on the ice. Mother, standing on the bank, caught a glance of us four year olds, midway across, with a trail of boot holes in the ice. I do remember looking behind us and seeing water filling our boot impressions.   

Frantically, she instructed us. "Keep going toward the bank on the other side. Don't try to come back toward me.  Go up the hill to Teddy’s, I'll meet you at the bridge."  Trudy’s mother was there to switch her all the way home. I was sure, as usual, Trudy would get taken down to her cellar for a spanking. I, on the other hand, got a hug from my loving mother.

As you know at times, the brook was where I ran for safety, down over the broken cans and glass, to get away from my year younger raging brother who would pound on me if he ever caught up with me.

I took strange pleasure in antagonizing him, he was my brother. That was the pattern of our close relationship. It was too much for Nike after coming down the street to hear me trying out his new trumpet, handling his property. You’d think I would have learned not to touch his trumpet.

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There were dark times for my friends. There were switches, sticks, yardsticks, and rulers swung by the grown ups. Teddy had been yardsticked by his mother. Shaking her switch at me, Trudy’s mother pointed it as she asked me if I wanted it too. 

When I swallowed the lump in my throat, shook my head back and forth, side to side, I was able to whisper the word no to wanting to get switched by Trudy’s mother. 

Trudy’s mother switched my best friend's bare legs toward their house, slamming the door shut. I was certain Trudy would get it with a good-sized stick in her cellar. 

I found it difficult and sad to watch Nike and Mother in a power struggle. She would hit him with a ruler and he would just say it felt good and told her to hit him again. 

She didn’t, of course, but started crying. I have assessed the dynamics and why there was such friction between Nike and Mother.

Her mother had a distorted perception of males and Nike, the youngest, the most malleable one got the brunt of it all. Mother’s mother was abusive to Mother’s father so she considered males weak.  

In addition to having to deal with her husband, Mother also had to care for her alcoholic wife- battering father-n-law. My paternal grandmother died before I was even born.

I was also switched, not by Trudy’s mom and certainly not my mother, who had probably gotten it plenty of times and would never use a switch on anyone, not even Nike.   

I was switched with a thin branch all the way home, after having been found with Lane, a neighbor boy, down over the bank by that babbling brook.  

My cruel grandmother from hell didn’t know nor would she care if she knew I did not want to be there, that time nor the dozens of other times, forced to do things to the boy or his older brother and have them do things to her and their sister.

There were troubled times for me by that babbling brook doing stuff a perverted bully wanted me to do, but mostly there was a lot of fun with my friends. There was light amidst the darkness.

One of the coolest things about my neighborhood was my friends were all the same age, even in the same grade.  There was Timmy, to her left and Dody, up a slight incline from her. 

A little farther away, closer to where they went to school, was Jock, who sadly has since passed. We remember Teddy, who was across the brook near the pink rocks.

I learned recently, Timmy and I only had a few B-B gun fights with Teddy because his mother discovered him shooting at someone, Timmy and me. She followed through on her threat to break Teddy’s gun. This clearly must have been after our chase around the neighborhood. He certainly had functional B-B gun then. He said, "I still miss it. It was a great gun."

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Box Elder Climbing

The gang loved climbing the two box elders which grew high above the brook. Why no one ever fell to their death or suffered some serious injury is a puzzle to me when I reflect on it. 

Within view of the dining room window, Mother used to look out occasionally to see none of us had fallen, broken any bones and all was well.  Only in retrospect, I seem to think that was strange. 

Mothers in the neighborhood either knew nothing about it or saw nothing unusual about their kids climbing in a tree about twenty feet above the shallow brook with only my mother watching over their kids. 

The view was great up there.  We were excited to get a good perspective and thrilled as we watched the pretty decent-sized river rats scurrying around down below.  I still find it hard to believe that I would dare climb such a tree with my fear of heights.”

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One place I was determined never to go was the shortcut to our swimming hole up the brook quite far beyond Teddy’s.   I was content to travel the long way around, following the brook bank.

Some preferred the path over a tall wooden fence.  There were two fences which kids would sometimes get confused about. If they chose the wrong fence to climb there were consequences to be met.

One fence when climbed over,  feet landed on solid earth. The other presented a terrible surprise and the wrong shortcut taker had to walk over to where we were, befuddled, shocked, grossed out covered with fresh, dripping cow manure.

If anyone climbed over the wrong fence they landed where the farmer dumped his fresh manure from his barn. My sister, only five at that time, had sunken in up to her chest. It must have frightened her, all alone there figuring out how to free herself. She came over to us by the brook crying and immediately jumped into the water to wash off.

On another occasion, one of the little guys, a cousin of Timmy, made the same mistake. He used the whole thing to clown around, threatening to paint people. We encouraged him to take a dunk, keeping us safe for that time