REALLY What A time Book IX

REALLY SO WHAT
What A Time


HOME


How would you like to take a tour of my home here in North
Fairlington? It’s brick two stories high, with a basement. We
lived in the middle triplex. One of 70 different arrangements
in the complex. We were the first in our court.

















The porch is a nice entrance, protecting adults from the rain or
snow, and a great place for a ‘jail’ in chase games. We used to
get more snow in the 1940’s than now in the 21 century. To
st
much cement everywhere today. Inside the front door is a
st
small vestibule with a closet. It’s the only one on the 1 floor,
so it holds lots of different things, our vacuum cleaner,
galoshes with metal snaps, we wore over our shoes, wool coats
and knitted hats that buckle under the chin, dining table inserts
and table top pads for the dining room table.





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Outside our windows we had dark green shutters, inside the
floors were wooden, clear maple. Our living room had two
large windows that let in a soft northern light. Upstairs to the
bathroom and 2 bedrooms. All our furniture was very heavy,
1930’s styling. The rounded back of our burgundy mohair
couch, two upholstered green and grey arm chairs. Mom
made slip covers for each of them that she used all summer.
They were large light cream colored with huge flowers.

We had a Helicrafter radio, a ‘Ham’ set. It was pretty
sophisticated. Although Pop never sent any short wave
transmissions he could find and listen to them from over the
world. Joe and I would usually listen to the scary radio shows
like ‘The Shadow’ or better ‘Gang Busters’. Our first
Television was later after we moved from Fairlington.
Everyone had a rug for their wooden floors. We do it today.
Pay for beautiful wooden floors and then cover them with, in
our case Oriental Rugs. This is where the ever lasting
monopoly games would be played, on the floor.

The dining room was filled. It had our Mahogany dining set.
Expandable dining table , inserts kept in the closet, five regular
and one captain’s chair for Pop, a china closet, and a buffet.
Our good china eventually became Noritake from occupied
Japan. Another treasure from my childhood that I’ve kept
over the years.
Mom was a house wares buyer at the Kann’s Department store
in Shirlington. Wine and Champagne glasses had open shapes.





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Not like today’s closed shapes which enhance the scent of the
wine and concentrates the bubbles.




































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She spent a lot of time in the galley kitchen. So many doors
led to the kitchen. One to the outside stoop in back, one into
the basement, and one to the dining room. On top of the
refrigerator was our bright red cookie jar, and on the counter a
white tin bread box, filled with squishy Wonder Bread. I used
to roll it into balls of dough before eating it.

The house had the scent of today’s meal. Kind of like a farm
house. She wouldn’t stop using spices, salt and pepper, for
another 15 years. Not until after Pop’s first heart attack. Meals
were often homey with a touch of depression economy in
them. Comfort food; meat or stew, with a couple of
vegetables, never canned peas, and often a potato. Deserts
were fruits, Oranges if you could get them, but mostly apples,
cakes, cookies, nothing beat her cherry pies, home made ice
cream, and Jello molds with carrots or other things in them. I
liked the Jello with mayonnaise.

Down in the cellar was my father’s work area. He had a large
work bench he’d made of 2 by 4’s. It held most of his tools,
and a large vice. Scraps of wood were kept under the bench.
He and Joe would work on different things there, but the best
was their soap box derby.

Near the end of the ‘40’s my grandmother Zimmerman moved
in to live with us. She took the smaller bedroom upstairs. Joe
and I moved to the basement. Beside being a long way to the
bathroom it was pretty nice, and private. It was the biggest
room in the apartment. We painted the concrete walls and
floor.



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Each apartment building had a shared basement, with trash
and laundry facilities, with a stair well to the outside. Pop
changed the door to the outside, making it more secure and
insulated.

This is our back stoop, Pop with a cigarette, Lucky Strike,
Mom and me. He and later myself were the only two that ever
th
smoked. He died smoking, I quit before my 40 birthday.
We’re dressed in usual clothes. Me with corduroys and Tee,
Pop always a tie and slacks, while Mom always wore either a
dress, skirt and blouse.
Beside the neighbors door is a brick wall. It’s where the
staircase leads to the basement for the entire triplex. It was
used as an alternate exit, and to pick-up trash.





















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At Halloween, when I was 5 and 6 I’d come in costume, a
pirate with an eye patch, or cowboy with a Lone Ranger mask,
nothing to elaborate, to the front door and ‘trick or treat’,
then run through the house out the back and around to the
front door and knock, all over again to ‘trick or treat’. Pop
usually answered the door and he loved passing out candy or
sometimes nickels or dimes. This was great fun for me.





























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Nothing was so regular or so important as the movies. There
were three theaters around us. Washington had the Translux,
and Capital theaters with live shows and movies. Across
South Fairlington was the Center shopping area and theater.
And the most important. The one I could go to on my own
from 6 was the Shirlington Theater 2 or 3 miles through the
woods.

I wasn’t old enough to take the bus, alone, into Washington.
They had the best movies, with stage shows. As a teen I did,
however, and saw Patty Page and others on stage at the
Capital.
The only time I went to the Center Theater was with my
mother and brother. I can remember crying through the great
forest fire in Bambi. Otherwise I didn’t go often.

Shirlington, however, was through the woods, only a couple of
miles. A gallop away for me. They had the new movies every
weekend. Full length, double features, News, Serials and
Shorts.
This was my life blood. My existence. The adrenalin shot
that carried me through the week, that energized me to greater
heights. If I could imagine the games or sports I played with
the same enthusiasm as these movie characters. If I could be
as clever, ingenious, scheming, or successful as they, my week
would be just fine.

The Cowboys were the best. Riding their horses, Palomino,
Buck, Chestnut or Appaloosa, across the valleys, under the




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trees, between the boulders, until they dodged the Sheriff. Six
guns blaring, never exhausting the ammo. Each shot finding

it’s mark, with bad guys dropping like flies. Saloon brawls,
with dance hall beauties, and scheming bankers.

It was unending, movie after movie mostly the same thing.
sappy singing cowboys, like Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, The
Son’s of the Pioneers, or Tex Ritter with his country twang.
Serious good guys, with white hats that always ran their
enemies down, like Johnny Mack Brown, or Hopalong
Cassidy. Talking and reasoning cowboys like Tim Holt or
John Wayne. Each had bad guys, bank robbers or land thieves
plotting against the town or homestead citizens, right on
camera.

The coolest part of earlier John Wayne movies were scenes
where riding across the plaines his horse would be shot out
underneath him, or he’d jump off a cliff into a river. They
always survived. He worked with a group of about 8 actors,
nd
like 2 City in Chicago, or the Saturday Night Live crew on
TV. George ‘Gabby’ Hayes played with the group. They
made lots of movies, playing different characters.
Mostly, the movies were black and white. Many were Class D,
bad acting with the same old ranch house, and often the same
lines repeated endlessly. Class D movies were turned out by
the hundreds, like today’s ‘Chick Flicks’ by Hall Mark the
greeting card company. Ken Mayard, and Bob Steele, a little
guy probably 4’10” or tops at 5 feet would always get into a





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fight and throw hay makers. If that didn’t teach you how not
to fight the first time you saw it, then it would be repeated
every week in a similar movie.

A few cowboys were filmed in color. They had deeper more
complex plots, often, life long ambitions with stars like Jimmy
Stewart. He always sauntered around the West, from one
fabulous western scene to another, with his famous cowboy
drawl, and 6’4” mosey. Another and far more prolific was
Randolph Scott. He could get in fights and get banged up
pretty bad; something that never happened to the Class D
stars. For movies that was more realistic.
The full length movies always left me satisfied. They gave me
the whole story; a beginning, middle, always a shoot out and
never a love story, and an end. They were the opposite from
the Serials.

Every week there would be a new episode to the thrilling
Serial. All serials had the same format. They started by saving
the hero who was doomed at the end of the previous episode ,
but….. TO BE CONTINUED; and recycled next week with a
spectacular scene saving him.
Despite being left on the edge of your seat, and anxious they
had some of my favorite cowboy’s stars. The Durango Kid
was often disguised as the easy going sheriff, but when pushed,
Charles Starrett, would ride into the hills and change into
‘Take no hostages’ Durango Kid, dressed in all black, hat to
boot,





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double holsters with ivory handled six guns, and an all white
stallion that could out run anything.

Red Ryder movies were so popular that the Disney BB gun
was named for him. Red Ryder played with a side-kick. A
little kid, an Indian. Side-kicks became a popular way for
singing cowboys to carry a little humor into their movies.
Generally, the side-kicks were a bore. Little Beaver was no
exception.
Often they would use the same scenes as the Class D movies.
It was possible to tell where every fence, gate, pathway and
chair was on the porch of the same old ranch house. They
never even moved them around. Serials brought a new
dimension to the silver screen. Not only the dangling endings,
the thrilling action and recovery, but a slightly different view of
our WASP world. The Cisco Kid was one of those serials that
lasted for years with several ‘Latin American’ stars, Caesar
Romero in the early ‘40’s and Gilbert Roland later.

There were many other serials beside westerns. Superheroes
were the rage. Superman. Kryptonite could scare anyone, me
included. When would I lose my imagined powers? Or
Captain Marvel who would change into a superhero after
exclaiming his reverence for god by repeating the magic word
‘SHAZAM’ . My favorite non-cowboy was ‘The Ghost That
Walked’ The Phantom. He dressed in all purple and had his
own, ‘love-in’ island, called Paradise Island, where all the
animals got along with each other. When not in costume he





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wore a trench coat and had a pretty girl friend who never knew
him for his fantastic self.

Buster Crabbe, was a serial star that played so many roles it’s
hard to keep track. He began with ‘Flash Gordon’ in the
1930’s then played ‘Billy The Kid’ in western serials. He was
an Olympic swimmer and became one of the early Tarzans.

Tarzan could never be beat for a full length movie. The
translation of Edgar Rice Burrogh’s novel of an English
gentleman that became Tarzan was missed on the early film
writers. Tarzan was seen as a mysterious white man that had
been raised by the gorillas in the African jungle. Not an
English Lord that traveled to Africa.

Johnny Weissmuller, my favorite, another Olympic swimmer,
could wrestle crocodiles, fight lions and ride elephants. The
best of all scenes was when he first saved Jane from a group of
poaching safari men.
Saved, the two of them sat on a huge log over a mucky creek
deep in the jungle. He didn’t speak English, but uttered ape
sounds and mimicked what she said to him. She said ‘I’m
Jane’ and smacked him on the arm. He mimicked her and his
smack knocked her off the log into the muck. They repeated
this over and over until she stopped saluting him with a
congratulating smack on the arm. He finally pointed to her,
and said ‘Jane’ and to himself ‘Tarzan’.

Movies never ended without the News Report, with Navy
Battleships crashing through rough seas, or Cruisers blasting a




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Pacific Island, and, Yanks with backpacks, and helmets
searching out some buildings or crouching behind Head Rows.

The theaters must have had a plan because they always saved
the cartons for last. Bugs Bunny, Pluto, Tom & Jerry or
Donald Duck were some. All in color, a pleasant change from
the black and white. The greatest tease was whether the Wolf
would ever be clever enough to capture the Road Runner.
Boy was he smart. It never ended well for him when he
missed. The wolf really suffered, falling over a ledge or being
crushed by a boulder.
I never missed the Saturday movies. But I always had a most
unfortunate experience following them. Coming out of the
dark theater and eager to hop on my trusted steed to make my
way home, at full speed.

I’d never stop in the theater lobby to adjust to the bright sun
light. By jumping into the light I would be blinded and by the
time I’d gotten home my head would be splitting. Our family
doctor, Dr Mitchell was sure they were migraine headaches.
I’d get them at least every week, sometimes more often.
During the week I’d have to rely on other help to gather my
imagination. It would come from our radio. If the movies
were pictorially explicit, radio never held back. They used
inventive sounds and imaginary deceptions to make your hair
stand on end. Joe and I would listen to them together. Some







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of our favorites were Captain Midnight, or the scariest that
started with ‘ Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of man?
‘The Shadow Knows’. Or after frighting me half to death the
final warning at the end. ‘The weed of crime bears bitter fruit.
Crime does not pay. The Shadow Knows.’. Who could sleep
after that.

But, it never ended, show after show I couldn’t wait to hear
them and be terrified. One Radio show I couldn’t listen to by
myself was Gang Busters. It was to real, story after story of
the worst criminals in America. They could be living in our
town, in our apartment complex, or worst in our block. And
we might never know. Endings to these radio shows had to
have a catch. Gang Busters listed the top 10 most wanted
criminals in America. I have never forgotten them and even
today have lists of the nation’s or world’s 10 worst enemies.
Today Politicians, Lobbyists, Lawyers, Bankers, and Corporate
Scoundrels are on the top of my list.

Imagination was always sparked by mystery, amazing events or
abilities, scary and frightening stories. These came in every
form, visual like movies or auditory on the radio, were but
two. Newspaper comic strips, comic books and classic novels
were others.

Newspaper comic strips had a different effect on me. I was
seldom scared or mystified by them. I was so glad that we got
the Evening Star newspaper, because the other, paper The
Washington Post didn’t carry them. I read a couple, Kerry





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Drake, a detective, Little Abner and Sir Okay Doaks. Little
Orphan Annie had a neat couple of characters, Pun Jab, and
the Asp, but none were as moving as the radio or movies.
There were however a couple that had a lasting effect on me.
Not because of their story, but because of their drawings.

Edgar Rice Burroughs and Hal Foster created the comic strips
of Tarzan and Prince Valiant. They also had the most
interesting drawings of any comic strips. I preferred Tarzan
movies, but ‘Prince Valiant, in the Age of King Arthur’, was an
interesting story and a really intriguing artist. I would follow
them for years.
Roy Crane had a character called Buz Sawyer who was a Navy
Commander, and secret service fellow who spent a lot of time
all over the world. I particularly liked his stories and his
drawings of African trees on the Serengeti.

I read most of the comic books that have mostly survived as
legends of superheroes, like Superman, and his family,
Superboy, and Supergirl. The Marvel family, Captain, Junior,
and Mary. Batman and Robin, although I preferred the dark
th
characters created by the late 20 century movies. There were
some comic books that were a little different. One that didn’t
carry on very long was ‘Black Hawk’ a group of flying
adventures that fought crime and war enemies. Another
which helped my imagination grow was ‘Plastic Man’. An
amazing character that could extend himself, arms, legs or
body to reach any distance. He frequently would reach around
buildings or stretch up ten floors to save a heroine.



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There were also books; the classics for children like ‘Treasure
Island’, and ‘Robinson Cruisoe’. Uncle Remus’s stories of
Brother Rabbit, Bear, and Fox were grand. I knew them by
heart. And mysteries like the Hardy Boys. These imaginary
things were the web that wound around my imagination and
encouraged my daily life.

Biographies were the final tie to my imagination and fantasies.
The Presidents, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and
Abe Lincoln. There was one that stood out Daniel Boone. I
loved the descriptions of his adventures in deep dark
Kentucky and West Virginia following deer trails and ducking
hostile Indians.
It is possible that these experiences had a huge impact on me.
I’ve been told over and over that I’m too easily influenced by
what I saw or heard. Maybe the adrenaline created by these
fantasies has always stirred my imagination. If so I’m so happy
to know they had contributed .

















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A FORT IN THE WOODS


On the border of the apartments was a forest of hardwoods.
Oak mostly, some Walnut, Chestnut and Pine. They covered
the hills and were at least two miles deep. The hills and forest
overlooked two valleys, one called Four Mile Run, after the
little stream. The other unnamed, but would eventually hold
Shirley Highway and Interstate 95. This Valley separated
North and South Fairlington. Our backyard faced it.

These woods were magical, and I would spend hours running
and playing in them. I would know every path, leaf and tree.
Virginia’s woods and forests are different than both Northern
and Southern forests. Maybe, because they have a longer
growing season. There’s less bush, low growing beneath the
trees, and it’s easier to see through, yet not quite a jungle.

Running in the woods was the best possible fun. I could see
further in the fall, making it easy to run through. In the spring,
after a rain I could run through them as silently as an Indian. I
liked that best and would always love the pine groves because
the needles on the floor made passing without a sound, I was
stealth.
All the kids spent a lot of time playing ‘Cowboys and Indians’
in them. As well, everyone walked through them to get to our
closest shopping center Shirlington. There was never any fear
or hesitation by anyone traveling or playing in them. They
were always safe.







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Shirlington was built just after we arrived, and was one of the
first, shopping centers in the country. There were many
stores along a gauntlet. A double lane road lined with stores,
with lots of parking behind them. I remember a couple of
them, a drug store, and a grocery. The latter because my
mother broke her wrist when she slipped on some spilled
vegetables. But the most important thing about Shirlington
was at the end of the gauntlet. The Movie Theater.

If you wanted to get to the stores, you could either drive the
long way around, out of North Fairlington, around to King
Street, and South Fairlington, and down Quaker Lane. It was
a long way. Or you could walk the couple of miles from the
apartments through the woods down along the Shirley Valley.
Pop often took the hike. He would grocery shop with a
couple of bags that he hauled back. I doubt if he loved the
idea, but he did like the woods. He and mom had spent a
couple of years camping around the United States during the
Great Depression. He knew the woods and would come
home with wild persimmons or other forest delicacies

Deep into the woods, beyond sight of the apartments there
was a dense area that rose above the grounds. It dipped down
into a trench and then climbed up above the rest. Because of
the undergrowth, it’s thick bush and vines, it was difficult to








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tell if it was different from the rest of the area. This may have
been my favorite spot. I would swing from the vines across
the trench unendingly.

I stood high on the hillouts with a vine in my hands. With a
run and jump sail out across the trench. If I left go I’d usually
fall into the trench and bushes. Sometimes the bushes would
be trampled from previous landing. If I’d land on my feet I’d
be off like a cat without hesitating. Other times I would swing
back and forth in a full circle like a pendulum. Occasionally a
vine would break. The fall was always bruising, but nothing
ever broke.
My imagination ran wild in the forest. When the Indians were
around it was always important to be quiet, and stealth.
Nothing was better than to steal away or never be recognized
after a rain. The Oak leaves covering the ground made no
noise. No one ever knew where I was.

Cowboy games were great in the woods. Hiding behind a tree
waiting to ambush some local settlers. I’d shoot them down
with my trusty white handled, silver Texas six-shooter. You
never ran out of gun powder or bullets because of the length
of the roll of caps. Robbing them was a cinch.
Despite recognizing armies, and cavalries, in the movies at
their isolated forts in the deserts of the southwest I never gave
a thought to such things in my woods. Further; besides the
awful war that raged across the world, and the reason that






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all of Fairlington existed I knew very little about. I never
played war, nor because of the woods I never played Calvary
in the open desert.

That’s not to say that I didn’t have a mason jar full of little lead
balls. I’d collected them in the woods, particularly around my
favorite place. They were everywhere.

This grand overgrown spot in the middle of the woods,
surprisingly might have been the remains of Fort Reynolds. A
fort built in 1861. It was established as a Union Sentry
overlooking and protecting Washington from the Confederate
Army of Virginia.

It’s difficult to tell if it was the fort, yet scholars today believe
it was. I wonder, because there were no buildings, or even
wooden debris around. Only the hillocks and trench, which of
course were characteristic of forts in those days.


















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SPORTS


This was the time of the baseball greats, Babe Ruth, Lou
Gehrig, Bill Dickey, Joe DiMaggio, Bob Feller or Warren
Spahn and the man with the best eyes ever Ted Williams.
But, there were others that played the game.

In Washington, The Washington Nationals or ‘Nat’s’. Our
shortstop, Sam Dente, was known for his inability to stop a
grounder. Gil Coan was the outfield wizard batting .220.
They made claim to the famous stage musical ‘Damn Yankees’.
Enthusiasm for the game was high. So if you didn’t play
another sport like Tennis at least you could go for the baseball
rage.
There were no organized baseball teams until I was much
older, and had moved from Fairlington. There were
organizations, Kiwanis, that had 14 and under and 12 and
under teams and leagues, for boys only. But, usually sports
were all ‘Pick-up’ games where we would play ourselves,
without adult supervision.

Everyone played. It was called ‘Work-up’. We would gather
together throwing and catching the ball or shagging it to the
outfield. When we had enough kids we would start a game.
The term ‘Work-up’ came from the position you held. If there
were enough players 3 would be at bat. Next would be the
catcher, then the pitcher on around the field. If there were 2
shortstops they would precede the third basemen. The batters
would continue until one was put out, and everyone would






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move up a position. A double play moved everyone up two
positions.

I had really good hand-eye coordination and could hit almost
anything. It was useful for tennis, but in baseball it was a
different story. In tennis my power came from the strings of
the racket. With just a wooden bat I didn’t have ‘over-the-
fences’ power. It was more like over the infield. I could hit
anything, but it would go like Gil Coan’s hits. I would mostly
hit infield balls. Although I was right handed I could actually
hit down the firstbase line. Yet, could spray hits anywhere. I
was a managers dream for a lead-off batter if getting on base
was important.
But, there were two big problems with baseball. First, it’s so
bloody boring. Standing around waiting to work-up to the
pitcher, or batter would take forever. And I never wanted to
be catcher, it was the worst.

The second reason and ever so much more important was
catching the ball. Even with a mitt, which some didn’t have, I
could count on catching every third ball with my thumb. After
a few catches it hurt like; sprained. I hated it, but each season
I’d give it a try with the same outcome. My baseball days were
numbered.
I stuck to listening to the ‘Nats’ getting shellacked on the
radio. I learned to root for the winners; the New York
Yankees.






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Another sport was like soccer, but without the rules. Across
the ravine, Shirley Valley, was South Fairlington. It had been
built before us, and was about the same sprawling size. In war
time, and after, Washington grew like topsy-turvy. These
apartments were filled as fast on both sides. On the far side
near Quaker Lane was Fairlington’s Elementary School, about
a mile or more from home.

I ran that distance, down into the ravine across it, up the other
side, and a mile to school, twice a day for 5 years. Getting to
school early was important because I’d get a chance to kick a
ball around with a herd of other kids. I liked kicking balls
around, although never played soccer.
The playground behind the school was a large field, about the
size of a football field, without stripes or goal posts. All the
boys would meet each morning with a single ball. We would
kick and run from one end of the field to the other. Just like a
herd of stampeding buffalo.

The fun was getting to the ball. I might be able to kick it, and
stay ahead of the herd all the way down the field. I never
practiced; it was just kick, run, kick.
So as sports went, there were very few organized ones that I
participated in or interested me. However, I didn’t make a
good couch potato. I was really active and spent most of my
time outside. As a teen I’d play most every sport, football,
track and field and basketball as well as tennis.






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TENNIS


I tossed the ball high, at its apex I hit it. My twisting service
spun over the net towards the doubles lane and dropped down
into the court. It had been a pretty easy match, and I was
closing on it. He moved off the base line and returned the ball
deep to the opposite side of my court. I took the forehand
and straighten it out; long, down the line. This may be the end
of the point as I moved to center court for a net shot. He’d
been having trouble with his backhand popping the ball up,
and so he did, as I’d expected. I met it with a slight turn of my
body, and without much power blocked it over the net. My
point.

My next serve was hard and flat down the center line. His
return was again deep to center court. From the base line, I
hadn’t had to move to return it again to his backhand. It was
deep, as soon as I hit it I moved to the net. His return was
high and shallow. I waited, as it arrived over my head. This
was it. I wound up like a service. My over head shot the ball
out of his reach for the win. Game…Set…Match.

Tennis anyone? Of course everyone plays this sport. They
have forever. It’s so simple, a ball and racket, and lots of
exercise running around the court. This would be my favorite
sport.

Several blocks up the street were the Fairlington Tennis
Courts. There were three clay courts in front of the
maintenance building. There is lots of clay in Virginia. Mixed
naturally with existing aluminum it became sticky, and slippery





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when wet, and had a soft reddish brown dusty color. Most
public courts were clay, only a few were hard surfaced like
asphalt or concrete, and only a very few country clubs had the
luxury of grass. It would be years before plastic compositions,
with a uniform bounce would replace most courts.

The difference in courts was the wear and tear on your shoes
and long term on your knees. I wore US Keds, and despite the
soft clay was able to wear them out pretty quickly.
Clay is the slowest of games. The ball regardless of how hard
it’s hit slows down when it lands and pops up. It tends to pop
up straight which makes it easier to get to and hit. Making clay
the slowest of all surfaces.

Other surfaces are between clay and grass in the speed that the
ball travels. Grass, whether it’s wet or not is like the busted
bike episode. The ball always slides on the grass, bounces
lower and speeds up. Sliding on the grass makes the ball move
faster.
In the beginning my racket was my mothers, about 3 feet long
with a funny handle. The handle wasn’t oval or round, rather
it was octagonal and thicker than any I’ve ever seen. It was
hard for me to hold, although two handed swatting would
have helped.

The small oval at the other end was strung with catgut. Yes,
but gut was the intestines of any animal except a cat. Maybe
’Cat’ actually stands for ‘Cattle’ but almost every string
instrument used it, Guitars, violins, you name it.




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Nylon, wouldn’t be used, for almost as many years as
composition courts or two handed strokes.

There’s a real difference between gut and nylon as well as how
tight your racket was strung. Tightly strung rackets cause the
ball to bounce off faster, and you had less control. A little
looser meant you had more control. Gut on the other hand
gave more flexibility regardless of how tight it was. It gave
more control. Nylon became popular because it was so much
cheaper, and the racket heads got so much larger.
Tennis started for me by chasing after the balls. They were
always white, and in the beginning, fuzzy. We played with
them until all the fuzz was gone and their bounce was weak.
In the beginning they would bounce about thigh high when
dropped from the shoulder.

The older boys liked having me around. They could knock a
ball over the fence on to Abbington Street and across into the
apartment quadrangle. Sometimes the balls would go over the
other way, up onto the maintenance building roof and out
onto the baseball, model airplane flying field. My specialty,
really, was running, so for a while it was a win-win experience.
But, it didn’t last so long that they totally took advantage of
me.
By the time I was 6 or so I began hitting some balls. Joe
would take time with me to practice. So in addition to hitting
balls against a wall he would hit them to me, or sometimes just






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throw them. First just hitting them, then on one side and the
other, practicing my forehand and the backhand.

Collecting tennis balls was more important than the lead balls
from the civil war in the woods. We had a bucket of them to
practice.

During these years I became good at observing and analyzing.
A trait that would become a strong suit for me all my life.


Watching others helped with the way I stood. Later it would
help me strategize my game. In those days shoulders were
always perpendicular to the net, and feet were spread. Toes
lined up in the direction the ball was supposed to go. Always
hit the ball off the front foot with your whole side of your
body lined up.

These instructions were never told to me, but examples, by Joe
as well as getting behind me guiding my movement did the
trick. I got pretty good at it.

To learn how to serve he had another idea. I’d stand with my
left foot, against the tall fence, with my shoulders squared. I’d
raise the racket in a long circular motion over my head around
my back and then turning smash the face of the racket, high,
against the fence. This maneuver went on for a long time
before I started hitting a ball with it. It worked pretty well to
get the toss and swing coordinated.







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Later, there were all kinds of twists and cuts, added to all these
moves. But, for these years this was the basics and they
worked okay.

The maintenance crew liked having us boys around. They
would let us maintain the courts. There were usually 8-9 of us
that played each summer. They would open the courts every
morning when they arrived and several times a week would
roll out the equipment for us to prepare the courts.
It was usually a three step process. The first was to wet down
the clay. The hose was so large that I couldn’t handle it in the
beginning. Like a fire hose. The older boys would sprinkle
the courts. I and others would then rake them. These rakes
were four feet wide and had wooden spokes. They smoothed
and flatten everything. Sometimes we would rake them three
times a week, or whenever they really needed it.

The third step was to chalk the lines of the court. After ,
playing a little while the chalk would get rubbed out.
Particularly on the baseline and in the serving court. There
were pins at each corner that helped guide the chalk roller. It
was a large metal bottle full of liquid chalk. The maintenance
guys mixed it up for us. Once laid down it would dry and
thereby last longer.
We never played any tournaments among ourselves. Mainly,
because our games and sports were almost always ‘pick-up’
games where we made the rules and supervised ourselves.
There was seldom any adult oversight as they all worked.





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We were years ahead of our time; before institutional game
supervision, and organization. Maybe because we played
almost every day, and with each other knew how each played.

It worked out pretty well as many of us continued playing
forever. Joe and another fellow were tops at each of their
colleges. Joe at Virginia Tech, and the other fellow at William
& Mary. Joe would continue playing, teaching and stringing
rackets for 60 years.
I would play in high school at Washington-Lee, and for three
years at American University. I also spent a couple of
summers as a tennis councilor in the mountains of
Massachusetts near Tanglewood. That was great fun,
including seeing the ‘Boston Pops’ every weekend.

Tennis taught me a different type of strategy other than parlor
games and maybe even more importantly to anticipate the next
moves or actions that were on their way. Although the tennis
moves; overheads, blocking chops, forehands and backhand
strokes, are still a dance in my memory, my body can no longer
coordinate them.













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BUSTED BIKE


In the early days I was too small to ride a two wheeler. Instead
I used a neighbor’s large tricycle. It had back wheels at least 8
inches in diameter, and a front wheel 24 inches high. You
could really speed on it. In this photo I couldn’t reach the
peddles, so Pop added wooden blocks. The wheels had hard
































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rubber tires and real spokes.

I never rode it outside our block, so my travels were limited.
Near the far end of the block the sidewalk came down a hill
and turned abruptly. I had made that turn often, but
occasionally I would lose my balance and tip over. Once, and
only once I fell off and tumbled over a 5 foot wall. Some big
boys came to my rescue. They were the oldest in the area,
probably in high school. I didn’t cry and the outcome was
they gave me a nick name ‘Tuffy’. It didn’t last very long, but
was probably the best nick name I ever had.
By the time I was 6 I had grown beyond the tricycle and could
handle my brothers big bike, ‘The Rainbow’. I often borrowed
it for a joy ride around the neighborhood. My roaming now
took on a different character. Miles were now in my new
expanded world. It was more than our block, but included
North Fairlington, South Fairlington, although limited, the
woods and Shirlington.

On one expedition, about a mile from home, near the end of
North Fairlington, was a particularly fun and exciting ‘trail’
ride. I remember it something like this.
Behind the row of duplexes there was a 6 foot wall beyond
which was a sloping grassy area. Beyond the wall the hill, still
grassy, intensified it’s slope dropping sharper along the
apartment’s backyard. The grass came to an abrupt end at the
edge of a cliff, dropping through trees to a small creek far
below.





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To avoid a catastrophe with the bike, once you made the jump
and landed on the down slope you needed to prepare
immediately for the turn around the far end of the building
and head out into the parking lot.

It was reasonably safe to leap off the wall on your bike, even if
you didn’t land right, and spilled onto the grass. Only bruises.
But, both you and the bike would survive. However, at all
costs never fall into the stream below. Not to recover would
be disastrous.
I had taken this trip many times, borrowing my brother’s bike.
It was pretty big for me, yet I could handle it. Joe never said
anything about my riding it. He never squealed on me; besides
he was in school, and usually didn’t know.

I flew over the wall bent over the ‘long-horn’ handlebars,
landing with both wheels perfectly; catching my balance. The
grass was a bit wet from the morning dew. Traveling faster
than usual I tried turning, but lost it. The bike slid out from
under me, and we were headed towards the cliff. This could
be really bad, either I hit a tree before the cliff or I’d fall to my
doom down into the stream.
Good fortune for me I crashed into the tree. I smashed my
head, arms and legs. They were really sore, but nothing
broken. The poor bike’s front fender and wheel were bent
and the handlebars eschew. Surprisingly no one came out of
the apartments to help. They probably were at work.






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I hurt, as I gathered myself and began limping, dragging and
rolling, the bike back home, over a mile. I knew that this
would be the end of my bike riding days for a while. I was in
for some strong punishment.

I was; and did, but I’d guessed wrong about the bike, as it
would be another 6 years before I had my own. By then my
sights had moved on. I wanted a driver’s license, and by 14 I
was driving my uncles tractor in his fields. By High School I’d
be traveling all over the east coast, from Maine to the Florida
Keys.

























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DITCH


What could you do in the summer when there were more
children than mosquitoes?

Parents generally didn’t have a clue. They were mostly
wrapped up in their own daily efforts. But, during the summer
they would let kids stay out after dark. My father had a simple
solution. He would call both Joe and me home with a piercing
whistle. You could hear it a mile away. With just two fingers it
made such a blast.
To find a solution parents would let their children stay out
until after dark summer nights. It was safe and of course we
all loved it. Making up games was just part of what we did
anyway. All we needed was a game where lots of us could
play, young and old.

There was a single game that caused us to gather around. It
was similar to ‘kick-the-can’. Two teams, a captain to choose
sides and a few rules. One team would hide while the other
searched for them.
Boundaries were defined, no going into the woods, or past the
tennis courts. If you were caught in a basement your entire
side was out, and the other side would become the chased.

There was a Jail. If you were caught, run-down and tagged,
you went to Jail until freed. Jail was usually an area like our
front porch, enclosed by a couple of banisters. There was a
jailer who would keep the tagged kids in jail from being freed.







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DITCH


The game, would start in the evening after dinner, and
continue until parents started whistling or calling everyone
home.

We might have had 10 kids on each side. It was the best game
ever. You might hide for hours, and never be seen. If seen,
and you weren’t caught in a basement, you would be chased
until tagged.

I’d say that when chased I was seldom caught, even by the
older boys. The most difficult time was when you tried to free
your jailed comrades. Often there would be more than one
‘Chaser’ protecting around the Jail. It was difficult to free
anyone; but, worth a try.

On the other side, being a chaser for me was only a matter of
seeing a loose kid. I could run faster than, longer than, dodge
and, stop and go quicker than anyone else.
This game was called ‘DITCH’.

Everyone loved it. But, Pop had his limits. He didn’t like me
running all over the community, and possibly into the woods
at night. He also knew I didn’t like the boy next door and on
more than one occasion had to pull me off of him. The boy
was a real creep, dishonest, and a liar. I thought he deserved
what ever happened if I could catch him, before he ran into
his house. It was off limits, but safe for him.

We neighborhood kids played ‘DITCH’ three hours a night,
four nights a week all summer.






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I usually only played parlor games during the winter, when it
was too cold to go out, or on rainy days. There were mostly
two kinds of games, cards or board games. Occasionally a
party




















st
Here’s a photo of some of the 31 Road gang all spruced up at
Cecile’s 6 year old birthday party. She has the large bow and is
eyeing what looks like a lopsided cake. I’m centered behind
the cake. The curly haired blond to my right was Betty. I
suppose I liked blonds from the very beginning. But, despite
not remembering any girls names there were a few. By the
time I was 12, I was totally intoxicated by their charms.





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The card games were usually simple in the beginning, like Old
Maid, Fish or Hi-Lo, but by the time I was 9 it was Pinochle
with those 48 face cards. Later it would be hours of Canasta
with two decks. But, my parents were the card players. They
usually played Pinochle.

Board games were more fun. Checkers, Chess, Chinese
Checkers and marbles. There were others Parcheesi, and
India, which I think are the same game. Battleship was lots of
fun. Sort of like checkers, there were separate pieces each with
a different war boat on it. Each side had their own fleet so to
speak. When a piece would move in for an attack each player
would have to expose their piece, and the most powerful
would win. If a Cruiser attacked a Battleship it would win,
thereby removing the opponents Battleship. The supreme
piece was a submarine. It beat everything.
There wasn’t any question which game was every ones
favorite. It was Monopoly. Even today, If I close my eyes, I
can picture every color on the board; St. James Place, orange;
red, yellow; and green Pennsylvania Avenue; all of them.

There were many strategies used to play, depending upon what
the rules were and where you were in the game. We often
made additional rules. If for instance each player received
more money in the beginning then you would buy property
when you landed on it. If not I’d save my money until
landing on orange, red and Marvin Garden, yellow. I always
wanted property on that side of the board.





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Park Place and Boardwalk could wreck you if you landed on it.
But, you seldom did, and I’d usually take my chances.

Sometimes we played being in Jail voided you from collecting
when someone landed on your property. A get-out-of-Jail
card was good to have if it was late in the game. Otherwise,
being in Jail late in the game was an advantage.

We played for hours and sometimes days. If I learned about
strategy this was the game that taught me.
One other board game was high on everyone’s list. It was
Major League Baseball. It was a spinner game. Like baseball
there were nine players, and a few alternates. Each player was
a card, that had numbers on it representing the players batting
average. The game went like this.
A card was set into the spinner, and the arrow was spun.
Where it stopped pointed to a number on the card. #10
meant a strike-out. #13 meant a single and anyone on base
advanced 2 bases. There were doubles and triples. Babe Ruth
had the largest #1, and equal sized #10.

The game came with a collection of cards, the current players
in the 1940’s, but you could buy ‘All Stars’. That’s how you
got Babe Ruth, Rodger Hornsby, Ty Cobb, or Walter Johnson.
The greats of the game.

To start the game all the cards would be turned over and each
player would choose one card, in turn until they had 15 cards.
You always had to have several pitchers. My favorite was
either Warren Spahn of the Boston Braves; today’s Atlanta




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Braves, or Johnny Sain of the New York Giants; today’s San
Francisco Giants. Each had a large #13 area for singles.

You would arrange your cards in batting order. The general
rules of baseball applied. Pegs were used to follow your
players around the infield board, and to keep score by inning
on the score board.

We all know that there is no time limit in baseball. Only after
each team has played their 3 outs in the 9 inning can the game
come to a halt. There are a few exceptions; rain and darkness,
neither of which affected our games. Dinner or a parent could
disrupt it. We’re not talking about an end to the game, no only
a postponement.

Really, all baseball fields didn’t have lights in the early years.
But by the 1940’s they did, so it never happened. Only rain or
really bad weather could postpone a game. They would always
continue it at another time.
There was one huge exception to calling a game. Major
League Baseball called the 2002 ALL STAR game in
Milwaukee Wisconsin a Tie at 7 to 7. Their excuse was
because of the length of time. I think their pitchers were all
warn out, and afraid of hurting their arms.

Our games were pretty important even though we didn’t have
leagues. If one of us quit like that they might not be asked to
play for a long time.







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We used to have two kinds of building blocks, for constructing
things. One was made of wooden sticks of different sizes with
slits on each end.

There were thick wooden disks that went with them. They
had sockets around the edge and in the center. These were
Tinker Toys. I built all kinds of things with them. Wind Mills
were neat as I could slide a playing card into the slit at the end
of each spar and if I placed it in front of our fan it would spin
like blazes. Even better was a Ferris Wheel. It was much
more complicated, but worth the effort. Pop built a plywood
box for them with different size areas for each size stick.
Joe and I shared many of our toys. That was a good deal as he
would tire of them just as I began using or playing with them.

There was another construction toy we had. It was an Erector
Set, similar but different. It was made of metal strips. To
connect them I used small screws and nuts. While I built with
them, Joe got into Chemistry Sets. Although, I never played
or mixed any chemicals together, I began my college career
studying to be a Chemical Engineer.
Pop was busy with the Erector Set also. He built another box
for each of it’s parts. He built us lots of boxes to keep our
things in. Besides these construction boxes he built each of us
a silver 2x2x2 comic book container.

Their was another game that was all the rage. After World
War II there were a lot of Japanese items on the market.





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They were cheap and you usually got what you paid for, but
one game was a big hit.

It was Yo-Yos, those two little cylinders at the end of a string.
If you twirled it right it would spin out of your hand and keep
spinning at the end of the string. It was just the right size so
you could take it anywhere. Carry it in your hand or keep it in
your pocket. They were cheap and fancy enough so you could
have more than one. I might have had three or four with extra
string.
You could do lots of tricks with it. One called ‘walking the
dog’. I could spin it out and while at the end ‘walk’ it along
the ground. Another trick spun it out and twirled it around
and around the ‘world’. I could also make a cradle with the
string and rock the Yo-Yo back and forth, while it kept
swinging and spinning. These were all pretty easy, but there
were lots of other tricks, much harder. Some kids were so
good at it that they entered contests

Brother Joe won a couple of contests, he was pretty good at it
and had a number of sparkling Yo-Yos with rhine stones
embedded in them.












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Today doctors often work 4 day weeks, closing Friday,
Saturday and Sunday. In the 1940’s doctors were on call 24
hours a day Monday through Sunday and at night. They even
made house calls. It was a good thing as there were lots of
kids, and we always needed medical attention.

Once I’d moved to Fairlington seeing our family doctor was a
regular affair, but nothing special except for my headaches.

During these years I often had headaches. They were pretty
severe, and occurred frequently, as often as twice a month.
The worst were usually during the summer after a movie.
Coming out of the dark theater to the bright sunlight would
not only bring on a bad headache but often make it difficult
for me to see.

A cure for those strong headaches would usually cause me to
take the doctors subscribed pills, but also I would go to bed in
a dark room with an Ice pack. Usually after sleeping and
resting I would feel much better.
The doctor called the headaches ‘Migraine’. I think that’s a
synonym for ‘Don’t Know’. He subscribed ‘Empirin’ which I
don’t think was a narcotic, but much stronger than aspirin.
They didn’t cure my pain, but I took them as frequently as I
had headaches. When I had a bad occurrence I’d not only try
to sleep, but would actually do deep breathing exercises while
relaxing in a dark room, meditating so to speak. If I could get
a rhythm it often lowered my blood pressure, and I’d fall
asleep.





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Maybe, I got pretty good employing that exercise. Years later
it helped me sleep through boring classes and when working
even sales lectures.

From time to time I would miss a day in school, but not often.
My mother showed a great deal of concern, but it wasn’t so
easy to pull the wool over her eyes.

Our doctor had some other helpful advice. He was sure as l
grew older, and became a teen I’d grow out of the ‘Migraines’.
On that account he was right. As I grew older the headaches
became less and less. Until in my teens I seldom ever had one.
I also started wearing glasses. Suppose, that might have had
something to do with my discomfort.
Then there was a real emergency, that turned out to be a
lengthy story.

Behind our home down over the first hill was a small
playground. It had a set of swings, a sand box and monkey
bars. This was good for my mother. She could keep her
omnipresent eye on me and the other kids from the kitchen.

Kids were supervised by any adult that was around or felt it
was necessary. Here’s a few kids, my age, from the block. I’m
there somewhere, possibly sitting on the top bar. I liked the
monkey bars best. Climbing up high, swinging out of one
square on to the ground or into and between other bars. In
the sand box I would build castles and tunnels. I could also
play with the wooden train Pop made. It rolled over the hills
and mounds.




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The swings were something else. When you were adept at
swinging you went as high as you could. How high was that?
Pumping, by kicking your feet out and leaning back. Each rise
would get you closer to the top bar. If you went any higher
the swing wouldn’t stay on its pendulum radius. It would drop
straight down toward the ground with a jolt. It was one thing
to swing so high, but every kid would swing as high as they
could and then jump. Landing as high on the hillside as
possible.

Bailing was a skill. If you stayed in the swing too long and you
jumped you might go straight up instead of out towards the
hill. What you wanted to do was catch the swing while still



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going up at its peak so your trajectory was outward instead of
up. If you caught it just right you’d really sail and end up high
on the hill. Boy’s were the real dare devils.

Some times you had to pay for these activities. I personally
didn’t get many scrapes or bruises. My grip was pretty strong
on the monkey bars so my swing was steady. And when I
jumped off them or the swings I usually landed like a cat; on
my feet. But, not always.
I took one fatal leap. When I took that leap I hit the apex of
the swing and instead of springing forward I flew upward. I
didn’t land on my feet, but my arm. It hurt.

When I held my arm out my wrist and hand were an inch
above my elbow. It was broken, fractured. Fortunately no
bone stuck through my skin. Not that I cared. I ran up the
hill; crying.
Mom called Dr. Mitchell; he looked like Kerry Drake the
comic strip detective with white hair. He said to take me to
the hospital. Mom rushed me into the car and 20 miles to the
Alexandria Hospital. My arm was set and put into a full length
cast, from my wrist to above my elbow. My arm was
immovable.

If you’ve ever had a cast you know how after a while, a week
or so it begins to itch. I’d poked pencils, rulers, anything I
could get down it to scratch. It only helped a little.
During my recovery I was pretty active. The cast protected my
arm from further damage.




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Vaccinations were common in those days and I had as many as
there were. Later after Jonas Salk discovered a vaccination for
Polio I would also get it. Boys usually got their vaccinations
on their arms, while girls on their leg. Usually these were small
pin pricks that grow fester, and die leaving a small scab and
later a scar. My multi vaccination, (Tetanus, Diphtheria, and
Whooping Cough) didn’t take and I was given another. The
outcome was a much larger scar.

During this time with my arm there was an outbreak of several
contagious diseases. I caught the mumps first. It was pretty
bad as I had both sides at once. I was so miserable, and
isolated from everyone except Mom. Well that was bad
enough, except lucky me, just as my cheeks deflated I caught
the measles. With red spots all over me everything itched.
All this time, over six weeks my arm was in the cast. Much,
much too long. The cast was finally taken off and I recovered
from the diseases. Of all things a week later I was wrestling
with some neighbors and broke it all over again.

This time Mom didn’t call Dr Mitchell. We’d seen a lot of him
in the last month. She piled me into the car and drove all the
way over to Maryland to Sibley Hospital. There I waited in the
hall on my mother’s lap. When the famous ‘Button Hole’ Cox
came down the corridor he greeted Mom and said. ‘Let’s take
a look at that arm.’ He took it in one hand and with the other
gave it twist and pulled. ‘Snap’ I screamed and began crying.
He said ‘Now let’s put that in a splint.’ I wasn’t keeping count,





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but it was the third time my arm had been broken in two
months.

Mom didn’t like the idea of a splint, but her objections fell on
deaf ears. Dr. Cox said I’d have to let air get to the arm. It
had been bound up too long.

He was a surgeon, and had gotten his reputation and nick
name because of his radically new operational techniques. A
small incision in the abdomen instead of the usual long smile
from one side of the hip to the other. Women loved him.

Three ruckus weeks later my frenzied mother had my splint
taken off.

There would never be any more broken bones. I suppose I
knew my left side from my right by then, but if I didn’t from
that time forward I would.




















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OUR BACK YARD


Right outside our home , in our backyard was a huge expanse
of land, down the hill across the valley to South Fairlington,
maybe a ½ mile away. This area was mostly open land, with
wild bushes and weeds, and a ravine that I occasionally
climbed around. Beside that the valley was mostly used as a
path way to school. But, there was a change coming that
would make our backyard a main thoroughfare out of
Washington.

The change would come through the Shirley Valley. A four
lane super-highway was planned. It would run from
Washington, past the Pentagon, the Army Navy Country Club,
the Shirlington Shopping Mall, right up between North and
South Fairlington and south through the Phantom Forest on
to Richmond Virginia.
The impact would be enormous. My playground which
included all of the apartments, near home, the woods, The
Fort, and Shirlington would now include the development and
building of this highway.

The ravine would be filled in, but before that it had an
interesting, but short, history.
Abbington Street, the longest in the community ran past our
triplex up over the hill past the Tennis courts, and down
around some more hills to the end of the apartments to King
street, extended. That’s the road that we took to Alexandria,
the hospital and, our round about way toward Washington.






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In the other direction, in our backyard, it passed us, the Fire
House, and beside it a Texaco filling station. Just before the
edge of the Valley it took a sharp turn down the hill to the
parking lot behind the Fairlington Administration building.
That turn created the ravine, and a real interest for me.

Whenever it rained water would pour down Abbington Street,
from the tennis courts. Water would run out from the
apartment court yards, down to the curve, where the rain water
would collect. By the time it passed us it would be like a
strong stream. A flood that covered half the road. Sometimes
when it wasn’t that strong we would wade in it and float our
boats, even homemade paper boats. But, if it poured, it would
hit the curb at the end of the street and plow right over
creating this ditch, eroding the hillside.
It, over a couple of years became awesome. Maybe, 25 or 35
feet deep and at least as wide. It ran all the way down the hill,
100 yards. It was ‘V’ shaped, but didn’t run down the hill
straight. It twisted and turned. You couldn’t see from one
end to the other.

That made it a great place to play; an A-plus canyon. One that
Hopalong Cassidy would appreciate. It was rough with steep
sides, shelves where you could get a foothold, and troughs that
you could slide down.








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