One time when I was about ten, me and my buddy were smoking cedar bark in my backyard. We wrapped the bark in toilet paper because it didn’t burn as fast. We never used advertisement paper ‘cause it didn’t burn at all, and newspaper was too stiff. While we were smoking behind the pig pen, we all thought we were “BIG TIME”, until my grandpa Axel caught us. All of the sudden we saw that black felt Fedora hat (the one with the feather in it that my grandpa always wore) come around the corner, and we knew we were in trouble. My grandpa sent the other boy home, and then looked me square in the eyes and said: “Now if you’re gonna smoke, you wanna smoke good! Let’s go over to the grocery store, and I will buy you some real cigarettes”. So I followed him, and we started walking. Now usually when we went to the grocery store, we went cut across through the school, but this time, he had us walk the long way around the side streets. As we were walking, he said: “Here, let’s smoke a cigar as we walk. Bob, you’ve got to learn how to smoke, if you are gonna smoke! When you smoke, you take a big deep breath and get it clear down here (patting his belly). So now take some big deep breaths.”
I took three or four big deep breaths through that cigar, and then everything I’d ate for a week came up. After my stomach was emptied, I remember him carrying me home. I think that was the last time I ever smoked. He sure taught me well.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Stories from Dixon Junior High School:
Mr. Buttle
At the Dixon Junior High School, we had an English teacher named Lee Buttle. He was a short, thin little man with a little mustache on his lip. Boy, was he an ornery, miserable, obnoxious little thing, and he thought he was the “cock of the walk” because he was a teacher. I had a friend named Dick Newton who was as big as Baby Wes, so he was a pretty good-sized boy. Dick and I usually sat on the fifth or sixth row, in Mr. Buttle’s class, but one day he sat me right in the front; he usually put the obnoxious kids right in the front, and I don’t really know why I got there . . . He didn’t like me, and used to pick on me quite a bit. Buttle had a four-foot yard stick mad of hardwood—they called them yard sticks because they were three-feet long—but he had a big long one and he could sit at his desk and hit most of the kids on the front row. One time a kid was talking and he hit me across the shoulder and it really stung!
I spoke up, “I didn’t do that!”, and then he hit me again. Once more I spoke out “Don’t you hit me again”, but he whacked me again. With the whole class now watching, Dick Newton (who was sitting right behind me) jumped up and ran up and grabbed that yard stick. He broke it right over his knee in two or three places, and then commanded “Don’t you ever hit Bob again, that wasn’t his fault.” He never did get another yard stick, but boy did he give us dirty looks. Dick Newton told him: “You ever hit Bob again and I’ll break that yard stick over your head!”
Well, he was obnoxious that Lee Buttle, but on the last day of school we got him good. Our school was two stories tall, and Buttle was on the second floor. To get up the second floor, there were two flights of stairs at each end of the school. The flights were all six or eight feet tall, and were wide so kids could go both up and down at the same time. You would go up one flight of stairs then turn and go up the top flight. The last day of school, the kids took Lee Buttle (he sure was squealing!) and tied him up. He was squealing like a baby piglet, but someone put a gag over Buttle’s mouth. Then the kids took him and tied his feet to the banister at the top of the stairs. He was just dangling upside down, and everyone could see him from the bottom floor. Oh he was screaming and yelling. After a while, he finally got that gag out of his mouth, and then some of the other teachers came and let him down. That was one of the best days ever at Dixon.
Borrowing Watermelons
The principal of the Dixon Junior High at that time was John Mower. He was a nice man, but a little stern sometimes. He had a son named John in was the same age as me, and in my class. Another boy in our class was Estle Engle; he was a big, tall, raw-boned freckled-faced kid, and he ran around a lot with John Mower.
Well I had about five or six buddies that I used to run with. A couple of them were Lowell Graygen and Dick Sax. We used to do a lot together, and on one night in September, a bunch of us yahoots went down to Ky Bott’s place down on about 7th South and 8th West. He had a watermelon patch down there, and we wanted some. So we snuck out and raided it and got us a couple of melons. We got home and they were about half-ripe, so we ate a little bit and threw the rest away—and none of us let our folks know that we stole a watermelon.
We waited a week for the melons to ripen up, and then went back down to the patch. We were tip-toeing through the patch, being as quite as five 12 year old boys could be. All of the sudden, Ky Bott, who had been waiting for us, jumped up out of nowhere, exclaiming “Gotchya!” Gosh, were we scared. Quickly we all started to scram, but he caught Lowell Graygen by the sleeve, and said “Okay, I’m gonna call the police,” Then he asked Lowell “What’s your name?” Well, Lowell was a quick thinker and replied “I’m John Mower.” Then Bott further interrogated: “Who’re those other kids?” Lowell looked right and left, and then blurted the name “Estle Engle.” Then he got his arm loose and sprinted away.
The next day, guess who came to school? It wasn’t Mr. Bott—it was Frank Mower. He was the chief of police, and brother of our Principle, John Mower. Frank marched right into our gym class, and spoke to the teacher, Silkey Knudsen. He said, “I’ve come to get some boys out of class.” Mr. Knudsen asked “Who is it that you want?” He said, “I want John Mower and Estle Engle.” They didn’t know what it was for, so they got up and went with the police, while me and my friends tried to keep from chuckling. The police finally let Estle and John go after they convinced them they were innocent, but they never did find out who it was that stole the watermelon. We sure thought it was funny when they called ‘em out, but we never went back to that watermelon patch . . .
Mr. Crowther’s Car
There was another teacher at our school who was an old bachelor—and a funny old man. And just like how old maids and bachelors are, he was a little odd. His name was Mr. Crowther, and he taught English and typing. He had a black, 1930 Ford Model A Coupe, which is a two-door car with a rumble seat. A rumble seat is where the trunk lid pulls open backwards, and forms a bench for more passengers. One time, for some reason, Mr. Crowther got a bunch of kids mad.
There were trees along the south side of the Dixon Junior High. Some kids took a rope and measured between two trees and then measured his car. It just so happened that his car would barely fit between the two trees. With about 15 boys, we pushed that car down by those trees. In order to get it between them, we had to bounce the car up and down and shimmy it so it would fit just right. We did it during the last class period of the day, and when we were done, we stood around and waited and waited to see our teacher’s face. Finally Mr. Crowther came out and he saw his car. Boy was he surprised! He got in, but couldn’t go forwards or backwards. After getting frustrated he went in the office. Once he went inside, we all ran and scattered. How he ever got that car out, we don’t know, but that car stuck between two trees sure looked funny.
At the Dixon Junior High School, we had an English teacher named Lee Buttle. He was a short, thin little man with a little mustache on his lip. Boy, was he an ornery, miserable, obnoxious little thing, and he thought he was the “cock of the walk” because he was a teacher. I had a friend named Dick Newton who was as big as Baby Wes, so he was a pretty good-sized boy. Dick and I usually sat on the fifth or sixth row, in Mr. Buttle’s class, but one day he sat me right in the front; he usually put the obnoxious kids right in the front, and I don’t really know why I got there . . . He didn’t like me, and used to pick on me quite a bit. Buttle had a four-foot yard stick mad of hardwood—they called them yard sticks because they were three-feet long—but he had a big long one and he could sit at his desk and hit most of the kids on the front row. One time a kid was talking and he hit me across the shoulder and it really stung!
I spoke up, “I didn’t do that!”, and then he hit me again. Once more I spoke out “Don’t you hit me again”, but he whacked me again. With the whole class now watching, Dick Newton (who was sitting right behind me) jumped up and ran up and grabbed that yard stick. He broke it right over his knee in two or three places, and then commanded “Don’t you ever hit Bob again, that wasn’t his fault.” He never did get another yard stick, but boy did he give us dirty looks. Dick Newton told him: “You ever hit Bob again and I’ll break that yard stick over your head!”
Well, he was obnoxious that Lee Buttle, but on the last day of school we got him good. Our school was two stories tall, and Buttle was on the second floor. To get up the second floor, there were two flights of stairs at each end of the school. The flights were all six or eight feet tall, and were wide so kids could go both up and down at the same time. You would go up one flight of stairs then turn and go up the top flight. The last day of school, the kids took Lee Buttle (he sure was squealing!) and tied him up. He was squealing like a baby piglet, but someone put a gag over Buttle’s mouth. Then the kids took him and tied his feet to the banister at the top of the stairs. He was just dangling upside down, and everyone could see him from the bottom floor. Oh he was screaming and yelling. After a while, he finally got that gag out of his mouth, and then some of the other teachers came and let him down. That was one of the best days ever at Dixon.
Borrowing Watermelons
The principal of the Dixon Junior High at that time was John Mower. He was a nice man, but a little stern sometimes. He had a son named John in was the same age as me, and in my class. Another boy in our class was Estle Engle; he was a big, tall, raw-boned freckled-faced kid, and he ran around a lot with John Mower.
Well I had about five or six buddies that I used to run with. A couple of them were Lowell Graygen and Dick Sax. We used to do a lot together, and on one night in September, a bunch of us yahoots went down to Ky Bott’s place down on about 7th South and 8th West. He had a watermelon patch down there, and we wanted some. So we snuck out and raided it and got us a couple of melons. We got home and they were about half-ripe, so we ate a little bit and threw the rest away—and none of us let our folks know that we stole a watermelon.
We waited a week for the melons to ripen up, and then went back down to the patch. We were tip-toeing through the patch, being as quite as five 12 year old boys could be. All of the sudden, Ky Bott, who had been waiting for us, jumped up out of nowhere, exclaiming “Gotchya!” Gosh, were we scared. Quickly we all started to scram, but he caught Lowell Graygen by the sleeve, and said “Okay, I’m gonna call the police,” Then he asked Lowell “What’s your name?” Well, Lowell was a quick thinker and replied “I’m John Mower.” Then Bott further interrogated: “Who’re those other kids?” Lowell looked right and left, and then blurted the name “Estle Engle.” Then he got his arm loose and sprinted away.
The next day, guess who came to school? It wasn’t Mr. Bott—it was Frank Mower. He was the chief of police, and brother of our Principle, John Mower. Frank marched right into our gym class, and spoke to the teacher, Silkey Knudsen. He said, “I’ve come to get some boys out of class.” Mr. Knudsen asked “Who is it that you want?” He said, “I want John Mower and Estle Engle.” They didn’t know what it was for, so they got up and went with the police, while me and my friends tried to keep from chuckling. The police finally let Estle and John go after they convinced them they were innocent, but they never did find out who it was that stole the watermelon. We sure thought it was funny when they called ‘em out, but we never went back to that watermelon patch . . .
Mr. Crowther’s Car
There was another teacher at our school who was an old bachelor—and a funny old man. And just like how old maids and bachelors are, he was a little odd. His name was Mr. Crowther, and he taught English and typing. He had a black, 1930 Ford Model A Coupe, which is a two-door car with a rumble seat. A rumble seat is where the trunk lid pulls open backwards, and forms a bench for more passengers. One time, for some reason, Mr. Crowther got a bunch of kids mad.
There were trees along the south side of the Dixon Junior High. Some kids took a rope and measured between two trees and then measured his car. It just so happened that his car would barely fit between the two trees. With about 15 boys, we pushed that car down by those trees. In order to get it between them, we had to bounce the car up and down and shimmy it so it would fit just right. We did it during the last class period of the day, and when we were done, we stood around and waited and waited to see our teacher’s face. Finally Mr. Crowther came out and he saw his car. Boy was he surprised! He got in, but couldn’t go forwards or backwards. After getting frustrated he went in the office. Once he went inside, we all ran and scattered. How he ever got that car out, we don’t know, but that car stuck between two trees sure looked funny.
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