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    The Summer Collection
    The Summer Collection
    The Summer Collection
    Ebook427 pages7 hours

    The Summer Collection

    By Paul John Hausleben

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    About this ebook

    The Summer Collection is the seasonal collection of stories that the author labels his favorite collection of all the books in his famous seasonal series. This book is a collection of short stories, novellas, poetry, and novelettes all with summer settings and themes and all set once again, within that unique place known as northern New Jersey. This collection of stories includes some of the author's most famous and popular stories, including the classic military-themed and his (perhaps, arguably) most popular short story Flying in its original and unrevised version.

    The Dance is a classic novella with the author's famous characters of Harry and Paul in a glorious romp laced with humor and the normally outlandish adventures of Harry and Paul. When two gorgeous young women invite Harry and Paul to an end-of-high-school-year dance, and Harry purchases an old car, the fun begins for our two favorite characters. They enlist the aid of the old man to resurrect the old car and the old neighborhood's most famous mobster with a heart of gold, Sal Zucchini comes to their rescue in this hilarious story, filled with not only classic adventures and humor, but emotion too.

    Hot Coals and Sparks is a novelette with everybody's favorite character of the old man starring front and center as the old man battles hilarious obstacles during a Fourth of July celebration that climaxes in one of the author's most famous final scenes.

    Flying is the remarkable short story that tells the story of one of the old neighborhood's favorite characters of Mr. Porter and how underneath his jolly exterior was a humble war hero and how his stories of combat lore and adventure captivated a young man and influenced his life. This emotional tearjerker of a short story is the story that critics and readers alike all consider some of Paul John Hausleben's finest writing.

    Unreasonable Expectations is another novella filled with Harry and Paul fun, adventure, and emotions, as this time, our two heroes purchase an old boat to fix up and they use it to lure their two girlfriends to a lake for a Labor Day weekend getaway. Of course, nothing goes as planned for our two heroes, yet in the end, it turns out to be many lessons learned and a barrel of fun. This story contains many of the author's most famous humorous scenes with an encounter with a grouchy traffic police officer, the "assistance" of the old neighborhood's most famous drunkard, Cliffy, and the hilarious adventure of the installation of a television antenna on the perilous roof of a mile-high Catholic convent building. This story is hilarious fun from start to finish with an emotional ending that is sure to bring a sniffle and tear between the rounds of laughter.

    The Old Chair is a short story filled with heart-wrenching emotion and poignancy, as the character of Pastor Paul John Henson inherits an old chair from a long-time parishioner of his congregation and then tells the story behind the chair. This, too, is one of the author's finest moments in short stories and an outstanding example of one of his classic short stories.

    The Summer Collection finishes off with some words from the author with one of his most popular love poems. Start to finish, The Summer Collection is an undeniable classic and a collection of stories sure to inspire the reader to recall their own summer adventures and to laugh and shed a tear or two along the way.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPaul John Hausleben
    Release dateJun 6, 2020
    ISBN9781393781318
    The Summer Collection
    Author

    Paul John Hausleben

    Way back in time, when the dinosaurs first died off, at the ripe old age of sixteen, Paul John Hausleben, wrote three stories for a creative writing class in high school. Enrolled in a vocational school, and immersed in trade courses and apprenticeship, left little time for writing ventures but PJH wrote three exceptional and entertaining stories. Paul John Hausleben’s stories caught the eye of two English teachers in the college-preparatory academic programs and they pulled the author out of his basic courses and plopped him in advanced English and writing courses. One of the English teachers had immense faith in Paul’s talents, and she took PJH’s stories, helped him brush them up and submitted them to a periodical for publication. To PJH’s astonishment, the periodical published all three of the stories and sent him a royalty check for fifty dollars and . . . that was it. PJH did not write anymore because life got in his way. Fast forward to 2009 and while living on the road in Atlanta, Georgia (and struggling to communicate with the locals who did not speak New Jersey) for his full-time job, PJH took a part-time job writing music reviews for a progressive rock website, and that gig caused the writing bug to bite PJH once more. He recalled those old stories and found the old manuscripts hiding in a dusty box. After some doodling around with them, PJH decided to revisit them. Two stories became the nucleus for the anthology now known as, The Time Bomb in The Cupboard and Other Adventures of Harry and Paul. The other story became the anchor story for the collection known as, The Christmas Tree and Other Christmas Stories, Tales for a Christmas Evening. Now, many years and over thirty-five published works later, along with countless blogs and other work, PJH continues to write. Where and when it stops, only the author really knows. On the other hand, does he really know? If you ask Paul John Hausleben, he will tell you that he is not an author, he is just a storyteller. Other than writing, among many careers both paid and unpaid, he is a former semi-professional hockey goaltender, a music fan and music reviewer, an avid sports fan, photographer and amateur radio operator.

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      Book preview

      The Summer Collection - Paul John Hausleben

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s eccentric, strange and unusual imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental, and it was not the intention of the author.

      Dedications

      The Entire Collection

      To sunburn, baseball games, hot-birds in the trees, fancy and not so fancy cars that we cruised in, fireworks in the backyard, those electric fans that buzzed around in my rooms over the years, and to sunny days and sultry nights. Thank goodness when October arrives!

      The Dance

      TO THE 1971 JAPANESE (the actual brand name begins with the letter T and ends in an A) sedan with the tricky doors. Long may you roll. I truly hope that the old man was wrong, and you did not return as a garbage can.

      Hot Coals and Sparks

      TO THE CHAP WHO SOLD us fireworks out of the trunk of his car in Paterson, New Jersey in 1974.

      Flying

      To Technical Sergeant William Howell Pierce, United States Army Air Force during WW-2, and his wonderful family. A true American hero with the 321st Bomb Group, assigned as a radio operator and waist gunner to B-25 low-level and medium bombers. He flew 63 combat bombing missions, over Europe, Africa, and Egypt. He was a Purple Heart recipient from some enemy flak sent his way. It is my honor to have the immense pleasure to have known you, Sergeant Pierce. God bless you. Thank you for the pleasure of listening to your tales of combat adventures, your wonderful sense of humor, for your guidance when I was a young man, and your friendship. Long may you fly and may all your takeoffs and landings be smooth.

      DI DI DI DAH DI DAH

      Unreasonable Expectations

      TO ANYONE WHO CANNOT ever forget the memory of someone special in their lives.

      The Old Chair

      TO ANYONE WHO HAS AN easy chair in the corner of a room that is full of memories and comfort.

      Once in a Lifetime on a Summer Night

      To Moonlight and Memories.

      The Dance

      Another story from the Adventures of Harry and Paul

      Hot Coals and Sparks

      Featuring the old man and other characters from the Adventures of Harry and Paul

      Flying

      Featuring Paul John Henson and Jeff Porter from the Adventures of Harry and Paul

      Unreasonable Expectations

      Another story from the Adventures of Harry and Paul

      The Old Chair

      Featuring Pastor Paul John Henson and Binky Hobnobber Henson from the Adventures of Harry and Paul

      Once in a Lifetime on a Summer Night

      Some words

      Acknowledgements

      Iwould like to thank my entire family and as always, send an extra thank you and a tip of the captain’s hat to Mr. Harry M. Rogers Junior. Special thanks to Honest Rafael Innis and Lydia A. LaGalla for the ideas, feedback, and inspiration for, Unreasonable Expectations. Thank you to Pastor Donald F. DeGroat, Mr. Jeffrey Scott Pierce, the Pierce family, the old man, my sister Dottie, and my dear Mum. Thank you and a Frosty Mug Salute, a warm shout out, and an extra special thank you to the gang at 20 John Street. Somewhere down the line, I know we will all meet once again, and that will be one wild and crazy time.

      Keep ‘em cold because I am on my way!

      In July, in the hottest of the weather, if two cannot sleep alone, then one must sleep together.

      John Henson Allcock

      Date unknown

      Preface from the Author

      The story of how the book The Summer Collection became a published work reads as if it is a story in itself! It is very interesting how The Summer Collection evolved from a conversation, to the birth of an idea, into another book in the seasonal collections of my works. Initially, The Summer Collection is a book, in which I put together with a great deal of trepidation.

      A casual conversation one day with a close friend was obtuse, and it was a sad lament that I currently had no further intention of writing any new stories or books. The novel The Miracle Tree had ended with the two characters of Harry M. Redmond Jr. and Paul John Henson in a very good place to leave them off, perhaps, forever. I felt that I had run my course, and I needed to concentrate on my photography and other priorities in my life. It was not that I did not have any stories left inside of my mind. I still had an endless array of ideas floating around in there, as well as a number of finished and unfinished drafts of stories and novels tucked away. In reviewing my library of work, I felt that much of it was inferior, and not very interesting to me. I also felt as though it was time to do something else. I did not say that I would never write again, I only said that I would not be currently working on any new book projects.

      For those of us who understand the meaning of the catchphrase, I wanted to avoid the dreaded Jumping of the Shark!

      My statement and my intentions greatly disturbed my friend. I was then encouraged by some pleading from my friend to continue, and while doing so, she made a subtle mention that although the novels that I had written, emotionally touched and captivated her, she confessed to also enjoying the seasonal collections of various stories because of how they invoked such powerful memories of her own past.

      The Autumn Collection and The Christmas Tree and Other Christmas Stories, Tales for a Christmas Evening had been successful, and my friend emphasized how popular she felt another seasonal book would be with my loyal readers.

      A collection of summer stories would be wonderful. I am sure that even though you dislike the summer that Harry, Paul, and all the other fictional and non-fictional characters and persons, had many adventures in the summer. Just one time, I think you need to tell a truly, authentic, Harry and Paul story. Yes, Paul, you need to write a story that is almost one hundred percent true. I bet you have one of them inside of you, my friend preached to me as she coaxed me into thinking about another seasonal book.

      At first, I dismissed her suggestion, but later in the day, I gave it some serious thoughts. Then, as so often happens in my life, I received some inspiration from an unusual source. This is where the story becomes interesting, because I am in many ways, very similar to the character of Paul John Henson and those persistent ghosts of the past never stop following me around. While working around the house, I tuned in a radio station for some ambiance, and an old song from the great Canadian folk-pop-rock singer Mr. Neil Young played on the radio station. It was a dynamic performance of the song, Harvest Moon.

      The song invoked memories in my mind of a summer dance of so long ago, and it was so powerful, in both lyrics and melody that I rushed to my computer, dialed up the corresponding music video, and confirmed my memories. The music video was wonderful, and it displayed a singer recanting his own memories of his youth, dancing with a pretty woman, while depicting a late summer night of memories.

      I smiled inside because I knew that my friend was correct. I needed to tell the stories of summer and I have no shame in sharing that what followed in the next twenty-four hours or so were some of the most profound hours of my life. I typed and created the story contained herein this collection, and holds the title of, The Dance.

      I did take my friend’s advice, and I created a story that while it is not one hundred percent true or authentic, it is at least ninety-five percent or so true! I typed and typed, and I have to be honest, I could not even consider sleeping until I completed the framework of the story. In fact, it had invoked such profound and powerful memories for me that I could not sleep for days afterward. It had stirred up memories of a lifetime in my mind and had affected me emotionally in such a profound manner that it bothered me for weeks after I had completed the story. It did not affect me in a forlorn or depressed manner, quite the opposite. It had caused intense exhilaration. The story came out of my memory banks, became reality right in front of my eyes, and then managed to stir up very deep emotions of a long-forgotten time.

      Most of all, I realized that I had not jumped any sharks.

      It was a magical time for me in the creative realm, and one that I may never feel again or ever try to duplicate.

      I think because The Dance is such an authentic story, it made me recognize that we all reach a point in our lives, when we realize that perhaps the best times of our life are in fact, behind us.

      Facing our own mortality is a difficult thing for any of us to consider.

      The door to my summer memories was now wide open; therefore, the rest of the book flowed along rather easily. I have to say that the authentic theme sustained me throughout the rest of the book, and the rest of the stories have very strong elements of authentic truth to them.

      Even though I dislike the heat and humidity, and summer is not my favorite time of the year, it is a plethora of memories and good times for all of us! Summer brings us all outside for fun, on vacations, on adventures, and invokes some of the most powerful of our memories of holidays, families, and friends. It is a special time, when you place your work on a shelf for a week or two here and there, and we try hard to relax.

      For me, summer is the time of the year that I look forward to the least, but I can never deny the happiness and adventures it has brought to me throughout my life. I admit that I cheer loudly and wildly, when October arrives, but I truly mean no ill will or disrespect to summer. I just want to say goodbye and hold on to the memories!

      This book captures the adventures of the summer with both humorous overtones and heartwarming ways. Harry and Paul have returned once again, along with some familiar characters and some new characters too.

      I have to admit that my friend was indeed correct when she surmised that some of our greatest adventures occurred in the summer. They sure did, and it is my wish that all of your summers bring to you golden memories, fun in the sun, and happiness.

      I hope that this book, in some small way, helps to invoke some feelings for you, or returns you to a summer memory or two of your own. I hope that you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed putting it all together. Thank you for reading it.

      Paul John Hausleben

      July 2014

      Prologue

      Summer is finally here ! Wonderful, glorious, summer and all the joy it brings! The summer arrives and we all jump for joy! Yippee! Summer is here! We had all grown so weary of the cold, the snow, and the rain!

      We all are now looking forward to the warm days, the splash of the pool, baseball, cold beer, lemonade, flowers, and roses in bloom, and happy bumblebees buzzing in our zinnias. Cutting the grass is a great exercise, and the yard work is wonderfully enjoyable! Days grow later, and the daylight ends framed with golden summer sunsets. We enjoy fireworks, outdoor music concerts, strolls downtown in the open markets and happy times off from work and school. There are those fantastic, fresh vegetables at the farmer’s market such as giant watermelons, ripe-red- luscious-tomatoes, and baskets of golden sweet corn. Summer vacations and holidays. Romantic strolls along sandy ocean beaches, placid canoe rides on mirrored lakes, and gentle summer breezes that move our drapes and curtains on quiet evenings. The splash of fishing lures into the water, the cry of children at play, the flipping of hamburgers on the backyard barbeque grille.

      All the joy and memories that summer brings to us all . . . it lives with us forever.

      Yippee! Hooray! Summer is here! We love the summer! What a glorious time of the year.

      Yet by the time that late August arrives, summer has worn out the welcome, and we are crying out for cooler weather. When will this heatwave end? I cannot wait for the cooler weather!

      On those wicked, hot summer days, the sun rises differently, almost as if it is angry with us and is mean-spirited. You can easily determine that on some mornings, the sun is not playing around, and the heat of the day will cook, bake, and broil you. The birds hide, the breeze dies down and people flee to air-conditioned stores or the shopping mall, and dive into swimming pools.

      By the late afternoon, you are soaking wet, your socks stick to your feet like duct tape, and you now suffer from a terrible case of swamp butt. Then the nighttime comes, and it brings drippy humidity and bugs that chase you around for hours like relentless, little jet planes, while they try to suck all the blood out of your body.

      You have sweat out of your fancy suit while stuck in a traffic jam on your way to that job interview, and you wonder if they will notice the sweat stains on your shirt! Your car battery exploded in the heat in a parking lot and you needed a tow. Just one week after a radiator hose had burst in the same heat wave. One more heat wave and your air-conditioning system will explode too, while the evil electric company sends a new bill every other day for bijillions of dollars!

      The stupid grass needs mowing again, the hedges need trimming; the weeds have overrun the flowerbeds, those nasty wasps made another nest over the porch, and they stung little Johnny and Woofie the dog again!

      The weatherman is on the television, waving at a weather map while a red warning scrawls ominously across the bottom of the screen. He warns of another dangerous thunderstorm on the horizon that could knock the electric power out again!

      Oh yes, those stupid ass bumblebees in the zinnias are a pain in your ass. Your baseball team has lost twelve straight games, and the thunderstorm that rolled in late yesterday afternoon, knocked over all the rose bushes! Mothers send children outside to play, and dream of sending them all back to school someday very soon. To top it all off, if you have one more glass of lemonade your lips will fall off!

      I can’t stand this heat! When will this wretched summer end? You cry out in mercy and anguish, while walking as if you are a stiff wooden soldier while carefully shuffling along, in order, to allow your sunburned legs to heal.

      Wonderful, happy summer and all the joy it brings! Yippee! Summer is here!

      Golden afternoons, skipping through open meadows, gathering baskets and baskets of wild strawberries, singing happy songs, and filling your heart with joy and glee.

      Wonderful, glorious, summer and all the joy it brings!

      Oh, yes, and do not forget the terrible cases of swamp butt too.

      The Dance

      1

      1971 Takajunky Model 10

      IN THE YEAR 1971, WHEN the first Takajunky model 10 was introduced here in America, by Takajunky Motor Works from Junko, Japan, the quality was something less than satisfactory. By the year 1975, though, the name Takajunky had come to exemplify quality, economy, and value. The company had come a long way from their humble beginnings.

      I leaned forward in my chair, as the commentator on the television waved his arms in front of him over a red-colored, 1971 Takajunky Model 10 vehicle, displayed upon a rotating stage with the obligatory, beautiful blonde gal, clad in a bathing suit, standing and smiling next to the vehicle.

      It was summer and the off-season for me. I was stuck in my apartment in Norfolk, Virginia, the home base for my new hockey team, the Norfolk Navigators, a club that I had joined just this past spring. I was sent to the team a little late in the hockey season, when the parent company of the Boston Bears bought my contract and moved me one-step closer to the big league. My agent told me that various scouts and coaches were following my progress carefully, and I was the heir apparent to the starting goaltender position with the Boston Bears hockey club.

      In the meantime, I had to endure an assignment with the farm team here in Norfolk. My first half-year or so here, since my call up from the Albany, New York based, Flying Dutchman hockey club, had gone very well. I had performed well in the net, our team reached the playoffs, and we came close to a league championship. I had played well enough in the net to lead the league in goaltender stats for the playoffs. We had a good defense; we just could not score!

      I was now resting from a groin strain suffered at the end of the year, and the team doctors had put me on a restricted work out regimen, to make sure that it healed before the season. I worked out lightly, three times per week, with the team and skated every day.

      Life was grand when I was with my teammates or in the workout rooms; it was when I returned to my little apartment that the loneliness began. If I was not busy with hockey, the off times were difficult. It had been tough to leave my family and friends in New Jersey, and due to other circumstances, I was having a rough time emotionally.

      In addition, this summer had been brutal in Norfolk. It had been swampy, hot, and humid, and every day was the same. The summer went on and on, for what seemed as if it was forever.

      I was a cold weather guy, and I disliked the heat and humidity of the Mid-Atlantic Region of the United States. How I longed for the warm days and cool summer nights of my home in Paterson, New Jersey, where at least it cooled off a little at night, and you could enjoy a summer night in the backyard or on the back porch, without sweating to death.

      This one Saturday afternoon, I was feeling particularly lonely and preoccupied with my memories. We had a very good workout on Friday and I had the weekend off to recover.

      Bored and restless, I had flipped on the television to pass some time and collect my thoughts. I needed a break because I had to admit that my body had some slight aches and pains still nagging at me. In addition, my mind was exhausted.

      I was not much of a television viewer, and other than watching my beloved ice hockey and some football games, I rarely, if ever, sat down to watch anything on the tube.

      I had been mindlessly flipping through channels on the television, trying my best to burn away this lazy, hot, late July afternoon, when I mistakenly stumbled upon a boring documentary on the local public broadcasting television channel. The show that was on this afternoon was all about the early years of the introduction of foreign cars to America.

      The previously boring program now had my interest.

      The announcer continued, Even though, the 1971 Takajunky Model 10 suffered from some early quality issues with tricky door latches, inconvenient and spontaneous leaks from under the dashboard heater cores, and poorly performing transmissions, the vehicle’s overall reputation for economy and fabulous gas mileage, eventually earned, the vehicle a loyal following.

      The announcer walked close to the Takajunky on display, the rotation of the stage stopped, and the beautiful gal in the bathing suit opened the driver’s door for the announcer. As the camera zoomed inside the interior of the car, he continued with his description, One of the earlier and most popular innovations, turned out to be the super deluxe, push-button, auto selecto radio! With a push of the button, the owner of the Takajunky could automatically dial into news, sports, and the type of music you desired. The radio would scan, tune the dials in a flash, and find your preferred selection for you in a split second. It was a fabulous technology for 1971!

      I leaned back, smiled, and laughed.

      Yes, it sure was, I exclaimed aloud to the entire room. You see, I could agree and testify with the announcer of the program, because I spent many a night in a 1971 Takajunky model 10, owned by my best friend, Harry M. Redmond Junior. It was his first car, and the memories of this television program had stirred up came vividly rushing back to me.

      Once more, the ghosts of my past came floating into my life, and they transported me back in time, to an adventure that Harry and I shared together in the early summer of 1975. This summer adventure led to a legendary incident that still lives on in the minds and hearts of all of us, and hangs in the air over Haledon, and Sussex County, New Jersey to this very day.

      I flipped the off switch on the remote control, when the announcer moved on to speaking about some other type of automobile that I did not recognize. I leaned back in my chair and drifted off to sleep. . ..

      DECEMBER 28, 1973

      Dear Debbie,

      I hope you are having a great Christmas season. I have had a good Christmas season, and so far, I have to say that visiting Christmas Tree Mountain was the highlight of my holiday season this year.

      Meeting you sure was wonderful too! The wild time that we all had from the Boryeungous that Ronzo whipped up this year sure made it interesting! For sure, it was quite an adventure for all of us. It was my pleasure to meet you, and as I promised, I wanted to write to you and stay in touch. I hope that we can continue to write and be friends. Maybe we can even chat on the telephone sometime. My grandfather’s telephone number next door is 201-956-9738. I would have to let him know that I was going to use his telephone, or what time or day that you would call.

      Please let me know. Thank you and I hope you will write back to me.

      Sincerely Yours,

      Paul John Henson

      182 Belmont Avenue

      Haledon, N.J. 07508

      I placed my pen down on my desk and sighed. This was the first letter that I had ever written to a gal. I was a nervous, fifteen-year-old teenager, writing a letter to a gal that I had met and had caught my eye just a week or so ago. Debbie Boatwright was my first crush, and I was now sailing uncharted waters. I signed it and folded the paper neatly into three folds. I stood up from my chair in front of the little shelf mounted on the wall in my bedroom, which I used as a desk. I went over to the top drawer of my dresser, and opened it up. There, tucked inside a little box that I kept in the top drawer, was a small piece of paper, in which had the home address for Miss Debbie Boatwright scrawled upon it. I took the piece of paper, opened it up, and studied it.

      While I studied it, in my mind’s eye, I could see her face, her clear, green eyes, and her hair blowing under her hat as she stood on the side of Christmas Tree Mountain this past December.

      She captivated my young heart, and I could be wrong, but I do think she was interested in me, too.

      Debbie Boatwright was the oldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Boatwright, who were the family that owned Christmas Tree Mountain in Sussex County, New Jersey. I had met her a week or so before Christmas, when I had visited the mountain along with a group of people from our neighborhood, and my best buddy Harry M. Redmond Jr. and his family, on their annual excursion to the tree farm in order to cut down Christmas trees.

      Despite the now famous, time bomb in the cupboard incident, in which the men of our neighborhood took intoxication to a new level, after ingesting Harry’s brother-in-law Ronnie Ronzo Boatmann’s annual, home-brewed, whiskey concoction, I had enjoyed a wonderful time on the mountain. In fact, it had left me with a memory of a lifetime and it had begun my many adventures with my best buddy Harry and his wild and fun-filled family.

      Debbie and I had shared some conversations, and in one particularly, poignant moment, we had shared a view and some words together on the top of the mountain, while we both overlooked a breathtaking sight of the snow-covered mountain top at Christmas time.

      Before I had left to journey back to the city of Paterson, she slipped me her contact information, and asked that we stay in touch with one another. Now, despite the distance between us, I had decided to write her a short letter and see where it all went from here.

      Say Mum, do you have an envelope and a stamp that I could have? I asked as I wandered out of my room and found my mother sitting at the kitchen table. Mum was sewing some holes in my old man’s work socks and, with a bit of a puzzled look upon her face, she looked up from her work.

      Sure, in the right side, kitchen cupboard, Paulie. Are you writing for some hockey information? Mum asked. It was unusual for me to mail anything, and since hockey was my passion and my sport, Mum assumed it had to be hockey related.

      I stumbled a bit and fumbled, but decided that honesty was the best policy here, No, I am writing to Debbie Boatwright. She is the gal that I met on Christmas Tree Mountain, when we went for the trees and all the men got bombed a few weeks ago, before Christmas. I was not overly comfortable right at this moment revealing that I was writing to a gal, but after all, this was my mum!

      Mum smiled and said, Oh, I see. Yes, I remember you mentioned her. In fact, you spoke about her quite a bit more than you did anything else for a few days afterwards. You mentioned her even a bit more than the time bomb in the cupboard that Ronzo prepared. Pretty, green eyes, if I do remember correctly. I guess she must be a pretty, little gal, eh?

      My mum was of English descent, and she had a particular way with words. The cultural challenge that my sister and I faced as we flipped and flopped between my old man, who was firmly of Paterson, New Jersey descent, and our prim and proper, English-born mum was certainly interesting. She was being careful now while she tiptoed around the fact that she had already known her son had a crush on some gal.

      Are you going to mail it today, Paulie?

      Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mum. I am going to walk down to the mailbox on Burhans Ave with Skippy and mail it in there right now. Do you have anything else you want me to mail for you?

      Yes, please take the envelope there on the shelf where your father keeps his newspaper. It is a payment for the electric bill, so please make sure it goes down the shoot, eh?

      Sure. Will do, I said, as I sat down at the kitchen table. I took the note with Debbie’s information out of my pocket, addressed the envelope to Debbie, double-checked the information for accuracy, put the letter inside, and sealed the envelope up. Mum watched me and smiled, but she did not say anything else, and she went back to sewing the socks. I waved goodbye, whistled for my faithful fox terrier, Skippy, hitched him to a leash, grabbed both letters, put on my vest and out the back door we went. It was a few days after Christmas, and it was overcast and cold. It had snowed lightly on Boxing Day, and remnants of some snow and ice crunched under our feet (and paws) as I made my way towards the mailbox.

      We lived in the Borough of Haledon, New Jersey, about fifty feet or thereabouts, over the city of Paterson’s northernmost boundaries, and the mailbox was located across the street from our house on the corner of Burhans and Belmont Avenue. We crossed the street; I opened the mailbox door and dropped the letters into the box. I opened and closed the door three times, and double-checked that the letters had indeed made their way down inside the box.

      Looking down at Skippy, I mumbled to him, Well, ole Skip, let’s see what she says, eh? Skippy looked up at me and wagged his tail a bit but he did not seem overly enthusiastic, perhaps he knew something in which I did not.

      Now I just needed to wait.

      And wait, I did.

      After about three months, I was over the disappointment of coming home from school and asking Mum every day if I received any mail. Initially, the fact that Debbie Boatwright had not written me back was a devastating blow to my heart. However, in the big picture, I had hockey, an entire school of other teenage gals to take my mind off the crushing defeat, my best buddies Harry M. Redmond Jr. and Jeff Porter to hang with, and a host of other teenage diversions. In addition, being perfectly honest, I was only fifteen or so years of age, and you rebound rather quickly from these types of situations at that age.

      Mum had watched me carefully during the initial rejection period, and she firmly stopped the old man in his tracks whenever he tried to tease me about the situation. My sister, who was about three years older than I, was sympathetic to my plight, because she had already fallen victim to a rejection from a potential boyfriend or two in her fledgling love life.

      Soon, Debbie Boatwright was a faint memory in my teenage mind.

      One day in late March, I arrived home from vocational school, wandered into my bedroom to change my clothes for a quick, street hockey shoot-around with Harry and Jeff, and while walking into my room; I noticed a letter sitting on the pillow on my bed. Skippy greeted me, and he jumped up on my bed and sat down while he watched me pick up the letter. It seemed as though ole Skip was interested in what the letter on my bed was about too. The dog did not mind curling up and settling in while he watched me carefully studying the letter. In fact, the way Skippy would lie around on it, it was as much his bed as it was mine. I looked at the return address and to my utter shock; I read that the letter was from Debbie Boatwright! I closed the door to my bedroom for privacy, sat down on the bed, and carefully opened the envelope. I peered inside and pulled out a handwritten letter. A letter composed upon a neatly folded piece of paper.

      I unfolded the letter and read it:

      March 22, 1974

      Dear Paul,

      I am very sorry that it has taken me so long to write back to you, but somehow it appears that our local post office here in Sussex County misplaced your letter. When I saw the postmark on the letter indicating that you mailed it shortly after Christmas, I felt terrible. I only just received the letter this week! Thank you for writing to me. I was thrilled to see your letter and sat down as soon as I received it to write you back. I also enjoyed the day when you, Harry, and the Redmond family, as well as your entire neighborhood, visited us here at Christmas Tree Mountain. I had a great Christmas, but the best part was meeting you. I hope we can be friends. Maybe we can write to one another and speak when we are able to here and there. My telephone number, in case you can call, is 201-209-1798. I know it is a long-distance call, so it may be hard for you to call me. I look forward to you writing back to me. Once again, I am sorry about the long delay in your letter, and I am sorry for how long it took me finally to write back to you.

      Sincerely Yours,

      Debbie Boatwright

      I dropped the letter and smiled. I had not been a victim of rejection, but instead, I was a victim of poor service from the United States Postal Service!

      I felt honored.

      Oh, oh! Maybe the letter and the electric bill payment had not gone down into the mailbox.

      Hmmm, Mum never mentioned anything to me, but I had better not bring that subject up!

      The old man immediately targeted me at the dinner table that night, as he teased me about my new girlfriend, and Mum, of course, defended me. I did not mind. After all, Debbie had finally written me back, and I had stars in my eyes.

      The next day, I wrote Debbie back with a reply letter. In fact, we wrote, and we wrote, and we wrote. . ..

      "WELL, IT DOES NOT LOOK like much, does it, Paul? In fact, right now, it is a big hunk of junk, but hey, it is my big hunk of junk!" Harry laughed and smiled as he and I stood outside of his house in front of 20 John Street in Haledon, New Jersey. It was late May 1975, and we were looking at the first car that Harry had ever purchased. In fact, it was the first car that either of us had ever bought. I was saving my pennies for a vehicle and I had my eye on a used telephone service van that I had seen in the weekly auctions in downtown Paterson. I was still a few dollars short, but the old man promised he would take me to the auction once I had saved up the dough.

      Harry’s dog Cocoa, who was our constant companion as well as the world’s smartest dog, sat on the sidewalk, watching and listening to us. As usual, he had his faithful squeaky toy, Piggy tucked safely in the grip of his mouth.

      The car was a 1971 Takajunky Model 10, and Harry had picked it up for two hundred bucks, from some guy who lived around the corner from me on Tilted Hill. In all honesty, it was not a bad looking car for a seventeen-year-old guy to have purchased for his first vehicle. It was not exactly sporty, but it was practical. It was a four-door sedan, painted in a fairly ugly tan color, but it had good tires, low miles, (we classified any vehicle in our neighborhood that had less than two hundred thousand miles on it, as having low miles) and a clean interior. Even the seats did not have any tears in them. Overall, it was not that bad of a car, except for one small detail. Right at this particular moment, the car did not run.

      Harry had just obtained his driver’s license, and I was a few weeks away from taking the test to obtain mine. Right now, I was driving on a learner’s permit. We both were firmly embroiled in the car, truck, hockey, and young ladies’ phase of our lives now; indeed, it was a small circle of interest in which we kept these days.

      That was all we thought about, and all we did.

      We both were in a trade school and we had

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