Trapped!
The year was 1928. I was enjoying the tenth summer of my young life as I stood on the sidewalk and surveyed the terrain before me. About four feet below the sidewalks and structures surrounding it lay a weed-choked area divided by a rippling brook. Along its meandering path were fascinating pools, stony rapids and enticing canyons. Directly below me the stream entered a culvert that carried it under the street and on its way across town.
Eager to try my new boat, made from a scrap of wood, I loped down the embankment and headed for the rapids. Nope, not enough water to carry my sloop over the rapids. I launched it in the pool below the rapids and watched it head for the culvert. Had to catch it before it got lost in there. The culvert was large enough for me to crawl through and I was going to do that some day but not today.
My domain was a strip of vacant land between two main streets that converged in a V. At the point of the V stood a wooden building with an outdoor staircase leading to my father's Photo Gallery on the second floor. This is where I lived when I was 10 going on 11 years old.
The town's main thoroughfare, Mercer Street, veered sharply as Center Street joined at the V. As I rushed to the culvert to capture my ship a drama was taking place on the street above.
The length of Mercer Street from the court house to the railroad station -- a distance of one mile -- was spanned by a trolley line. A single-truck trolley car of the Toonerville variety shuttled back and forth on an uncertain schedule. On its eastbound trip, as it approached the Center Street intersection a left-turning vehicle blocked the track. Apparently rattled by the clanging bell of the trolley and the oncoming traffic the driver pulled out into the path of a coal truck. The truck driver lost control, swerved over the sidewalk in front of the photo gallery and overturned, spilling his load. As fortune would have it, I was standing just below.
Hearing the commotion and seeing tons of coal cascading toward me from above, I panicked and dived into the culvert as five tons of coal poured over the embankment, blocking the culvert.
Thoroughly frightened, heart pounding, I looked at the blocked entrance and then the outlet at the far end. I had never ventured more than a few feet into this culvert. Now I had no choice. Thoroughly frightened, my back barely clearing the top, I crawled through to the other end only to discover the exit blocked by steel rods crisscrossing the opening. I was trapped and no one knew I was in there.
I shook the bars with all my strength but they were solidly anchored. In panic I began to scream for help. No one heard me. On the street above all attention was focussed on the accident. I would stop and listen, then yell again. After what seemed an eternity a young man hopped off the sidewalk above and looked into the culvert.
"Hey! There's a kid in here," he called out and was joined by another. After considerable yelling back and forth the first young man said, "Go over to the other side, kid, they'll shovel you out."
I had to crawl backwards to the other side for there was no room to turn around.
As daylight appeared through the black coal, my fears subsided. As I was pulled out of the opening solicitous rescuers were anxious to know if I was all right. I pulled away and ran home without answering.
Mama was standing at the head of the stairs. She had heard them say a boy was trapped down there and knew it must be me. As I flew into her arms tears streaked her face.
"You, boy," my father roared, "how could you frighten your mother that way?" He raised his hand as if to strike me and I buried my head in mama's skirt.
"Peter!" Mama shrilled, "Don't you dare!"
As quickly as his temper flared, it was gone. My father knelt down and extended his arms, "Come here, son," he entreated. I rushed into his arms. For the first time in my life I had been threatened by angry words from my father, and for the only time in memory I was held in his loving embrace.
"Boy, you sure are stupid," Billy Joe chided after the accident, (see) "only a nitwit would jump into a hole instead of running." Billy Joe was fourteen and took his role of older brother quite seriously.
I had been living in the second floor apartment adjoining my father's photo studio for as long as I could remember. As soon as I could be trusted to go down the stairs by myself I had spent most of the summer months playing in and along that brook. Mama felt I was safe there, she could look out the kitchen window and check on me
Aside from construction and navigation projects on my private waterway one of my earliest pleasures was going shopping with Mama. Our building stood at the western edge the downtown shopping area. On the north side of the street just two blocks away was a grocery store. Piggly Wiggly. The first selfserve market I ever saw. On the south side of the street and only a block away was an A&P but you were waited on at the counter. A clerk got your groceries for you. I preferred Piggly Wiggly where you could "help yourself" as they advertised. I quickly learned where everything was and could be a real help to Mama when we shopped. Billy Joe thought it was dumb, the way I ran around all over the store finding things. "Let the clerk get it for you," he argued, "that's much more efficient." It seems that Billy Joe had dedicated his life to impressing me with his superiority. Afterall, he had already graduated from the Eighth Grade at Mercer Street Elementary and would be going to high school in the fall.
With two drugstores and G.C.Murphy's just a block away, any shopping we had to do was close by. There was a dry goods store, clothing stores and a theatre just a short walk away.
At the back of the pie-shaped lot that was my playground stood a small cottage that had been a residence but now housed the Pendleton Public Library, a grand title for a scrawny establishment. Rustic foot bridges provided access from Mercer Street on one side and Center Street on the other. It was my habit in the summertime to spend an hour or so back there in the afternoon. It was cool inside and the librarian encouraged me to come in and read.
One afternoon as I crossed the foot bridge from the Grand Avenue side I heard a sound, "Pssst," someone hissed, "Hey, kid." I stopped and looked around. No one was in sight. Then the bushes beside the bridge shook and a bearded face appeared. "Hey, kid," the talking head repeated, "Wanna earn a nickel?"
"Sure," I said. A nickle was a lot of money in those days, especially for an 11 year old boy.
"Go down to that diner," the man said, "and bring me back a ham salad sandwich and a Pepsi. Here's the dough."
Not wanting to pass up a nickel, but curious about why the man was hiding, I asked, "Why don't you go yourself?"
"Because I'm on the run, if you have to know. The cops are after me."
Curiosity consumed me. "What for?" I asked.
"Murder," he answered, "and if you know what's good for you you'll do as I ask and keep your mouth shut."
Shaking with fear (or excitement) I muttered "Yes sir," grabbed the money and headed for Sandy's Diner as ordered.
As soon as I crossed Mercer Street I saw Officer Muldoon chatting with a shopkeeper. He was between me and the diner. How could I avoid him? Now Officer Muldoon and I were pals. He always patted me on the head and asked me how I was doing, but today I felt guilty. I tried to sneak past him but he saw me.
"Hey, kid!" he called, "Jeff, my boy, you wouldn't be bypassing an old friend now, would you?" "I'm in a hurry, Mr. Muldoon," I gulped and hurried on.
On my way back Officer Muldoon was still there. Clutching the paper bag containing the fugitive's lunch, I tried to hurry by.
"Jeff!" Muldoon called in a voice that meant stop. "Jeff, lad," he inquired, "Is something wrong? Is everything all right at home?"
"Yes sir, I mean no sir, nothing's wrong. I was just picking up a sandwich for Pop."
"You're father? I just saw him down the street there not ten minutes ago."
Caught in one lie, I tried another, "Did I say Pop? I meant Mom. Mama. She's there all by herself and didn't have a chance to fix any lunch. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'd better go."
Before I went on the foot bridge I stopped and looked around. Muldoon was in sight but his back was turned. I ran out to where the man was hiding, handed him the bag, told him his change was inside and headed for the library. "You'd better not tell anybody." I heard him say as I ran away.
"You're early today, Jeff," Miss Simmons greeted, "I put out some new books in the Junior Department. I hope you like them."
Today the library was a refuge. A sanctuary. The Junior Department was in a corner close to Miss Simmons's desk. I grabbed a book off the table and went into one of the back rooms where the stacks were located, but not to read. To hide.
After a few minutes -- maybe ten or so -- I heard a commotion outside. I went to a window and looked out. Every police car in town must have been out there. Over on the foot bridge a group of policemen were hoisting the fugitive out of his hiding place and onto the bridge. I saw Muldoon start toward the library. I ran to the darkest, farthest room and cringed in the corner, but Muldoon found me.
"Come on lad, don't be scared, this is your old pal, Muldoon. You did us a favor. We wouldn't have found him if it hadn't been for you."
"He told me I'd better do what he wanted -- or else."
"Well, you don't have to worry. We've got him, and you didn't tell on him."
At home Billy Joe scolded, "That sure was stupid. Why didn't you tell Officer Muldoon where the man was? Better yet, why didn't you go straight to the police station, that's what I woulda done. This guy might have gotten away if Muldoon hadn't got suspicious."
"You weren't threatened by a murderer," I retorted and ran to Mama. I knew she would understand.
The man wasn't a murderer, he had just said that to scare me. He had held up the street car conducter and got about $5.00, but he had used a gun and the police considered him armed and dangerous. Turned out his gun wasn't loaded, didn't even have a firing pin.
Life wasn't easy for an eleven year old. In school, until you reached the sixth grade, classes marched single-file to the library, another room or the auditorium where we listened to Walter Damrosch conduct a symphony orchestra or Madam Ernestine Schuman-Heink sing opera on NBC Radio's School of the Air. It was boring but I guess it was educational. At least I remember the names. There were other programs I don't remember.
Because we were seated in alphabetical order, when we moved through the hall the same boy was always behind me and he delighted in stepping on my heels. Sometimes he pulled my shoe loose and I had to hobble to the next room or where ever we were heading.
Recess seemed to be time to settle grudges. Sometimes three or four fights would be going on at the same time. A ring of students would gather around each fight, egging one or the other on. If you were challenged and did not show up at recess you were dubbed a coward. I was never challenged. Looking back on it I guess I was kind of a wimp.
A Little Prayer Goes A Long Way
The Methodist Church stood across Center Street where Park Avenue and Center met Mercer Street. I went to Sunday School there and attended the Sunday evening Epworth League although I was a pip squeek to the older young people there. Two of the girls who shall go unnamed were mischievous trouble makers, always playing pranks at the expense of others. One evening the preacher took them aside and talked with them about the problem they had become. The girls listened quietly and contritely.
After feeling his admonitions were being heeded he suggested they pray together. The little group got down on their knees as the minister began his prayer. As the prayer ascended heavenward the two miscreants exchanged impish looks and concealing giggles, crawled out of the room on hands and knees and ran from the church as their pent up laughter burst forth.
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