The Childhood Friend

Feared by fish everywhere

There are so many things to talk about in our currently catastrophic culture, and most of those items are not positive. Anything that could be said about recent events is being passionately expressed as outrage, personal opinion, amateur analysis, and ad nauseam. I understand now why folks my age harken back to something we call ‘simpler times,’ though I imagine humans were just as angry, puzzled, determined, manipulative, and ambitious 50 years ago. So, here’s my solution. I’m going to share a few flighty memories from a childhood unencumbered by politics and enough media feeds to choke a Beluga Whale.

I grew up in a multi-generational household too small to accommodate our five family members. Zero privacy. One bathroom. Two bedrooms. A kitchen the size of a compact car. Privacy was a concept enjoyed by other people. So, naturally, I found freedom elsewhere on our small midwest block across the street from the Chicago and Northwestern railroad tracks. Where freight trains shook the ground on their way to someplace interesting.

However, on that same sheltered block, there was a family that represented the opposite of mine, which was private, secretive, and protective.   The dad was a genuine fireman, mom was an artist, and, most importantly, the eldest son, Greg, was close to my age, cute, afraid of nothing, including trains, bugs, animals – dead or alive – dangerous heights and adventures that met the approval of no one in my household but were a lifestyle in his family.

By about 12 years old, I’d learned to accept the fact that Greg was often terrifying, along with being interesting. I anticipated being on the receiving end of plots, plans, and activities that, had anyone in my house known about, would have resulted in banishment to my room – except I shared that with my mother and brother – so not a real option. And, even as a youngster, I knew enough to never report details of my day with ‘that neighborhood boy.’  In sum – Greg’s household was an antidote to mine – a free, fun, noisy, messy two-story house with a big backyard.

The centerpiece of the yard was a giant elm tree with sweeping branches – ideal for climbing and (in my case) hiding. Greg would set up a competition for who could climb fastest and best. He’d let me occupy a branch as he hopped down, ran to his basement, and returned with a dead animal (something his hunter-dad had trapped for food and/or fur. Greg danced under the tree, threatening me with the limp, furry critter and daring me to climb down, which, of course, I wasn’t dumb enough to do. Eventually, he’d get bored and I’d jump the back fence and go home to definitely not tell anyone.

His family home was a riot of projects, colors, objects, and safety risks. It was also totally opposite from my neat-as-a-pin grandparents’ house and, therefore extremely alluring. He’d call down and invite me upstairs to show me something “really, really interesting,” and lacking good judgment, I’d climb up and peer into his room. “It’s okay,” he’d say. “I just want to show you something cool.”  I’d cautiously walk through the doorway and set off a trap he’d made just for me. Small but loud firecrackers accompanied by bits of exploding paper bags filled with flour or paper scraps. I never learned to refuse his invitation because his powers of persuasion were far better than my judgment.  

The riskiest place for me was his basement. It was the domain of his hunter-gatherer dad and almost guaranteed to shelter something on its way to being leather, fur, or dinner. Nonetheless, I wanted to believe Greg when he told me he had a ”surprise” I was going to really like. A surprise so grand that I needed to be blindfolded. Of course, I cooperated. He took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and walked me a few steps forward. “Okay,” he said with a little trill in his voice. “Ready? You are gonna really like this one!” He untied the blindfold, and I squinted before opening my eyes to see a beaver hanging by its tail and disgorging his inner self. I screamed and ran. Mission accomplished.

I didn’t have bad dreams about the poor little beaver. But it did kick off a lifetime terror at yet another of our get-togethers. I was sitting on the door stoop at the side of his house, waiting for Greg to “show me something.” But I’d gathered my courage and decided to rise above my childish fears. No matter what, I’d stay in charge. He promised to bring me something “unbelievable” and I sensed I’d need the courage of Bat Woman. I folded my hands in my lap and waited. I remember I was wearing a pair of red shorts.

I didn’t hear him coming, but Greg arrived and stood behind me. He slowly lowered his right hand and dangled a little garter snake in front of my face before dropping it onto my bare legs. I did nothing. No scream. No bolting. Just me telling the biggest lie of my life. “I’m not afraid of snakes anymore,” I said while choking down a scream. It was quiet, and I felt his disappointment. A minute passed by before Greg fetched the leg-free critter from my lap and carried him/her/it away. I took a breath, got up, and walked back to my house, holding in the scream until I got out of his earshot.

Our last high school adventure almost made up for reptiles that haunted my brain. There once was a controversial German-American rocket space scientist named Werner Von Braun, and for some inexplicable reason, he was scheduled to speak in the auditorium of our senior high school. Greg, not yet old enough to care about politics, wanted badly to attend the event, which was closed to invited and vetted guests only. But I was then in junior high school and knew that a tunnel in the basement led to the senior high school. So, we crept downstairs and through the dark tunnel, feeling the rough walls along the route, carefully emerged from the door inside the senior high school, and dashed to stairs leading to a balcony in the auditorium. There, we stayed crouched down, popped up now and again to check out the rocket scientist, and listen. Greg understood the message. I did not. I was in it for the dare and danger.

From terrorizing me as a child, Greg went on to become a multi-faceted success. He is the founder of one of America’s favorite fishing baits known as “Dr. Juice.”  It’s a formula he developed while exploring South and Central America. (The business is now run by Greg’s sons).  He also took time to study, slide through medical school, and become a psychiatrist. And (while traveling through Vietnam in the war years) Greg delivered bits of secret information for some American intelligence organizations and friendly foreign governments.

So, indeed, I have a mischievous, brilliant, ever-curious childhood friend to thank for the few adventures I had as a child in a sleepy, protected midwest town. For stories I could never tell the caretakers in my little house and (confession here) once had to admit to a priest in Catholic confession (something to do with the Commandment “Thou shalt not lie).

I’ve been thinking about him because he was a big part of my formative years and certainly took me places I never would have dared to go without him. He’s also on my mind because he’s experiencing some powerful medical challenges. I tell myself if anyone can defy the odds, it’s Dr. Juice. I’m sure that, without Greg in my early life, I wouldn’t know what it means to be endlessly curious, to overcome fears, to discover what’s behind the door marked “No one allowed.” To become a journalist whose job it was to be nosey and bold.

Thanks, my friend.

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I hope all of you have someone in your life like Greg (though I think he’s a one-off!) - Thanks for being with me again this week - I’m hiding indoors waiting for a disabling hot streak to move far away from California. Bright side - My book of favorite essays is out and available! If you like my style, please consider gifting someone this collection - easy reading for folks with a short attention span! (like me?). Contact me HERE.