Lesson 8: Eat Crow

photo by David R. Beatty

     "What's up Newsy?"

"Yo Mazurk, just back from Gibby-Hank."

"What can I do ya for?"

"Just a Bud for old time's sake. When did you start tending at the Rock?"

"Hanging out last winter and they needed help. Did ya see him that day?"

"I saw him staring off on the way in."

"Yeah, watching those god damned crows instead of the ice."

"Only one was a crow. The others were a raven and a fish crow. These Watchungs may be the only place where the three ranges overlap."

"Bad news for crows and for Weeds."

Yeah, but good news for Enzo Januzzi. I'm studying corvid behavior in the Blue Ridge for colloquy next year."

"No shit, Sherlock?"

"Did they ever find him?"

"Nah, our old friend Wiley Reed's still down there in the fucking mud."

"Here's to Weeds."

"To Weeds."

Lesson 7: Skate Away

photo by David R. Beatty

     "Look at those poor slobs shivering on the bench" I point out as we drive by Codrington Park on the way to ice skating. "Can they come with us?"

"But I wanted just you" pouts Monty looking over at me with impossibly blue eyes glistening in the sunlight of a bright and frigid fall day.

"Well I need a driver" I point out, reminding her that I only have a learner's permit. "And besides, they don't have skates so we can always get away."

"Hop in assholes" she grudgingly assents, waving Newsy and Mazurk over to my father's blue Impala.

     "If it isn't Bonnie and Clyde" grins Mazurk leaning over the bench seat. "Which bank are we hitting today?"

"The First Bank of Willows Pond" scoffs Monty, not ready to let go of her resentment at the intrusion.

"Are you mad, Monty?" he scoffs, conking her lightly on the side of the head. "Those Middlesex dudes are after us since we knocked their socks off."

"Well my family used to skate at the Fleischmann farm" she counters. "We can go there if you're so afraid of those Bluejay boys."

"The Fleischmann distillery moved to Kentucky" chimes in Newsy before Mazurk can object. "They donated the land to the county for a park."

"Colonial Park it is" I conclude, heading across the Queens Bridge over the Raritan River into South Bound Brook.

"Hey, stop at the South Brook" commands Mazurk as we turn onto Canal Road. "Frankie might hit me with a pint a that Fleischmann's."

__________

     The antagonism between Caroline LaMonte and Leo Mazurkewicz was an old one in a town of immigrants. Bound Brook had been a sleepy village since it's purchase from the Lenape tribe by several members of the British gentry in 1681. Then the LaMonte's arrived after the Civil War and soon opened a woolen mill on the banks of the Raritan. The jobs were a magnet for waves of workers arriving at Ellis Island thirty miles to the east. First Italians and then Poles populated the growing west end of town, and their numbers increased with the arrival of chemical and plastics manufacturing in the mid-twentieth century.
    Conflict had been common between the newcomers from southern and eastern Europe up until the 1970s. Italian and Polish young men competed for jobs and women, leading to the development of ethnic gangs whose frequent tussles for territory sometimes erupted into violence. The one thing they agreed on, however, was that residents of the five hundreds, those neighborhoods to the north of town with a fire signal call number starting with five, were rich, snooty, and, most of all, despicable. This last judgement was mutual except, perhaps, for matters of the heart.

__________

     "Ready or not, here I go" calls Caroline after strapping on her new white figure skates and then gliding halfway across the glistening surface in one stroke.

"Are you doin her?" whispers Mazurk sitting beside me on the bank as I fumble with my brother's old brown hockey skates. "That rich bitch'll stab ya in the back."

"No comment" I respond, dragging my feet because I've never before skated on a lake. "Now pass that pint!" 

     "Just keep them straight" advises Newsy as he gives me a shove onto the new ice.

"And steer clear a that hole" calls Mazurk as Newsy plops beside him and slings a blanket over their shoulders.

Three big black birds call from a bare tree across the lake as a grinning Caroline waves me over. I wobble across the glassy surface in skates that are two sizes too big. Then one of the birds flaps up and something shifts in my right skate. It swoops down over Caroline as she raises both arms over her head. Time slows as I watch her mouth shift from a smile to an O, see the big black bird diving toward me, and plunge into blackness.

Lesson 6: Give A Rebel Yell

https://www.al.com/opinion/index.ssf/2015/08/confederate_stars_and_bars_rem.html

     "The short-stemmed glass is for cognac" instructs Monty as she drags me up the bluestone walkway, "the long for champagne."

"Got it" I concede as an odd American flag with three stripes and seven stars flaps in the cold wind, "but we'll leave right after dinner, right?"

      "Welcome to Piedmont Farm" greets a tuxedoed old man as we step into a marble floored foyer, "may I take your coat?"

I'm sweating despite the arctic chill outside as I hand over my varsity double-B jacket and Monty ushers me into the dining room.

     "Caroline dear, who's come to Sunday supper?" smiles an elegant elderly woman holding up her wrinkled hand for me.

"Grandma Caroline, this is Wiley Reed" she answers. "He's the hero of yesterday's game."

"My oh my" drawls the old lady, "we haven't had a genuine hero in the LaMonte household since the War of Northern Aggression."

"Hero, schmero" I laugh, "it was mostly dumb luck."

"Now Wiley" chides Monty, "I saw those crows fly up, you know there was a little magic out on that field."

"Well" I concede, "I was wearing my lucky red shorts."

"All fine and good, Mr. Wiley Reed" concludes Mrs. LaMonte, "but what does your father do?"

"Mimaw, isn't it time for the aperitif?" Monty interjects, sparing me a lie.

__________

     The tattered banner flying over the LaMonte estate was the first flag of the Confederate States of America. Bound Brook's first family of the twentieth century had been one of the few nineteenth century Virginia planter families to escape the Civil War with their wealth intact. Even though their Wheatland plantation and other holdings had been confiscated as Union officer residences during the war, the Mason and Kern families at least had a financial pathway to the north.
     Just before the war, when trade between north and south was still prosperous, George A. LaMonte had traveled the Shenandoah Valley Turnpike from his native upstate New York for a first teaching job at the Academy at Winchester. Before long a spirited belle and fellow new teacher named Rebecca Thweatt Mason Kern caught more than Master LaMonte's eye. In 1858 she became Mrs. George A. LaMonte at her family's Romney estate in the Virginia highlands west of Kernstown. 
     Then disaster struck in the form of the Union army, driving George and his pregnant wife first farther south to the last capital of the Confederacy in Danville and then north with their newborn son George Mason LaMonte. The Kern-Mason-Thweatt families would soon realize the value of a Yankee son-in-law, for the LaMontes were able to convert the accumulated family wealth from trade in wheat, tobacco, and slaves into northern currency. 
     George parlayed his wealth into an appointment as president of the newly formed First National Bank of New York. He then purchased the old Talmadge Farm on the west end of a sleepy village thirty miles from the city soon to be incorporated as the borough of Bound Brook. Before long he developed and started manufacturing the safety paper that Rebecca, a prolific writer and saver of letters, used to return some of  a growing fortune back to her families of origin in reconstructionist Virginia.

__________

     The meal proceeds with smoked oysters, a whole hog glazed with pineapple and carved at the table, biscuits with red eye gravy, succotash, corn pudding, and rounds of sweet tea.

"Here's to old Virginia" toasts old Mrs. LaMonte, draining her flute and holding it out for more champagne. 

"Here, here" I blurt, disliking the bubbles but enjoying the buzz. "I might go to college there."

"Keep an eye out for our lost Wheatland" she drawls, "won't you dear?"

"Yes ma'am" I oblige, lifting my own glass for a refill from the cute and familiar looking server.

"Wiley Reed" she whispers while filling my glass, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Karma?" I gasp, barely recognizing my brother Blaine's old girlfriend dressed in a tuxedo and sporting a punk cut.

"Skating at Willows Pond tomorrow" she smiles, moving around the table to the next upheld glass while mouthing "be there."

Lesson 5: Say A Prayer

BBHS Echo 1974

     "Fuckinay" shouts Mazurk across the tables as a cold wind hits us from the front door of Stan's Chitch's restaurant, "it's Weeds."

I give a little nod from the back booth and look away as Newsy squeezes through the narrow door, hoping they'll get the cue and leave me to my Halloween date.

"Best pizza in the east" laughs Mazurk, grabbing a slice of our sausage, peppers and onions and using his hip to shove me over into the seat. "Monty, how the hell are you?"

"Hey Leo" she smiles, scooting over on the red vinyl bench as if expecting them. "Hey Enzo, have one too."

"Don't mind if I do" responds Newsy as he heads for the counter, "but first let me grab another pitcher."

    "No Bud for you, Leo?" asks Caroline asks as Newsy tops off our taster glasses.

"Shit no, we got Middlesex tomorrow" spits Mazurk, "but give it to me Saturday night, sweet thing."

"What about you, Wiley" she continues unperturbed, running her boot up my jeans under the table, "you don't care about beating the Bluejays?"

"Uh, Mr. Spain took care of that" I reply with a shrug, downing my little glass and holding it out to Newsy for another refill.

"Damn, Weeds" scowls Mazurk, "if Rags got me off the hook, he can't complain if you dress too."

__________

     "Get in there and suit up" snapped my big brother Blaine, who also happened to be my Pop Warner coach. "NOW!"

He'd just overridden my mother's commandment of "all right mister, no Sunday school, no football."

     "We'll check 'em at dawn" eleven-year-old Mazurk had plotted the previous evening after we had set his three traps in the Middlebrook woods.

"Can we go later?" I futilely bargained. "My mother makes me go to church."

"Don't be a pussy" he spat, "just get up before her."

     Leo Mazurkewicz had no such Sunday dilemma because his family had attended Saturday mass at the Ukrainian Orthodox church in South Bound Brook. They and other eastern European emigres had settled in central New Jersey for proximity to the American consistory for their native religion. Their offset church calendar had other perks for fifth grade boys besides Saturday services. On the previous New Year's day Mazurk and I had dragged my family's tree from our curbside in the last of the LaMonte subdivisions down to his stucco house on Wheatland Ave in Westerly Gardens, their first development. The Ukrainian Christmas wasn't until January seventh.
     My mother had also clung to her religion despite leaving it in West Virginia for an unsaved husband in New Jersey. During the week she sang snitches from old hymns while doing the wash or cooking. And Sunday was her day of the Lord, even if said husband had to work on other drivers' trucks to make ends meet for our big family. But come hell or high water, probably both in a town called Bound Brook, the young 'uns were going to Sunday School. At least they were right up until Coach Bleeds parted the waters.
 

__________

     "Kickoff team" calls out Coach Righetti after they nail our quarterback in the endzone for a safety, "get out there and line up on the twenty."

I'd eluded his detection until this late in the game under one of the red rubber capes the trainer had pulled out of the clubhouse for playing in an unusual late Fall northeaster. It was our first kickoff of the game because we'd won the opening coin toss and elected to receive, and Middlesex had opted to kick to start the second half.

"A minute and twenty eight seconds to go" calls Newsy from his place on the sideline as official scorekeeper.

     "Hey, where'd he come from?" shouts Coach Righetti as I take my stance at the end of the line of eleven players.

I turn to face the ball from my end position and focus on the tee, trying to ignore my shivering hands and the commotion behind me on the sideline. Bound Brook is losing 0-2 as time is winding down in the fourth quarter of a defensive battle for first place in the Mountain Valley Conference. Mazurk, his white jersey mostly brown from making tackles all over the semi-frozen field, drops his arm to signal the kick. He strides toward the tee with head down as the rest of us time our takeoffs to his passing.

"Haaaa" I huff with a puff of white breath, chugging down the sideline as the ball hurtles end-over-end and the blockers move toward the other side of the field.

The receiver cradles the ball into his chest at the thirty-yard line and runs behind his blockers as I sprint their way from across the field, finally warmed up enough to feel my feet hit the hard ground. Three crows flap up from behind the visitor stands, and the runner suddenly shifts direction, not seeing me until my shoulder slams into his gut with a clack and thud of pads and bodies. We hurtle back as I see the ball pop up into the freezing rain in slow motion, and somehow I roll up under it, stumbling to grab it while already running for the endzone.

     "Suspension, schmuspension" whispers Coach Righetti, lifting me into a bear hug as I jog over to the sideline. "Just pray Joe Spain's not here."

Lesson 4: Coordinate Lies

https://pixabay.com/en/flames-fire-lights-match-stick-87391/

     "Will the following students please report to Mr. Spain's office" announces the vice-principal's secretary over the intercom at the beginning of French class, "Anthony Benincasa, Enzo Januzzi, Leo Mazurkewicz, Mary Panariello, Wiley Reed, and Wendy Wojnarski."

The three of us stir from our back row seats and shuffle out as the teacher writes a lesson plan on the blackboard with her back turned.

"She knows" hisses Mazurk once we hit the back stairs down to the second floor. "We're screwed."

"Remember the fire?" asks Newsy as we huddle in the stairwell down to the main hallway. "We all have to say the same thing."

"I can't be suspended for the Middlesex game" groans Mazurk. "Let's tell him we leaned back and knocked the records out."

"Yeah right" counters Newsy, "the three of us simultaneously tilted our chairs into that one windowsill."

"It was your idea Mazurk" I point out, "so it's only fair that you're the one who accidentally bumped into those old albums."

__________

     The fire happened in autumn of our fourth grade year at LaMonte School. On the way home the previous week we had seen some sixth graders launching burning rafts down the Middlebrook.

"I hadda wait till my old man left" huffed Mazurk running up with a carton of matches labeled West Brook Inn, ripping off the paper, and holding out the cardboard box to the other five boys. "He's on night shift at Carbide."

Bound Brook was surrounded by factories that later became Superfund sites: Union Carbide's PVCs; American Cyanamid's aniline dyes; Johns Manville and Ruberoid's asbestos products. My father hauled for them all in the days when truckers unloaded their own toxic loads.

"Yeah, I'll only light em by the water" agreed Mazurk to Newsy's demand that we not light any fires in the dry leaves.

I was the only one to see that Mazurk's fingers were crossed behind his back.

     We headed for the Brook gathering sticks and singing the new Doors song Light My Fire that had debuted on the Ed Sullivan Show the previous Sunday. Our line of boys marched across the Union Avenue bridge and down a little path along an old ditch, winding through a ravine, past a circular hole, and up onto an open field.

"That ditch was probably a breastworks for firing at the redcoats" observed Newsy as we crunched through the dry leaves and heading back into the woods. "The hole must have been the firepit for a sentry hut above the only road up through Chimney Rock."

     "Help, it's getting away" yelled Mazurk as three big black birds flapped up from the humongous oak we were walking under.

The rest of us raced back as orange flames sizzled in the dry grasses all around Mazurk. We stomped on the clumps of fire, but it was spreading faster than our feet could move.

"A fire... will go out... if deprived... of oxygen" groaned Newsy as he hefted and heaved a big rock into the center of the flames and a wall of white smoke shot up, stinging our eyes.

"Shut the fuck up and keep stomping" screamed Mazurk as the heat of the growing fire spread from our sneakers up through our pant legs.

Stumbling out of the ring of fire, we set to work on its edges in a desperate dance, halting only when the siren blew.

     The town had a strange fire signal in those days. A series of low whistles would moan from the top of three telephone poles spread out around the square mile of habitable land. The sequence signaled the street of the blaze so that firemen, firetrucks, and about half the town could race that way.

"Ah-un-ah, ah-un-ah" reverberated up into the woods and we knew it was going to be 2-4-6 for Hanken Road.

"They're coming" cried Mazurk and we scattered into the woods.

"Wait up Weeds" pleaded Newsy as I took off for the brook, tossing matches along the way.

     He caught me as I waded through the cold hip-deep water, and we emerged from the woods into the West End as a fire truck blared down Tea Street.

"What're we gonna do?" he whined as we crouched behind a cedar tree beside the road.

"Let's sneak down the Park" I decided. "The others will meet us in the Kiddie Corral."

     An awful silence settled over the merry-go-round along with the smoke as the other boys straggled up and climbed on.

"What if they catch us?" whined Mazurk to break the silence.

"Whadya mean us?" I countered.

"Juvenile arsonists have often experienced parental neglect or family conflict" chimed in Newsy.

"You ain't no goddamn Einstein" sulked Mazurk.

"We'll say we were smoking in the woods and Mazurk dropped one" I offered to settle the issue.

__________

     "Well Mr. Reed" starts the stern vice-principal holding up a piece of an album, "how do you suppose these broken French records arrived on the tennis courts below your classroom?"

"Sorry Mr. Spain" I plead, "we were fooling around at the back of the class and Leo's chair tipped into the window."

"A likely story" he sneers, "but that will still be five demerits and no extracurricular activities for one week."

I slink out of his office staring at the floor as I pass Newsy and Mazurk sitting beside the secretary's desk, stopping only to hold open the door as Mr. Righetti strides in.

Lesson 3: Look Before You Leap

https://www.mod50.com/textileclothing/30s-yale-hyde-leather-football-cleats

     "Let me see your cleats" demands the referee striding into rows of uniformed boys stretching on the field before our first game of the season.

"Me?" I squeak, already anxious to about to be playing varsity football at Bound Brook High School.

"Yeah you" he scowls with hands on hips, "where'd you get those dinosaurs?"

"My brother" I blurt, unlacing one of the ratty old black leather high tops and handing it up to him.

"Whewee, I ain't seen one inch spikes since they were banned in sixty-five" he exclaims. "Who's your brother?"

"Blaine Reed" I reply, looking over to the cinder track to see if he's watching and not finding him.

"I'll be damned, Little Bleeds" he gushes, shaking his head back and forth. "I hope you can hit like him, but it won't be in these old beauties."

__________

     It's not the first time someone has called me that. My mother had a yard of flowers at our house in Downs Manor, one of the later LaMonte subdivisions. First out in the spring were the roses-of-Sharon that she called rosaharn in her West Virginia lilt. The light green buds made great pellets for pelting sisters from behind the bushes planted at intervals around the split level starter house. Remaining buds unfurled into white or lavender whirls much loved by bumble bees and Reed kids.

"Betcha can't catch one" challenged Beat, daring Beulah and me to crimp the petals around a fat black and yellow bee.

"Let's hit her with our bee bombs" whispered Beulah as we took off after our big sister waving the buzzing buds, "but don't forget to run after throwing or it'll get you."

     The last flowers out in the fall would be the chrysanthemums. Pinching a tight green ball of a bud between thumb and finger unfurled a tiny burst of burgundy or orange. The survivors became soft knobs emitting the bittersweet scent of Indian summer.
     In between the rosaharns and mums came the real roses. Their tapered flower tops hid deep colors soon revealed as crimson, flame, or white by unpeeling the green outer petals. Our mom didn't trim the bushes so their tendrils arched outward, hanging with fragrant bunches that called in the Japanese beetles.

"You can crunch em like this" explained Beulah, showing me how to pinch the brown and green shells. "Mom'll give you a penny for each one."

"Ok" I lied, instead launching a handful of the scratching things up into the air when she wasn't looking.

"A petal will pop if you hit it like this" demonstrated Beat, placing one over a circle made by her thumb and index finger and slapping it with her other palm.

     My favorite flower game, to the chagrin of the gardener, was leap rose.

"Third try for a new world record" I huffed while pacing in front of the orange rose bush.

My spindly five-year-old legs had just false started twice at emulating the long strides, flying jump, and two foot landing I'd seen Ralph Boston use to win the long jump in the 1964 summer Olympics. A big black bird flapped up from the carport roof as I sped toward the unruly bush and leapt, sending petals and a red sneaker flying before tumbling down with thorn-ripped pants.

"Way to go Little Bleeds" cheered a neighbor guy walking past the yard, "just like your brother the linebacker."

__________

     "Never leave your feet" shouts Coach Righetti from the sideline as I'm getting up after trying to leap a blocker and getting tumbled over him, completely missing the tackle.

I slink back to the defensive huddle in my borrowed white spikes, barely hear the formation, and move to my position as outside linebacker.

"Let's go Weeds" yells Mazurk from his defensive end position in front of me. "Stop em here and we'll take over this game."

The Bernardsville offense runs a sweep our way with three players leading for the ball carrier. I try to scramble through to get to the runner but get swamped under the pulling guard, flanker, and fullback as their halfback scoots past and is gone down the sideline for a touchdown.

"Well Little Bleeds" scowls the coach as I trudge to the sideline holding one too big shoe lost in the kerfuffle, "as a linebacker you'll make a pretty good member of the kickoff team."

Lesson 2: Run Fast

http://bestrochesterlandscaping.com/dir/tag/garden-tips/

     "Hey Monty, what's jailbait doing down the Park?" quips Mazurk to the cute freshmen sister of one of the senior girls huddled under the lights beside the basketball court.

"None of your bee's wax" shoots back the blond and precocious girl, "it's a free world up here in the North."

"Well we're going up to the statues and I've got cherry bombs" he yells, heading over to his pink Chevy Vega. "Are you coming or what?"

"Both" she laughs, climbing into the back seat as others pile into the line of three cars.

"Let's go Weeds" commands Mazurk, waving me over from the basketball court as he hops in and starts the lead car.

__________

     Explosives were old hat for the Reed family. Every summer our father would return from one of his southern trips with the goods tucked under the sleeper of his green and tan Apgar Brothers truck. There'd be a carton of sparklers for us young'uns, a case of firecrackers for Blaine and Beat to sell at a dollar a pack, a box of cherry bombs, and a carton of Roman candles and rockets to set off in the yard on the fourth of July. The silver sparklers were good for a few nights of streaking across the yard, spelling out our names in the darkness, or duels decided by the last one to drop the searing wire. One year, after the sparklers were spent, Beulah pilfered a pack of Black Jacks from Beat's stash.

     "Wiley, light this for me and I'll throw it" she instructed from behind the shed.

The skinny gray fuse was bent down so I held the match to the top so it wouldn't burn the black and white checkered firecracker. I leapt away and Beulah whipped her arm back to throw as a loud crack reverberated in our ears.

"It got me" she hissed, afraid our mother would hear from inside the house as she ran over to the hose. "Here, run cold water over my thumb to keep it from swelling."

"Does it hurt?" I blurted, hovering on the edge of tears.

"Just a blister" she decided, reaching into the pocket of her jeans and handing me another firecracker. "Your turn, and I saw a bunch of slugs under the dog house."

     We tilted back the pink structure our father had build from wood scraps and broken shingles he'd hauled for Ruberoid. Grabbing a slimy gray slug in each hand, we plopped them in the middle of the yard. Two more trips and there was a pile of twelve writhing gastropods.

"Just wiggle it out a little to let you get away" advised Beulah as I carefully complied, grasping the bottom of the fuse between thumb and index finger and easing it out a quarter of an inch before sliding the firecracker down into the gooey mess.

"Happy birthday to you" sang Beulah from atop the dog house as I lit the tip of the fuse and took off across the yard, making it a dozen strides before getting pelted in the back by burning mollusk flesh.

"Eeuw" laughed Beulah, pinching her nose to the putrid stench that would envelope me and the yard for the rest of that week.

__________

     "I hate the mountains" whines Monty, ducking down to the floor of the backseat as Mazurk leads the line of cars up Mountain Avenue.

"It's all right" I whisper as we turn onto Hillcrest Road, hoping the three guys in the front seat don't see as I touch her shoulder.

The mysterious burlap wrapped statues appear in the headlights as we stop in front of a low rectangular house perched on the cliff side of First Watchung Mountain. A matching smaller blockhouse spouts flames from the stack of a large central chimney.

"This is the studio of renowned art deco sculptor Waylande Gregory" calls Newsy from the front seat.

"Let's see one" decides Mazurk, grabbing a handful of cherry bombs and marching over to the nearest statue with a few guys from the other cars.

     "Why do they call you Monty?" I ask as she hangs onto my knee from the floor of the car.

"My dumb mother named me after Dad's mom."

"Your grandmother's named Monty?"

"No silly, Caroline LaMonte, and don't you dare call me Sweet Caroline."

     Before I can respond there's a loud boom and a flash of light in front of the car. Mazurk scrambles back in and is peeling away as a head of wild white hair appears in a window of the studio.

"What was under all that burlap?" asks Newsy as we streak across Hillcrest Road.

"You're not going to believe this" smiles Mazurk as he slows the Vega down. "It was a mermaid going down on a snake-entwined man."

"Well no wonder he keeps them under wraps" chimes Monty from the floorboard. "Now get me down from these mountains."

     Later that night, after snapping off a toothbrush in my mouth and then tossing and turning for hours, I finally fall asleep seeing Monty's smile as we came down off First Watchung.