Meet Peggy Standish! Historical fiction,humorous, Middle Grade / Young Adult stories about a girl growing up in Chicago during the 1950s and 1960s. These stories are prequels to my upcoming book, "The Other Side of the World". Copyright Joyce E S Pyka, Chicago History writer
Emaline Bogs sets her sights on Jeff, Peggy’s pal, to be her date for the Holiday dance. Though Jeff wishes he could get out of it, nobody at St. Sebastian School would even think of refusing any member of the Bogs’ clan (not if you wanted to live to see another day)! (click on the word COMMENTS at the end of the story to leave and view them!)
It’s the spring of 1959 and Peggy is invited to spend the weekend with her sophisticated, but quirky Aunt Cynthia. Join Peggy and her Auntie C from her penthouse apartment to a fabulous evening party in the heart of downtown Chicago. (click on the word COMMENTS at the end of the story to leave and view them!)
A Rite of Passage (Riverview - Chicago's Amusement Park)
Normally, Peggy looks forward to the annual family summer trip to Riverview Amusement Park, but this year is different. Peggy will soon cross the threshold and step from kid to an almost-teenager, and to prove she’s ready, Peggy must ride the infamous Beast! (click on the word COMMENTS at the end of the story to leave and view them!)
Peggy enters the school newspaper contest with high hopes to win the main prize. She’s not about to let hard work stand in her way, but can she come up with a good enough idea to beat out the competition? (click on the word COMMENTS at the end of the story to leave and view them!)
1959 Spring Chicago, Illinois Peggy Standish (almost....12 years old)
I’ve heard people say that you pick up the traits of your godparents. There are ways I wouldn’t mind being like my godmother, Aunt Cynthia, but there are other parts of her personality that I’d rather not inherit. Though she was sophisticated and smart there are other behaviors of hers that leave something to be desired. Mom said her sister could be a tad bit eccentric at times, Dad said that she was a kook, which is simply a kinder way of saying someone was just plain crazy. Despite this, there is one thing I had to admire about my godmother. She was brave enough and bold enough to be herself. Something I was having quite a lot of trouble doing lately.
It was Friday night when a startling ring from the telephone sent all of us kids stampeding into the kitchen. Rarely did we receive calls after ten o'clock in the evening. I was the first to reach it and grab the receiver off the wall. The voice on the other end didn’t wait for the standard introduction, “Hello, Standish residence, this is Peggy.” “Lionel will be by with the limousine on Saturday, nine AM sharp. We’ll get a nice early start for our special time together.” My godmother said, reminding me of our weekend plans. “ And don’t forget to wear your sneakers!” Some how the words, limousine and sneakers didn’t sound like they belonged in the same sentence together. But coming from Aunt Cynthia, I mean Auntie C, as she likes us to call her, this is perfectly normal. She was a character of contradictions. I was about to hang up the phone when she added, “Oh, and bring that sketchbook of yours. They’ll be lots of things downtown to inspire your drawings.” Outside of my family Auntie C was the only person in the world who knew of my hobby. Mom and Dad thought I was pretty good at drawing, even my older sister, Babs. They all told me that I was like an artist. But when family members tell you that you’re great at something, you don’t know if it’s really true or they’re just being nice.
Except for the family car, bikes and buses were the mode of transportation for the people on my block. Even Taxi’s were an expensive uncommon occurrence in our neighborhood. So, when Lionel, Auntie C’s chauffeur, drove up to the curb in a limo, it stirred up enough excitement to bring people out of their houses. “Your visit will do your Aunt world of good.” Mom said handing me her overnight bag the next morning. “Be nice and on your best behavior this weekend.” I sighed rolling my eyes at her “Mom, I’m not a little kid.” I said good-bye to my parents, waved to my friends who stood on their front porches gawking at the long black automobile, and nodded to a pair of binoculars that were poking between the living room curtains of Mrs. Pearson’s home. My little sister rushed out of the house with one of her own drawings. “Here you go. I did this for you in my happy color,” she said giving me her latest masterpiece. “Take this to remind you of me, in case you get lonely.” Lionel hopped out of the car and opened the door, tipping his cap as I slid inside. You might think that sitting in a fancy limo with your own radio and a cabinet filled with cold pop and chocolate was an extravagance, and I suppose it was. But honesty, the real luxury was the fact that I got to ride in the back seat of a car all by myself, without being crammed between my brothers and sisters. I looked at Katie’s picture and smiled. The colors weren’t what they were supposed to be. Everything was red, the grass, the trees, the stick figures. It was my little sister’s special color of the week. As we rode on the highway through the city, the streets zoomed by, and. I knew we were finally close to Auntie’s C’s apartment, when we hugged the tight curve of Lakeshore Drive. A canyon of tall buildings was to my left and the endless Lake Michigan to my right. “It’s OK, Lionel,” I said, as the car slowed to a stop in front of Auntie C’s high-rise. “I know the way up.” “Just as you like, Miss Peggy.” He looked at my reflection in his rear view mirror, tipping his cap once again. Being called “miss” made me uncomfortable; I wasn’t used to all of this attention. Dad says that you belong to the either one of two worlds, the world of “haves” or the one of “have-nots”. My family wasn’t poor, but we were far from rich. I like to think that we were from the world of “have-what-we-need–but- not- always-what-we-want”.
As I stepped into Auntie C’s penthouse apartment,it made me acutely aware that she was from realm of haves. All of furniture was sleek, modern, curved and quirky, much like Auntie C herself. Mavis, Auntie C’s maid, kept the place like a show room, which couldn’t be easy. It could take you from now until Tuesday to walk through this place. On one side of her apartment you’d look and see nothing but the blue of the sky and the blue of the lake melting into each other. But if you walked across to the other side, you got a panoramic scene of the Chicago Loop. Until till Uncle Gabe died in a plane crash last year, the two of them traveled the world filling their penthouse with treasures. Sculptures, antiques, and paintings of every kind and every art movement clung to the walls. It was veritable cornucopia of culture. The closest I had to collection of art was a scrap book in which I’d pasted covers of the Saturday Evening Post and magazine photos of my favorite artists’ work. Mavis greeted me at the door and took my suitcase. It wasn’t more than a minute or two later when Auntie C swooped around the corner and into the foyer dressed in a black turtle neck and skinny pencil leg slacks. "Peggy!” She flung her arms around me. She pulled me in close for a big bear hug, one of her large hoop earrings brushing against my cheek. “How is it possible that you’ve grown so much in just a few months?” My godmother smiled. “Mavis, can you please take Peggy’s luggage to the…..” then she turned to me. “Well where will it be?” she asked smoothing back an unruly strand of hair from her pixie hair cut. “The Impressionist bedroom,” I said trying to impress her with my artistic acumen, all the while knowing what my real reason was. I’d be looking down on the better view of city streets. "A great choice, don’t you think Mavis?” she said. “Yes, Mrs. Bolderman,” Mavis answered and then made the comment, “Miss Peggy’s has excellent taste in art, just like her Aunt.” I started to unbutton my fuzzy pink Robert Hall spring jacket, when Auntie C stopped me. “Don’t bother to take it off dear, I want to get started immediately, we’ve no time to waste.” She grabbed her black duster coat, swung it around her shoulders, and I was out of the door as fast as I came in. Lionel was still parked out in front with Auntie C’s limo waiting of us. “What’s the rush?” I asked as the car took off. "We’ve much to do.” Auntie C reached down and pulled out a little black bag from a compartment at the bottom of the back seat. “This evening,” she said, kicking off her high heel pumps, “I’m having a soirée.” She opened the pouch and dumped out a pair of sneakers. I never heard this word and had to ask. “What’s a Swar-A?” She slid her feet into the canvas shoes and explained. “Soiree is the French word for a party.” Bending over, she tied her shoe laces and continued, “It’s an elegant event that usually takes place in the evening. I’ve invited my renaissance friends – writers, artists, poets, performers, thespians and so on.” I didn't plan on this. Though I brought some nice clothing with me (you didn’t go downtown without getting dressed up) I hadn't packed anything like a party dress. Auntie C was uncannily good at reading people’s feelings, and it wasn't long before she told me, “Don’t worry. I’m taking you shopping right after we go to the exhibit.” The limo came to a stop in front of a large white building. I looked up to see the words Art Institute of Chicago carved into the stone facade of a structure that looked like a Roman temple from the movie Ben-Hur. “There’s a display of works by Paul Gauguin, I want to see. He worked with another artist for a while, Vincent van Gogh. Although from what I’ve read, they had a rather stormy relationship.” Though I knew little of these artists, I had seen a print of van Gogh’s Sunflowers in the impressionist bedroom at Auntie C’s apartment. “Isn’t he the painter that cut off his ear?” “Yes,” Auntie C said. “There is a thin line between genius and madness.” I’d guessed she meant that he was a great artist who was kind of crazy. I thought of what Dad had said earlier about Auntie C. It was reassuring to know that she had both of her ears. Following my Aunt up the stairs, we stepped between two huge larger-than-life sized statutes. Lions guarded the entrance, one lion looking as though he was watching something in the distance, and the other ready to roar and pounce. As we walked the palatial halls of this art museum, I felt like we were strolling through a time machine. The artists’ styles, the costumes of the people they painted, the places they chose to put on their canvases changed from one century to the next. We had flown out of Auntie C’s apartment so fast, that I hadn’t had time to unpack my sketchbook, and in a way I was relieved. I wouldn’t have been able to decide what to copy. There was so much I wanted to see. Threading our way through long corridors, we finally came to the Gauguin exhibition. It only consisted of two paintings and one drawing, but Auntie C took plenty of time to look at it. Not too far from this was another self-portrait of Vincent van Gogh. I leaned in close. It looked like dots of color raining across the canvas, but as I stepped back, I could see the picture of the of Mr. van Gogh fall into place. There was over seventy years between us, yet the red bearded artist seemed to look back at me as if he was right there. It was fascinating.
We returned to my Aunt’s penthouse laden down with packages from our shopping spree. I headed straight for my weekend quarters, flung the garment bag across my bed, and removed a Rappi taffeta designer dress. Layers of raspberry-pink nylon floated on its skirt as I placed it on the hanger. Then I grabbed the shoebox, tearing at the tissue paper that revealed a new pair of white shoes. I looked at their squash heels shaking my head. Finally, carefully, I pulled a small red velvet box from the Marshall Field’s bag and removed a delicate strand of seed pearls sighing at their beauty. Guess I could get used to being spoiled by my Godmother's attention after all. The very next thing I did was to take my sketchbook out of my suitcase. My head was spinning like a whirligig filled with visual information. I had to draw as much as possible while the images from the museum were still fresh in my mind. It’s difficult to sketch from memory. Would I render things the way they were? Or would I draw them the way I remembered? Too much thinking! I decided to plunge ahead and hope for the best. The afternoon flew by. Auntie C and Mavis had been busy for hours getting ready for her party. Furniture was being rearranged and caterers gathered in the kitchen, while a jazz quartet set up their music stands near the grand piano. I’d been so absorbed in my artistic pursuits that I hadn’t left my room. “Peggy, it’s time to start getting dressed for the soirée,” Auntie C called out from the hallway, breaking the spell I’d been under from the flow of my pencil. The finery that my Aunt bought me was about as comfortable to crawl into as a deep sea diving suit. Only when my ensemble was completed from head to toe, did I dare take a look in the mirror. Is that me? I had to ask myself. Not only did I look different, I felt different. I was a skinny armed, lanky legged individual, struggling to grow into something that had quite a way to go. Stuck between being a girl and becoming a woman is an awkward way to be. Still, because the beautiful dress made me at least feel pretty, I thought there was hope.
Walking in to the dining room that evening was like walking into a different world. I felt like I’d just stepped into a surreal dreamlike painting by Salvador Dali. As I stared out the west window that made up an entire wall, I could see the moon high in the sky. Headlights glared, traffic signals flashed, neon colors lit up signs down below, and lights from surrounding skyscrapers set the city blazing. Downtown Chicago was a whole different world at night. The table chairs had been dressed up in light blue seat covers tied with giant satin bows. A white lace cloth was spread on the long table with an elaborate centerpiece of periwinkle blue and white mophead flowers in the middle. China plates trimmed in gold, crystal goblets that looked like sculptures and sparkling silverware were set from one end to the other. At each place setting, atop the dinner platters was a card with a picture of an old man, painted blue, sitting cross-legged while playing a guitar. I opened the card and read the inside.
“Why was Picasso so Blue?”
I placed it back on the plate, and decided not to ask. Sooner or later, I was sure to find out what it meant. Auntie C waltzed into the room dressed in a black beaded evening gown. She had smoothed the curls of her pixie-do from her face and darkened her eyebrows and lashes. Her berry red lipstick made her teeth look extra white, and she had traded her gold hoop earrings for dangling diamonds. She glided around the room as if she was on roller-skates, I clunked in heels that I wasn’t used to and we met in the middle. “You look lovely Peggy. Quite grown up!” She hugged me, patting my back. "Thanks.” Though the compliment was nice enough, I hoped for something more than “quite” grownup. Not long after that, the door bell chimed and the first guest arrived. Music soon filled the penthouse while waiters weaved between the guests carrying drinks I couldn’t have, and French finger food I couldn’t pronounce. When we sat down to start our dinner, I found myself sitting with a tall, thin man at my right and a short, round man to my left. “Picasso, he vas always trying somezing new, experimenting vas in his nature,” said Mr. Short-Round with a heavy foreign accent as he fingered the blue man picture. “Are you sure about that Rudof?” asked Auntie C. So there you have it. The little card was something to get the conversation moving, and move it did. “Frankly,” spoke Mr. Tall-Thin, “I’ve always found blue a rather depressing color.” After that, talk flowed around the table freely right along with the food and drink. Taking up a spoon, I dipped it into a bowl of tomato consommé, which is (would you believe?) cold soup, when Auntie C asked me, “And what do you feel about it Peggy?” Though I realized I was about to learn more from their discussion, what I knew now about Piccaso could have fit into one of the thimbles in my Grandmother’s sewing basket. The fact that my Aunt called on me, like an adult, to give my opinion, made this a definitive moment. Could I possibly come up with an intelligent sounding answer, and still tell them the way I really felt? Or was I going to take the safe route, go along with one of them, and agree with what I’d just heard? Glancing at the picture on the card, suddenly jogged my memory back to this morning. “Weeeeeeeell,” I said stretching out my answer. I was hoping that what was inside my head would form into words, words that wouldn’t make me sound too ignorant. “I suppose it depends on who’s doing the looking.” “How zo?” asked Mr. Short-Round, which I believe meant, “How so?” In other words, “What do you mean?” I scooped up my soup, remembering to mind my manners and not slurp it down, and answered, “Maybe if you knew Mr. Picasso, and you knew something bad happened to him to make him sad, it could influence the way you looked at the painting." “Ov course it vould, blue is often expressed as a color of sorrow.” “But, what if you didn’t know Picasso? And what if you didn't know that the color blue is supposed to make you feel sad? You might think he saw an old man playing a guitar, and just decided to paint him in shades of blue.” By George!” said a lady sitting next to Auntie C. “It’s the old subjective versus objective debate about art once again!” “Why so it is!” Auntie C exclaimed. “A very astute observation on your part, Peggy.” From then on the conversation took on a life of its own. I tried hard to keep up with everyone’s opinion, but it was difficult. All this subjective/objective talk was new to me. I think objective means the way a piece of art actually looks and subjective means how you feel about the way a painting looks – at least that’s the closest I could come to figuring out what they were talking about. All I knew for certain was, that I wasn’t about to ruin the impression I’d made on Auntie C and her soirée society guests by letting them let them know where I got the inspiration for my “astute” answer. Some people could look at my little sister, Katie’s picture and say that she just wanted to use the color red, but I knew that there was more to it than that, red was Katie’s happy color of week.
About the Photos ……………
Art Institute: This beautiful building has been in existence on Michigan and Adams Streets in Chicago since 1893 and houses thousand of works of art. There actually was a Paul Gauguin exhibit that took place in the spring of 1959. The photo is one of own. Link: http://www.artic.edu/aic/aboutus/wip/index.html
Rappi Designer Dress: This is the dress that inspired the description in the story. Rappi was a dress designer of glamorous formal wear for debutantes, etc. of the 1950s. A special “thank you” to Couture Allure Vintage Fashion for permission to use this photo. Link: http://www.coutureallure.com/
"PLEASE, please do NOT call on me.” I pressed my back against the chair, and slid down to edge of my seat until my chin nearly sat on top of my desk, certain that I’d become invisible behind Dottie Dombrowski. “Peggy, can you tell me what the word, “misapprehension” means?” Rats! My strategy failed. It was no use hiding, Sister Mary Therese had eyes in the back of her habit. I hadn’t done anything other than glance at last’s night’s homework. I grabbed the sides of my seat, and pushing myself upright, made a stab at the answer. Let’s see now, I thought to myself, misapprehension is like two words put together, mis and apprehension. “Mis”, well the meaning for that is obvious enough, and “apprehension” sounds a lot like apprehended, which could mean being arrested. I heard Sergeant Joe Friday use that word on one of Dad’s favorite police TV shows, Dragnet. “Misapprehension,” I repeated. “Means you just missed getting arrested.” Then I heard it, a familiar sarcastic snicker at the front of the room. Only one human being could make that sound. Becky Know-It-All Newton’s arm snapped up like an arrow shot from a bow. Nobody else in the class room had a chance. “I know what the right answer is Sister.” She looked over her shoulder at me, smirking with satisfaction. “Misapprehension: is a false impression or incorrect understanding, especially of somebody's intentions. As in this sentence, “Peggy is giving her teacher the misapprehension of doing her vocabulary homework last night.” It goes without saying that I could not stand Rebecca Newton. There was no reason for her to add that example sentence, but she never could resist the opportunity to show someone up, while putting them down. I should have expected it. “Thank you, Rebecca,” Sister Mary Therese said and then added. “However, next time please wait until I acknowledge you before giving me your answer.” Sometimes, there is justice in the world.
The two hands of the classroom clock met and pointed straight up to the sky, setting off the noon bell. We lined up, half of the students heading for the lunchroom, the other half for home. I sat at the cafeteria table with my buddies and reached into my brown bag. What did Mom pack today? Of course, there was the usual healthy piece of fruit, but what about the sandwich? Turkey, salami, ham on rye? My stomach had been rumbling the last hour, and I was more than ready to pull apart the aluminum foil wrapper to reveal its contents. Liverwurst. Unappetizing, brown as the bag I brought it in, liverwurst. I pushed it aside. I’d have to be content with the apple that I usually traded for a Twinkie or tossed in the trash. Wormeater (you don’t want to know how he got his nickname) lunged for my leavings. Liverwurst was just fine with him. “Well,” he said to Jeff and rest of our lunch crew, “it looks like I’ll be busy for the next couple of weeks practicing.” “Practicing what?” Jeff asked. “Dancing. You do know the Christmas Snow Ball is just two weeks away.” The Snow Ball is a party that was reserved for sixth, seventh and eighth graders. It’s supposed to be a fun way for the upper grade kids to kick off two weeks of Christmas vacation, while teaching students proper etiquette at a formal dance. “Of course I remember,” chimed in my best friend, Jaime, “ though no one’s asked me to go with them…yet.” She glanced moon-eyed at Jeff across the table. “I’d ask my brother to help me,” Wormeater continued, “but I don’t think he knows anymore about the Hand Jive or the Stroll than I do.” Then, he turned to me and said, “Hey, Peggy, your sister Babs is pretty cool. Do you think if I came over she could teach me some of the new dances?” I suddenly stopped chewing my mealy apple. Wormeater liked me, but the feeling was all one sided, his. Anyway that wasn’t saying much, he liked a lot of girls. "I’ll see,” I said, though I had no intention of asking my sister any such thing. I wasn’t about to encourage him. I looked at Jeff who was sitting next to me. He had an expression on his face somewhere between acceptance and anxiety. And I knew why too, it could be summed up in one word, Emaline. Emaline Bogs was a big girl - bigger than most of my classmates (boys included) and fully developed (if you know what I mean). Heck! She should be, this is her third time around in the sixth grade and now her younger brother, Luther, who’s caught right up to her, is in our classroom also. Having two members of the Bogs' family in the same space with the rest of us is trouble waiting to happen. The season of comfort and joy struck fear in the heart of every male in our classroom. It was Emaline’s tradition to take the cutest boy of her class to the Snow Ball. Like I said, it was her tradition; the boy she chose didn’t have a choice. Worst of all, her brothers were the school bullies of St. Sebastian. There were enough of them to go around for each grade, so whatever Emaline wanted, she got. This year Emaline targeted Jeffrey Drumbott, or Jeff “Dreamboat” as Jaime called him. He had been an ordinary looking kid like the rest of us, but over the summer, he stretched three inches, his voice deepened and his features changed from round and rosy cheeked to chiseled and rugged. Though I wasn’t into boys (at least not that I cared to admit to anyone) even I had to own up that he was good looking. Emaline sniffed out Jeffrey and strolled over to our table. She slammed her tray down, tomato soup splashing on to her grilled cheese sandwich and sat across from him. “See you before the dance at 7:00 sharp,” she barked and then added, “Oh yea, my dress is pink, don’t ferget to bring a corsage.” Then she slurped up the soup, shoved down the sandwich and went off to join her bothers. Things must have been done differently in the Appalachians where the Bogs’ family used to live. Around here, boys usually do the asking when it came to dates and dancing. It was clear that Emaline wasn’t bothered by propriety of any sort, she didn’t even ask Jeff if he would like to take her, but then again, she didn’t have to. You would think that since he’d grown some and was now only a couple inches shorter than Emaline, he wouldn’t be afraid to tell her to get lost. But you’d be wrong. Crossing Emaline meant that you’d cross her brothers at the same time. The Bogs’ family was stickier than Elmer’s rubber cement glue. If you messed with one member, you messed with all of them. Jeff was a goner and he knew it. “What’ll I do?” he asked when Emaline was out of earshot. “Nothing.” Wormeater told him through his beaver teeth. Pushing his thick glasses up his nose, he said, “If you don’t go to the dance with her, she and her brothers will clobber you.” He wiped the liverwurst from his the corners of his mouth. “Well, I need to do something to get out of this situation,” Jeff said. Wormeater’s bushy eyebrows flattened into a single line across his forehead. “You need something alright. You need a miracle.”
That evening, as my family sat around the dinner table exchanging happenings of the day, I told them about the Snow Ball and Jeffrey’s problem. I don’t see a way out for him, he’s doomed,” said Babs. She was as familiar with the Bogs’ bullying as I was. “I sure would like to be at the dance to see the expression on eveyone’s face as Emaline waltzes in Jeff.” “Aren’t you going?” I asked my older sister. “No, and neither are you.” “What?” “We’re going downtown that day for our Christmas outing. It’s all been arranged. Dad is going to take a half day off of work to meet us there.” She told me. You would think that my older sister and I would squawk about not being able to attend the school dance, but you’d be wrong. Babs had her reasons, and I had mine. I’m sure that my older sister would have liked to go, but there was a rule in our house (actually it was Dad’s rule) of no dating boys until you were sixteen. So I understood where Babs was coming from. In Dad’s strict eyes, going to a school dance with a boy constituted an official date, it didn’t matter if the Sisters of St. Sebastian sanctioned it or not. Babs was taking no chances, she was popular and knew she’d be asked. This was as good as a way as any to avoid the embarrassment of going alone. I on the other hand, had my own concerns. Being on the shy side, dancing with boys in order to learn the social graces of life was something that I wouldn’t mind delaying for a while. “We are going to see Uncle Mistletoe in Marshall Field’s department store window,” said Katie changing the subject. “Me too,” echoed Jimmy, her twin. “We’re going to visit Santa, and eat lunch under the big Christmas tree in the Peanut Room.” “It’s called the Walnut Room,” Mom corrected Jimmy.
“How much does a corsage cost?” Jeff asked me the next day at school. “I see you haven’t found a way to wriggle out of it,” I said, ignoring his question for which I had no answer. “Nope.” He hung his head in resignation. “Not only do I have to take her, I have to spend my money on her too.” “Maybe you could find a way to cut out of the dance early?” “What?” Wormeater jumped in. “Are you a ditz? Did you forget that some of Emaline’s brothers will be there too?” “Emaline won’t let you out of her sight, she’ll make you dance every dance with her,” said Jaime and then added with a sigh, “She’s not the sharing kind.” Wormeater doused Jeff with more cold reality. “You’ve only got two weeks to come up with a plan to get out of it. And it has to be good one. One that will make Emaline back off without her bothers going ape.” “I’m doomed,” Jeff echoed my sister words.
I’m sure that for Jeff those two weeks moved faster than the speed of sound. It was just a few days before the dreaded dance when the first school bell of the morning rang. Students lined up according to grade. The Eighth grade first, followed by the seventh grade, and so on. Suddenly, twitters of laughter and muted whispers flew amongst the eighth graders at the front. None of us knew what was up until the pipeline of murmurs made it all the way down to the sixth grade. Amanda Prittle, who stood in front of me, received the hushed news from Jaime, who received it from Wormeater. “It’s something about St. Sebastian,” she leaned into my ear and said in a quiet voice. “Something about the statue. Pass it on.” And so I did. By the time the second bell rang, word made all the way to the first grade. And if you hadn’t heard about it by then, you were sure to see it for yourself as the procession of pupils passed by the statue of St. Sebastian. The entire student body knew what had happened to St. Sebastian, except for the nuns.
As we walked in the classroom Sister Mary Therese immediately sensed something. She wouldn’t have to wait long to find out exactly what the source of our unusual behavior was. “Sister, have you seen what someone’s done to poor St. Sebastian?” asked Becky. “What do you mean Rebecca?” Sister Mary T asked. “Why, just look, out the window. I think what’s been done to him is a crime, she said. “Whoever did such a thing should be arrested for vandalism or something like that.” Sister Mary T walked over to the window and gazed down at the front of the church. The reverent statue of St. Sebastian looked anything but saintly. Sprouting from the top of his hallowed head was a pair of moose antlers. A bright red ball was plopped squarely in the middle of his pious face over his nose and a long green and white striped scarf straddled his neck. The branches of the sculptured tree that the marble martyr was tied to, glimmered with silver tinsel icicles dangling in the winter wind. Though I couldn’t swear by it, I thought I heard her start to laugh. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand and changed her tone. “Who on earth would do such a disrespectful thing?” Sister Mary T asked, clearing her throat. Of course, she didn’t directly ask Know-It-All Newton, but she just might as well have. Becky folded her arms across her chest with enough attitude and arrogance that would have given President Eisenhower an inferiority complex. “That’s not hard to figure out,” she said. “Who do you think would have enough nerve to commit what is practically a sacrilege?” With that, the entire class turned around and looked at Luther and Emaline Bogs. “What?” Luther stared at us like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.” Though he tried to fight against it, he couldn’t help but cast and an eye in his sister’s direction. “Hey! It wasn’t me neither!” she said. While the two of them were busy trying to defend themselves from the suspicions of Sister Mary T and the students, I pulled on the sleeve of Jeff’s sweater and whispered to him. “You’d do just about anything to get out taking Emaline to that dance wouldn’t you?” “Sure I would,” he answered and looked at me like I was crazy for even asking. “Well, here’s your chance.” There was a puzzled expression on Jeff’s face. I could see I would have to do some explaining. “Listen,” I said, “if Luther Bogs goes down for this, he’s sure to get expelled. He’s already been suspended twice this year. You get expelled on your third offense.” I could see that the power of understanding was penetrating Jeff’s brain. A look of realization crept across his face as he hung on to my every word. “If you said you were the one who dressed up St. Sebastian like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and take the fall for Luther and Emaline, you’ll be the one who gets suspended, and. . .” I said, dragging out the word so Jeff could fill in the rest of the sentence. “. . . I won’t be able to go to the dance!” he said. “What’s more,” I added. “The Bogs will respect you for it, and Emaline will never be able to bother you again.”
Sentenced to a suspension of two weeks, Jeff had more than enough time to miss the dance and then some. I told Mom and Dad the whole story (well actually not the whole story) of how Jeff took the fall for Luther and Emaline. I just left out the reason why he did it. “That was quite noble of him,” Mom said. It was the way she used the word noble that made me uncertain of how much of the story she believed. “I have an idea. Since you’re not going to the dance and neither is he, why not invite him to come along with us on our holiday outing?” As if my raised eyebrows formed question marks on my forehead, Mom answered. “Don’t worry; your father won’t think it’s a date.”
The ride on the El train was not my favorite thing in the world. But, it was a convenient couple of blocks from our house, and a quick means to an end. In less than a half an hour, we would arrive in the heart of downtown Chicago. It was like looking death in the face, when I stood on the skinny platform of the station. Every so often, I would read about people that were electrocuted on those tracks in the newspaper, fried like eggs on a Sunday breakfast. And if that wasn’t enough to make you back away from the edge, there was always the wind that the El train created when it roared in ready to suck you under its wheels. I didn’t feel safe until I was on board. The train threaded through the city at roof top level, flashing unfamiliar neighborhood scenes from its windows. It was a slide show of seedy side streets, back porch life, and a peek into enticing ethnic areas that were as foreign to me as a different county. Just as I got used to my bird’s eye view, the train dove into the darkness of the subway. A continuous howl echoed from the El against the walls of the underground tunnel and made it nearly impossible to carry on a conversation. Getting off of that train was the best part of the ride. From this cold, dark, dingy and graffitied cavern, we floated up on the escalator and out into the bright blue of the sky. Tall elegant buildings that seemed to touch the clouds formed a concrete canyon filled with bustling people, dazzling lights and traffic. Babs held on to Katie, while Jeff and I held on to Jimmy keeping them safe from being mowed over by fast moving shoppers on crowded crosswalks, or being blown away by the east breeze whipping off the icy waves of Lake Michigan. Mom held Danny close, shielding him from the cold. I didn’t think she had to worry though; Danny was bundled in a snowsuit so thick he looked liked the Michelin Man. Jimmy started to talk but neither Jeff nor I could understand him. He pulled the scarf from his mouth that muffled his words.”Dad! There’s Dad!” I had to squint to see the man that Jimmy’s red mittened hand was pointing to. But yes, it was Dad alright, standing beneath the Great Clock of Marshall Field’s Department store. When we met up with my father beneath the hovering timepiece on State Street, we said our hellos and immediately started the beginning of our Christmas tradition with the tour of Marshall Field’s windows. They were brimming with the red and green of Christmas, holiday fantasies and whimsical characters. The twins, Jimmy and Katie, pressed their noses against the panes, they couldn’t get close enough to the festive magic. It was one eye-candy object right after the other. Uncle Mistletoe, a little elf with wings, flew around a miniature replica of the giant Christmas tree that was inside, while animated characters hammered and sawed making new trains, beautiful dolls and other toys. Christmas mice danced in the kitchen and made scrumptious looking pastries and sweet treats. Finally, when we finished, our red noses chilled, our eyes watering from the biting cold, we stepped inside. The store smelled of high priced perfumed, Frango mints and expensive chocolate. Everywhere I looked from floor to ceiling was embellished with lavish garland of gold and silver or other some kind of holiday paraphernalia. The entire place glittered, shimmered and shined. “Are you going to ask Santa for something too?” Katie asked Jeff. Jeff looked at me with a half grin on his face. “I think I’m a little too big to sit on his lap,” he said to my sister. “Then, how can you tell Santa what you want from him? How will he know what to bring you?” “Don’t you know any thing?” Jimmy said to his twin. “He’ll do what Babs and Peggy are going to do.” “What’s that?” I asked Jimmy. “Write him a letter of course,” he answered. “Oh.” Katie sniffed. “Well, I’m glad I get to sit on Santa’s lap, cause all I can write is my name.”
After the little one’s visit to Santa, came my favorite part of the Standish Christmas tradition, hot chocolate heaped with a mound of whipped cream and a slice of Yule log cake beneath the giant fir tree. As we walked into the elegant Walnut Room restaurant with the magnificent Great Tree towering above us, Jeff looked up, his eyes sparkling with the reflection of the lights on the tree. “Wow!” was all he could say. The waiter seated us at a table close enough to see our faces in the giant ornaments. “I’ve never been here before,” said Jeff, as he sat himself between Dad and me. “It was really nice of your family to let me join in.” “Well, my Mom thinks you deserved a reward, for helping out with the less fortunate,” I told him. “The less fortunate?” “That’s what she calls the Bogs kids. She says that she thinks they don’t have the same advantages as most children, whatever that means. But then, she doesn’t know them like we do,” I added. “Anyway, Mom thought that by taking the blame for Luther and saving him from getting expelled, you were being “noble” and should be rewarded.” “But, I….” Jeff was about to blurt out the whole premise behind his act of supposed nobility, when I hushed him up. I removed my hat and scarf, and started to work on unbuttoning my wool coat. One of them was hard to undo, so I pulled off my glove to make it easier. A single strand of silver tinsel fell out from the glove and floated down. I was able to scoop it up in mid air before it landed on the floor, but not before Jeff caught sight of it. I quickly shoved it into my pocket and said not a word to him, but then, I didn’t have to. Jeff’s eyes twinkled, and it wasn’t because of the Christmas lights.
About the photos Photo 1
Marshall Field's Department store created the Uncle Mistletoe character to compete with Montgomery Ward's, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Uncle Mistletoe often appeared in their fantasy windows and was usually placed on top of the fully decorated, 45 foot Great Tree in the center of the Walnut Room restaurant.
The Great Clock where Peggy’s family met up with her father to mark the start of their Christmas tradition still hangs on the Marshall Field’s building (now Macy’s).
Sister Mary Therese's pointer smacked against the blackboard! White dust floated from the word written in nearly perfect penmanship. “CONSCIOUS,” she said loudly, “is what we must rely on to tell us what is right from wrong." Then she put down the pointer and took up the chalk. Pulling back the long sleeve of her robe, she added more words so it read. “CONSCIOUS is the moral compass that guides our souls.” Sister Mary Therese was an imposing figure enough, but when she waved that pointer of hers around you knew you’d better pay attention. I thought about what those words meant. Most of the time I was able to let my mind steer me away from doing something I thought might be wrong. Still, there were moments when my will was weak, and my compass wasn’t always pointing north.
My best friend, Jamie, and I looked at the flyer hanging on the hall bulletin board. “What? School just started a week ago and they’re already putting up things about Halloween?” Jaime shook her head. I reread what the prizes were, and barely heard her grumbling. Who cared about the lunch box, I was in the sixth grade and wouldn’t be caught dead with one. Though the Nancy Drew book sounded good (Heck! I’d even like the Hardy Boy’s book), it was the first prize that caused my eyes to shine. A box filled with new art supplies. Last year I’d made a surprising discovery about myself. I could draw. Actually draw. It started one Sunday morning when I took the Chicago Tribune comic section and tried to copy Snoopy and Charlie Brown from the Peanuts comic strip. As much as I liked my new hobby, only Jamie and members of my family knew my secret. I wasn’t ready yet for the world to know, not until I got better and felt more confident. That case of new art supplies was just the ticket I needed to help me on my journey to get there. I wanted to win first prize more than anything.
For the next few weeks, I worked on my entry writing story after story. Nothing seemed to be working. It needed to be different; it needed to be interesting...it needed to be the best. I had given up my favorite television shows, Dobbie Gillis and Bonanza (twice) and a trip to Buffalo’s ice cream parlor. But my sacrifice didn’t yield a single word that pleased me. Nothing I wrote was good enough.
It was Tuesday, October 13th. I looked at the flyer once again in the hope that I had read the submission date wrong. But nope. I stared at the flyer, searching for I don’t know what, and like the beacon of a lighthouse shining through a foggy haze the words guided me right to an idea. The flyer rhymed, and so would I. I had just two days to make it work. That evening, filling the waste basket with crumpled paper, the pressure mounted. Anybody who's ever tried to make words rhyme knows it’s not easy. Each time I wanted to give up, I thought of new brushes and bright colored tubes of paint. I would have to wait all the way till my birthday or Christmas to get what could be mine by Halloween. It was late Wednesday evening when I reprinted everything and read it out loud. I wasn’t sure that it rhymed the right way but it sounded OK to me, and if I do say so myself, kind of spooky. Next I needed an audience, after all after I’d be expected to read it in front of the whole school. I was about to ask my older sister, Babs, and thought the better of it. She might tell me what I needed to know, but didn’t want to hear. Instead, I headed straight for the twins bedroom and asked them if they wanted to listen to a bedtime story. They were only five, and for a moment I hesitated. Was my story too scary for them? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I knew that Katie could be a bit morbid. She had a section in our backyard near Mom’s flower garden where she kept an animal cemetery. Dead birds, squirrels, rabbits and who knows what other carcasses made their way into Katie’s makeshift graveyard, so she might be able to handle my Halloween poem. And as for Jimmy, well he did have a sensitive nature. But Heck! I needed an audience. If he got scared, he’d just have to get over it. “Who wants to hear a story I made up?” I knew I’d get a positive answer. The pair of them would jump at the opportunity to garner attention from one of their older sisters. “Sure,” Jimmy said, climbing to top of his bunk bed. “What kind of story is it?” asked Katie sliding off her slippers. “It’s a poem, the kind that rhymes. It’s about Halloween,” I answered. Giving away no more details than that, seeing that they were settling in their beds, I sat on the floor cross-legged. Opening my black and white composition book, I began to read.
We couldn’t wait for costumes and bags of candy to collect for party games at school and jokes and pranks to pull.
Halloween was coming, excitement in the air, the old word for it,…… All - Hollows - Eve, our word for it …. The BIG SCARE.
This year was going to be different, this year was going to be rare cause we thought up something awful, for our annual Halloween dare.
At the end of Shady Tree Lane, stands an old abandoned house, it’s been cursed, some say, for many years, ever since the last owners moved out.
Our parents won’t tell us exactly why, “It’s much too horrible to hear, for a child’s delicate ears.” “If we told you, you’d have nightmares for a solid straight year!”
So, on Halloween night, a ghost, a tramp, a vampire and clown, headed out together to the edge of town, To a place that was cold, gray, and crawling with rats, with rickety shutters, fallen gutters, and flying bats.
The wind seemed to whisper a warning of,
“Don’t go, stay away, from that house today.
For wicked things happened within that space. And evil still lingers about the place.
You’ve one last chance to change you fate, go not a step further, before it’s too late.” _________________________________
Above the ancient stone house hung a haloed moon, Casting down its silver glow, a sense of impending doom.
I should have paid attention, to my feelings and the signs. ‘Stead, I chose to ignore it told myself, “It’s in my mind.”
_______________________________ We joined hands beneath the white bones of an old dead tree, The ghost, the tramp, the clown, …..and me.
We took an oath to seal our dare, and swore to each other to take on the Big Scare.
“One of us ……, must spend the entire night, in that empty shell.
“One of us……, must come out (and hopefully) live to tell.”
Just then, for moment, I swore I heard it again The wind whistling in my ear,
“Don’t go, stay away, from that house today.
For wicked things happened within that space And evil still lingers about the place.
You’ve one last chance to change you fate, go not a step further, before it’s too late.” ______________________________
Then clown opened his big red mouth, broke the spell and spit, “Yea, but who’s it gonna be one? Who’s gonna walk into that pit?”
This shook us from our trance, we dropped our hands to our sides, Our bond was broken, by what we now had to decide.
Each of us thought the -“other guy” had nothing to fear, Guess we were hopin’ that the - “other guy” would be the one to volunteer.
Cowards may be short on bravery, but they usually have ideas to spare, “Let’s draw straws. The shortest gets the rap,” the ghost declared.
We searched and found some old dried brambles, Broke them in fours and took the gamble.
Each of us drew one, till there were only two left. It was between tramp and me, I could hardly catch my breath! __________________________
Funny how quickly time can fly, a years’ already come, gone, and past us right by.
Each of us knows our lives will never be the same, all because of that stupid game.
Ya’ see............. I was the lucky one that night, The tramp, drew the short straw, and was bound to take on the fright.
Slowly, he crept up the path, toward the crumbling old home, We stood by, watched him walk, by himself, all alone.
He stopped for moment and asked with his eyes, “Call me back, please, won’t you guys?”
But I wasn’t, and ghost wasn’t, and clown wasn’t, going to be the one…
To break the oath, to pop the pact, to tell him to turn around and come on back.
So the tramp kept on movin’ even though he didn’t want to go, Till the shadow of the house, seemed to swallow him whole. ___________________________________
Silence can be really noisy, if you know what I mean. It seemed to last forever, till we heard a curdling scream!
Then the house itself, began to rattle and shake, The ground beneath us, shifted and quaked.
Green bolts of lighting shot out through boarded up windows, Thundering down on us, like clashing cymbals.
Knocked right on our backsides, by the rolling land, We found our feet, scrambled, and ran.
We spoke not a word, just read each other thoughts. What happened back there, was all our fault. ___________________________________
No one ever saw the little tramp again, And we swore we’d never tell a soul what happened to our friend.
Living with a guilty secret, and living with fear, Can really gnaw away at your conscious if you’ve done it for a year.
This Halloween night we’ll hide beneath a cover, in the attic or under the bed, But if you ask me, it won’t matter, cause nothing can stop the dead.
Sure as dark clouds loom high in the sky, I can feel it way down deep in my bones,
The tramp’s comin’ to take one of us back, to the other side, he now calls home.
A sudden gust of coldness just rushed past my side, It blew off my blanket under which I tried to hide.
A familiar voice, a warning whispers on the wind,
“Don’t stay, run away, from your house today. For wicked things will happen within this space, And evil will come tonight at your place.
You’ve one last chance to change your fate, Uh…..oh…. I‘m sorry……BUT…. I think it‘s too late!”
“What did you think of my poem?” I asked them closing my notebook. “I like the Cat In The Hat better…that rhymes too you know.” Katie answered, her voice muffled beneath her blanket. I looked up at Jimmy. He was sitting in the corner against the wall with his Davy Crockett covers pulled to his face, only his large blue eyes were visible as they looked down at me. “What about you Jimmy? What did you think of it?” “I think we should leave the light on in our room tonight, that’s what I think,” he answered. “Awww come on,” I chided them. “ Don’t act like such little kids.” “We are little kids,” mumbled Katie, still buried under her bed covers. The pride I felt in my hard written work overshadowed any guilt I should have had. Now, I was sure that I had it made in the shade with my spooky story-poem. I walked out with a smile of satisfaction on my face, leaving their bedroom light blazing brightly.
The next morning as mom poured cereal into my bowl, she was still in her robe and pajamas. Unusual for my mother, who was up and ready well before any other family member frying eggs or working on some kind of hot breakfast. “Jimmy and Katie crawled into bed with us last night.” She yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “It seems that story of yours frightened them.” “It did?” I asked trying to feign an expression of innocence. Dad was reading the morning news. “Yes.” He barely lifted his eyes from the paper. “We didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.” He immediately returned to his paper and randomly said, “This is interesting, they launched the Explorer 7 yesterday at Cape Canaveral.” And then went off mumbling something about it measuring the energy of the sun. Mom wasn’t sidetracked for a second. “They are too young for such things," she continued with her lecture. “You know how gullible Jimmy is. I would have thought you had better judgment than to read something that would scare the ba-jeebers out them.” “OK, OK.” I scooped up my last spoonful of cold Post Toasties. “I won’t read it again to them.” And that was the truth. Of course as I left the table, I omitted telling her that this was the tale I would enter in the contest and most likely be reading to the whole of St. Sebastian’s students. I was sure the kids at school would love the spookiness of it. Mothers don’t know everything. “I mean it. No more of those,” she added one more time, as I walked out the door. “It’ll give them nightmares!”
************************************************************************************************ That very day at noon I handed my entry to Johnny Hersztski, the editor of the Eagle’s Quill. “Looks like you put a lot of work into this,” Johnny said, flipping through the pages. “I did,” I told him proudly. “I’m glad you got it to me on time. There aren’t many sixth graders who entered the contest. Counting yours, only three. It’ll go before the committee of judges this week, you’ll find out soon if it you made the cut. Those in the running will be announced over the PA Friday or Monday afternoon.” “Only three?” I asked hoping he would tell me who. “Only three.” He confirmed, divulging no more information. The next few days were filled with anticipation. With only three entries from my grade, I was a shoo-in. I imagined myself taking on another project with my secret hobby all with new paint, crayons and pencils. It would be a challenge to draw the fashionable Katy Keene comic book character. I suppose it goes without saying that rehearsing my poem is a priority. I kept trying to get just the right effect. Soft and whispering for the voice on the wind, bold and loud for the main character’s voice. If the contest was a close call, this could be the difference between winning and loosing.
While we lined up to leave the classroom for recess, I was just about just about to give up on Friday and resolved to waiting for Monday, when the principal’s voice rang out over the speaker. “Good afternoon boys and girls,” Mother Scholastica's voice crackled over the speaker. “I would like to announce the following contenders for the Eagle's Quill writing contest.” As she slowly read through the names of each grade level, I scanned the room to see if I could detect who the other fifth grade contestants might be. I knew that one of them would be upset if they lost out. Curbing my enthusiasm when my name was announced wouldn’t be easy. It isn’t nice to gloat. Finally, Mother Scholistica said, "And now for the students of Sister Mary Therese's classroom. “Janice Gomez, Ronald Lawson…...” “And, and?” I held my breath. “And…..,” she said, “now for the sixth grade class." I was stunned into silence. “Wait a minute, I don’t think she’s done!” I wanted to call out. After that, I didn’t hear a word. My mind couldn’t cope with the catastrophe of defeat. Gone were the brushes and drawing paper, even Nancy Drew fell through my fingers. Leaving the classroom, my shoulders dropping in disappointment, I said to Jaime, “I can’t understand it. I worked so hard on that poem.” “Me neither,” my best friend agreed. Johnny Hersztski, who was right behind me, heard the two us talking and said, “It was great, I think it should of won,” he told me. “ Mother Scholastica liked your work to, she said it was very creative. But the principal has the final say so on the contest.” “Then how come Peggy’s poem didn’t make it? ” Jamie asked for both of us. “Cause of the younger kids," Johnny said as we walked out the door "She told me it'll give em’ nightmares!”
(Summary: Young Adult Historical Fiction, Spooky, Humorous, Halloween, Short Story)
About the photographs:
Photograph 1 Kathy Keene was a comic book character in the 1950s. Sophisticated and stylish her books were quite popular with young girls back then and in later years. Today, some of the older issues are highly collectible. This picture was printed with permission of mycomicshop.com. To see more of Katy Keene comic books follow the link to their website: http://www.mycomicshop.com/search?q=katy%20keene&dsp=issuegallery&mingr=0