Hand-me-downs were a way of life when I was a kid. Shirts, toys, bikes and chores. Accompanying Mom to the garden was my older brother's job before he got a paper route. His Redwing wagon was mine once I began helping mom in the garden. T
urning over the compost pile was one of those chores and accompanying her out to Mr. Vagos’ pony farm to get manure, was another. A big sign on the manure pile read, “Free.” Mom loaded up on horse manure, and Dad said the car smelled for days afterwards. He never said anything to Mom, just gave me the chore of cleaning out the trunk. He said the roses looked better and the peas tasted sweeter after a visit to Mr. Vagos. The fresh horse manure added to the compost needing turned over and mixed really well. To do this, Dad presented me with my own spade. I wanted my brother's blue bike at the time, but the spade was it. Practical gifts were what we got. Dad loved giving us strange things, and calling them gifts… "Didn't I just give you a brand new spade?", he'd say, when I asked for a Hopalong Cassdy cap pistol. He'd get that cap pistol eventually, he just liked kidding us.
He found me a bike - one more my size. It was second-hand, but new looking after he worked on it. Annie, my older sister, taught me to ride it. I could only ride it around the block, and then, only on the sidewalk. Met my first bully riding that bike. Butch DaSale, I was on his street and told not to ride my bike past his house. So I would ride halfway around the block then turn around in Mrs. Martin's driveway. When I told Mom I was going to sock it to Butch, I was told to stay on our street only. Trouble was I didn't stay on our street, but just found turning around in Mrs. Martin's driveway was my way of not fighting Butch. Mrs Martin would stop me and find something for me to do, though. Like getting some grapes from the man at the end of the block - which meant passing Butch's house, which meant I was not keeping to my own street. I was confined to our yard for a day after testing my fighting skills. So with my cap gun strapped on, I drew wanted posters till it was time to head up the street with my spade and wagon to the garden to pull the weeds that grew out of the horse manure. Mom would spread compost around and chat with a passing neighbor who alway remarked on the wonderful helper she had. I always found weeds at the far end of the garden so I would not have to answer questions about who I was going to shoot. People liked pinching my cheeks and commenting on how quiet I was.
Cleaning off my spade at home, I was struck by a rotten tomato. Butch just smiled at me, letting me know to stay off his street. He took off running when I stood up. Must have done pretty well punching him. How was it my fault getting hit by a rotten tomato? Wash the tomato off the bricks and another day of drawing wanted posters in the yard. I was getting quite a collection of wanted posters.
