The Ragged Little Army Was Heading Home

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 8 “The ragged little army was heading home”

It was Spring. It was time to turn our attention to building a new Fort. This time we chose an area back in the big trees and tangled underbrush beyond the blossoming cherry trees lining the back of my yard. It was just beyond the back fence and across the little graveled lane. It really wasn’t a lane as much as a rocky trail.

Our Dad’s all got together and lay out a Horseshoe pitch along that lane. Recreation was homemade back then. Evenings light remained until late in the night. Summers were special. Long, warm, lazy hours where dreams would come to flower.

Just after the dinner hour, and providing most chores of the day were complete, the fathers could not wait to hear the magical sound. CLANK. CLANK. CLANKCLANK - CLANK, CLANK, CLANK, went the metal shoes. Everything stopped. Fathers bolted for the door.

One of the houses to the west of ours, over beyond the big blackberry bushes, that demarked the western property line, is where the horseshoes were kept. The duty of the evening for the Shoe-Keeper was to clank those shoes as loud as they could be clanked.

The moment the sound of the shoes resonated up and down Clydesdale you could see fathers, house by house, walking briskly to the call. Some even running, seemingly possessed, they were obedient to the man. It was game time! Moms would turn to the kids to finish the dirty dishes. Ughhhhhhhhhhh.

We thought the Dad’s signal had the makings of a system we might put in place to insure warning of any impending raid by those Boner kids down on lower Clydesdale. We would give it more thought once we had a new Fort built. A brilliant war plan indeed. Oh we schemers.

As kids nobody gave us much mind but clearly we were not just amateurs anymore. We knew not to build anywhere to close to the horseshoe pitch. Having the Dad’s within earshot or even knowing there was a hideout close by just could not happen. It had to be built further towards Mrs. Cain’s place and back out of site of the rocky little lane way.

We needed to insure we did not get too far over because Mrs. Cain had guard ducks. She raised lots of ducks and they could quack louder than most dogs can bark. We could not have that. This Fort was meant to be our secret.

Over the weeks we organized shovels and picks. It might have been funny to adults because the tools were as big if not bigger than we were. No mind. This was important work. If two kids had to carry a heavy pick so be it.

Cutting fallen branches was easier than digging. This time we would make the shallow floor impression really comfortable by putting down thick leaf bows. We found the necessary building posts, to give the structure support, in the densely wooded area we were in.

It was distanced off the small gravel laneway. We could not even see the back of my house. Not even the chicken coops or rabbit’s hutch. The rickety fence of the backyard could not be seen either. We were now invisible.

This was the perfect retreat for the kids of Clydesdale Street. The woods were thick here. The underbrush was heavy with salal and other growth. Both started to thin out as you went east and north where you would run right into the Cain property with their underbrush all cleared and trees thinned. We were now “Fort Masters”! Ha!

It would take forever for the Clydesdale Boners to find out about our Fort. Being buried deep in our territory and away from civilization we had the perfect headquarters to mount our dreams and chase our imaginations. There was a sense of freedom here. Escape was good.

Everything was as we had planned. Our parents suspected, but never asked nor pursued where we disappeared for hours on end. It was so perfect.

Sometimes all of us kids had duties and obligations that keep us away from the Fort a few days at a time. We felt safe never fearing an attack or fort raid from our dreaded Lowland enemies or even that our parents would sell us out.

One late summer day the kids gathered once again to hold a gathering at our now extremely well hidden enterprise. The seasonal foliage did its work. A cloak of invisability prevailed.

Where Mother Nature did her utmost to destroy last years efforts with torrential fall rains she now gave us a heavy covering of deep green camouflage and a full canopy of protection from prying eyes.

Some kids had short memories even over just a few days. They themselves lost a sense of where the Fort was. This day in particular it was not hard to find. Approaching the immediate area a most foul odor caught our nostrils. For the weakest of us the odor generated both dizziness and nausea, followed by heaving, retching, and an expulsion of gut burning bile. These moments preceded by first losing lunch. It was just after the noon hour.

Getting right up and close to the Fort we could see the entrance cover was thrown back and clearly the situation was coming from within. There was no discussion necessary. Our Fort had been sabotaged. We backed away in horror. It just wasn’t so we thought. The stench could not hide the reality of the moment. Covering our noses we fell into retreat.

All the kids couldn’t believe it. Running from the smell, questions began. What? How? The Fort was well hidden. Nobody snitched to the enemy did they? We were overwhelmed. Some cried.

Leaving the Fort and finding our way back out to the little gravel lane and good fresh air it all became clear. We watched in disbelief the mailman walking towards us from the area of the Horseshoe pitch. It would seem the culprit was before us. On his rounds the mailman somehow found his way into the bush looking for an adequate relief station. He discovered our Fort. He took it upon himself to relieve himself inside, fully, on his daily walk. It didn’t take many days.

The kids of Clydesdale Street quickly dispersed. We never went back. We did not want to know what he did with our comic books after he read them.

Our continuing vulnerability to the frequent raids of those kids down the way on Clydesdale hill was evident. They could find us in the open now. We were scared but only briefly.

We were exposed. We could see that they would attempt to intimidate us one at a time. In the open there was nowhere to hide except home but that did not seem appropriate for hardened warriors. Nobody was supposed to run and hide at his own house.

There had to be a way. There just had to be a way.

We thought of our Dad’s signaling system with the Horseshoes and came up with a plan. There had to be a way to insure protection from the swarming Boners and we found it.

Plotting out where everybody lived insured there was enough distance between each kids house that an audible signal would activate a chain reaction insuring all of us knew we were being attacked.

The general weaponry of the day was wooden swords, sticks, rocks, and crafted
shields of wood or metal and then there was Larry. Larry and his sling.

Larry was the point man. He knew when they were coming up the hill and he began the signal. Bang. Bang. BangBangBang Bang Bang BangBang.

Little kids did not have absolute autonomy and still had to spend time at their homes doing chores, and family things. This made any single kid vulnerable when asked to go to Mr. and Mrs. Evans Red & White store.

The store was located very close to the top of Clydesdale hill, considered the end of our territory. Sometimes one could run to Mrs. Cogswell’s house just up from the store. She thought we came for a haircut. Good grief. Home was a long block away and besides it was not appropriate to run there. That was left for sissies besides none of us enjoyed haircuts anyway.

Sometimes being a sissy was okay if nobody was watching. Usually you would not go to the store without your trusty sword, or, sharpened spear. Carrying more than one thing back from the store made that difficult. Running in full flight was even harder.

When Larry heard or saw the enemy coming he would run out and start flaying with a big stick or his brothers hockey stick, on the ever-present 45-gallon oil drums most every family had around. There was not any such luxury of garbage pickup nor yet the invention of garburators. Heck. There weren’t even sewers.

These drums were used to burn the daily refuse from in and around the houses. Some days kitchen refuge smoldering throughout the neighbourhood choked the air with smells so foul we gagged our little selves to vomit.

Some Houses simply piled their garbage then found an appropriate spot in the yard and buried the lot of it. They were probably the first citizens concerned with polluted air however the solution had its drawbacks. Leaching oooz and smelly muck holes were everywhere.

There were yards nobody visited even at Halloween.

Bang. Bang -Bang. Bang. Bang-Bang-Bang.

Larry’s wild banging on the drum was picked up by the kid closest to Larry’s house, who in turn ran out, and started doing the same thing. Down Manor and Clydesdale the signal traveled. A pumping adrenalin rush that put beads of sweat on the palms accompanied each kids frantic effort. Every kid now knew we were under attack. The Boners were coming!

As each of us picked up the signal it would ricochet down the block where another warrior joined in. No matter if it was lunch time, dinnertime, or in the middle of chores, we had a duty to insure the chain was not broken.

Until we knew the banging was confirmed by Roy at the farthest point west it never stopped. Roy Finchum lived up on Manor Street but close enough to Denny and Buddy’s house to pick up the call to arms. Parents quizzically stood by and watch as each kid armed themselves with their respective weaponry.

As each of us ran from our yards and headed east on Clydesdale, right down the center of the street, the war cry was gaining to a riotous squeal. The sounds were an ear splitting crescendo of savage war cries and beating shields. The army was on the move.

The trick was to let the enemy get over the hill, onto our territory, and engage. The thrill of the battle was always with us. All the soldiers could not wait for our anxious Nurse to treat the wounds. She could sure fight too.

There were wounds. This was not a playful tête-à-tête. The kids really were at difference and there was never a holding back when you hit somebody. It is amazing at how good homemade shields, like using makeshift 45-gallon drum covers, were at offsetting real injury. Little hands would suffer greatly.

A real tragedy never befell us. It was remarkable the lack of serious hurts. We were just little kids but our hearts were big and our heads hard.

Once we had the enemy boxed in Larry would come up from their rear. Larry was a ferocious fighter. The Boners just never saw him coming no matter how many times they attempted to invade us. The battles were never long but intense enough to cause a few injuries. By the time the parents had gathered their senses that another battle was on, it was over. As we beat the invaders back and they started to flee there was good old Larry just a loading his sling and letting go. Wow. Was Larry good!

The ragged little army was heading home, some crying, some yahooing, and a few fearful the parental punishment would be harsher than the bruise or two they sported. There were many visits between all the parents discussing this pre-school carnage. We did not understand the fuss. It was the way. Besides, bumps and bruises healed fast after warm hugs and kisses, especially from our nurse Francie. Moms were okay too as long as none of the other kids saw them happening. After all, we were soldiers with our army ready to fight another day.

Nothing stopped the continued skirmishes until one fateful fall day both sides found ourselves face to face at our, soon to be attended, Elementary School. Schou Street Elementary. We were condemned to a reform school, so we thought. It was horrible to imagine.

We had heard about such places. It was where bad kids were sent to kid jail. We knew there was such a place on Myrtle Street down some blocks below the Cain’s property and edging towards Still Creek. Actually it was a Catholic Orphanage in a dark, large, barn like building well hidden in the trees. Heavy woods that hid it from general view kept it removed from prying eyes. We knew where it was. This was not it. Schou Street Elementary was different. It had playgrounds.

We were confused. Worse yet, it was a nightmare come to life. The Boners were there too! The mean kid who led our sworn enemies on Clydesdale hill was no other than the son of the Principal Mr. Brown! Even though we did not really know what a Principal was. The shock was numbing. We just knew we would all die.

Larry lost his sling at the first recess.

Copyright
RGT