The Things I Do Remember, Part 3 - Home to Kokomo

We returned to Kokomo at the end of 1943. I remember being on the southeast corner of Lafountain Street, a short distance from our house. I don’t remember for certain, but it was probably not long after we got back from New Haven, but I was sitting there on the curb with my feet in the gutter. I must have been small because the curb was no more than six inches high and I was not uncomfortable in that particular conformation. A gas station sat on the corner across from me. An old guy named Chester ran it. He had a German Sheppard called MacArthur. The station was typical for its day with a compact office that had a glass display counter housing a few candy bars. The small brick building had a roof that reached across to two pillars in front to support the carport. Two gas pumps stood between the pillars. The station faced North Street, a road paved in smooth red bricks. Black colored cars, many of them Model T Fords, rumbled down that bumpy street. The Beamer Baptist Church, a wood structure, sat on the corner diagonally across from me. I think I was sitting there trying to figure what to do. I don’t remember the act that caused it, but I was sitting on something mushy inside by pants, and each squirming move caused a shift in its mass, and launched a disagreeable odor . A tall man, wearing a fedora, crossed the street and came walking toward me. He said, “Hi” as he passed. I managed a murmured reply, all the time wondering if he knew about the job I had just completed. Finally I gave up and went home. I acted innocent and ignorant of the job and asked Grandma to drop my trap drawers. She complied. Grandma often used colorful language from the hills of Kentucky,. Usually they were phrases with an anal theme, phrases like, “A buzzard must have flown up your ass and died” , or “I’ll be dipped in shit”. This time it was plain and to the point “ Joe, you’ve shit your pants”. That was the last time I remember doing that particular job.

In 1944 I was standing in the alley that ran by the side of our house. I was in front, at the sidewalk edge, when two older girls passed. They seemed big but were probably no more than junior high school age. One of them ask me how old I was. I raised my right hand like a boy scout, bent my thumb into the palm, and showed four fingers. That was the first memory in which I definitely knew how old I was at the time.