The Boys

Stan, Jack and Tom pictured in front of the ceramic tile fireplace in the living room, 1810 Oxford Street, Rockford, 1941

INTRODUCTION

Though not meant to be a "tell all" exposé of the many adventures of the Wentland boys, these are some of the memories I have of our growing up together, interspersed with occasional interjections from what Tom and Stan have shared with me about events I was too young to remember or about details only they knew.

And since I am the compiler, much of what's here may seem self-serving. Though that's not my intention here, the compilation may seem to lean a little to the memory of the youngest of the brothers. For this I apologize ahead of time, but with no sense of shame. This is just my attempt to put down the facts. As in the movies of the 1940's, the witness was wont to tell the police after giving his version of what happened, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

The stories are grouped under headings of the residences where the Wentland boys lived in Rockford growing up: 934 Ridge Avenue, 1910 N. Church Street, 1810 Oxford Street, 1303 Ridge Avenue, 1724 Second Avenue and 1252 N. Main Street [under revision...stories not yet separated into those subpages).

Additional stories are under the headings with each of our names. Some of them overlap, but all are the reminiscences of this "little brother" who at 13 years of age grew taller than both Stan and Tom, who from then on referred to me as their "younger brother."

Vacant lots in the days when we were growing up were alternatives to a public playground. As kids we never paid much attention to whom the property belonged. The space was ours for whatever creativity we wanted to be involved in.

The lot next to 1810 Oxford Street was like that. From the imagination of Stan and Tom came the "fort" they created from a box turned upside down, three wooden clothesline props and three bricks. I was too little to be involved in such things, Stan and Tom would say. "You might get hurt." In fact, the picture on the left seems to indicate that while playing there, I needed the caring response of Mom, with Stan and Tom looking on with concern. I don't remember the event. But the picture speaks a thousand words. I wonder if the young woman Mom and Dad employed as our baby sitter might have made these pictures. Since we are wearing the same clothes in the three pictures, it seems like they were made the same day. Later in life Mom told me her name was Leona Warner (pictured holding me) and was glad to have her as a big help since Mom was working with Dad at the A&P for much of the day.

1303 Ridge Avenue, the gray home, as seen in 1964, from tree bank of what was a vacant lot in the late 1940's, showing the garage.

A Little Nostalgia Trip - 1303 Ridge Avenue

In 2005 I visited the old homestead, making pictures and composing this commentary:

The ol' place is really tree-heavy now. After Dutch Elm denied the city its "Forest City" fame, it took some time for the funding to re-forest the streetscapes. You can hardly see the house for the trees and bushes along the front. Alas the big elm tree in the front yard fell victim to the disease.

The welcome banner decorated with gardenias to the left of the walk to the door assures the visitor that the yew bushes that surround the porch steps are friendly.

Camping Out. . .On the Front Porch

I began writing thjs story inspired by the Ken Burns documentary Mark Twain, rerun on CPTV Hartford, 2014.

Every boy likes to “camp out” in the summertime—whether in the back yard under a blanket thrown over the clothes line or at a summer camp.

I remember one evening when the temperatures in Rockford, Illinois, were in 80’s during the day and the temperature in the house was still too warm to sleep comfortably. My big brothers, Stan and Tom, asked to “camp out” on the front porch.

It was something I hadn’t heard about yet in my short young life—a new experience for me as a 6 year-old. So I wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. Another motive was that the risk was too great that not doing the camping would likely bring down upon me the ribbing of my brothers—as big brothers sometime like to do to their little brothers—about being “chicken.” and I was always up for anything that would avoid that.

In fact, there were times when they were going somewhere when I’d pipe up to their annoyance, “I wanna go, too!” “Do we have to take him, Mom?” was their annoyed query every time. And Mom’s response was, “Aw, go ahead and take him, Boys; he won’t be a bother, will you, Jackie?” My innocent answer was always a compliant “Uh Uh!” I knew that was the right answer to assure the sought after tag-a-long permission.

Now our house at 1303 Ridge Avenue had a nice screened-in porch across the whole side of the house. That was the proposed space for our camping out, much more convenient than outdoors. No need to set up a tent. Stan and Tom made the preparations with the quilts and blankets that served as a mattress for Tom and me. Stan had a sleeping bag for his Boy Scouting in Troop 173.

I remember building Lincoln Log cabins that night, complete with a green-slated roof. But more than than I remember the evening dessert we had before bedtime—Chocolate Covered Cookies. These were somewhat like what Nabisco makes today-SnackWell Devil’s Food Cookies, but back then they were square-shaped. Some may remember these delicious treats with a cake-like center, surrounded by a layer of marshmallow and with a glazed chocolate coating. We enjoyed this substitute for what might have been making S’mores had we been able to have a campfire. But since we were on the porch, these were a tasty substitute.

Well, we enjoyed this treat, but we didn’t finish them all off. There were a couple of half-eaten ones left as we dozed off for the night. In the morning as we awoke, we were greeted by company. A colony small red ants were clustered all around the left over cookies having a ball. Luckily the cookies had been left near the porch wall and not near our sleeping area. So none of those hungry ants had invaded our sleeping blankets or sleeping bag. Needless to say, we didn’t lay around long that morning. We were up and rolling up the bedding really fast and getting rid of the ants.

The Vacant Lot Across the Street: Miniature Village, Rope Swing and Discarded Christmas Tree Fort

Playgrounds are where you find or create them as a kid. For my two brothers and I the place for play was across King Street from our home on Ridge Avenue. None of us ever wondered who owned the lot within eye shot of the kitchen, kitty-corner across the street. Kids don’t think about such mundane things. They just find it easy to enjoy the space that offered such immense possibilities for exploration and fun.

For children of our age walking eight blocks to Huffman Park or to Walker School Playground where there were swings and other playground activities was not as attractive as the enjoyment we found win and around the grassy field of about an acre bounded along the street by a four or five foot terrace. That terrace offered a kind of defense, shielding from view anyone lookin at the field from the street or from occupants in cars passing by.

Then too, at our ages we were supposed to stay close to home.

There were three ways this space served the purposes of the three of us—5-, 7- and 10-year olds. It afforded us a swing, a dirt terrace where we could excavate streets winding up the incline in hairpin turns and a place to build a fort of discarded Christmas trees.

The packed dirt of the terrace was just right for creating “garages” and dug-out homes where our small cars could make their way in accompanied by as many adventuresome scenarios as our young minds could conjure. We’d be there for what seemed like endless hours creating our homes and roads connected into what became a hobbit-like village dug into the side of that hill.

Another feature of that space that lot was the tree whose branch afforded a place to tie the perfect pendulum of 1inch thick rope looped on a branch. Stan as the oldest could climb the tree to get the rope in place. The hanging down rope on which we could swing had multiple knots tied in in to serve as a kind of seat we’d put between our legs. The other end of the rope was tied to around to tank of the tree. We could tighten and loosen the rope from tan end to adjust the height of the seat knot. That swing end was extended back to the edge of the terrace so that we could mount it and shove off from that point to catapult ourselves from the top of the terrace out over the street and back again. Motorists would be startled by the sight of a small body flying out over the street as they drove past our rope swing.

Finally, and to continue where we left off above. The play space for a Christmas tree fort.

The Fire in That Vacant Lot

Having two older brothers gave me the advantage of experiencing what to me were adventures. Stan and Tom included me in their play, sometime willingly, other times reluctantly.

One of the adventures they led me into was the use of an empty spool of thread as a launcher of kitchen matches. Since kids today might find tis interesting let me tell you how this”launcher” is made. One needs an empty spool of thread—the large size is better—a ¼” piece of elastic about 3½” long and a length of duct tape long enough to wrap around the spool. Extending the elastic so that it covers the hole at one end of the spool, wrap the tape around the spool to hold both ends of the elastic tight against the spool, neither leaving slack nor stretching the elastic.

We would take a kitchen match and stick the butt end of it (opposite end from the match head), down toward the elastic so that the butt end extends into the elastic. Then we’d pinch the butt end couched in the elastic between the thumb and index finger and pull back a little, leaving the match head showing enough to strike it on the box or other rough surface. Voila! Match launcher ready.

Now I don’t know the source of this idea, but, rather than something found in Boys’ Life or Popular Mechanics magazines, the directions were more likely part of pre-teen oral tradition, handed on by word of mouth for generations.

There were always variations in the launching. One variation Tom and Stan used was to create "Kamikaze" kitchen-matches by wetting the heads slightly with saliva before striking them and shooting them. World War II made this variation popular, though we had no idea of how lethal this suicide attack was in those days. Newsreels at the movies showed footage of these attacks by Japanese pilots, but we never really we shown the full extent of the damage these attacks had. We just thought it was neat the way the damp match delayed breaking into flames only after it was airborne.

Just across King Street from our home on the southeast corner of Ridge and King, there was a vacant lot. And in the middle of the lot was a large lilac bush. It was January, 1944, that we collected discarded Christmas trees from around the neighborhood and laid them around the bush to create a “fort.” We had collected enough trees to create a kind of blind in which we could hunker down behind the collected trees with the bush at our backs.

Most kids, not their parents, would have thought this fort would serve as a perfect place from which to launch matches. The matches, after all, were being lobbed out away from the dry evergreen trees. And besides, they weren’t that dry. Until one day. . .

Tom, Stan and I had been in our fort shooting our kamikaze matches out into the field around us. Most of the lot was spotted with clumps of leftover snow from an earlier snowfall with grass still brown and damp from the winter melting. After being struck and launched, the matches we were shooting up into the air would come down in the damp grass with a hiss as they died out. Great diversion on a Saturday morning.

Then Mom’s voice called out from across the street, “Lunch time! And we were on our way.

Enjoying our bologna sandwiches with the usual gusto of three hungry boys, we carried on as usual until....suddenly Mom’s cry arose as she looked out the kitchen window across to the vacant lot, "The lot’s on fire!"

Stan and Tom leaped up from their chairs in disbelief and ran through the back door and out across the yard and street to the lot. By the time they got there the trees had already created an inferno with flames rising up about ten feet in the air. Since the trees on the edge were mostly out by the time they got to the burning "fort", they were able to grab the trunks of these and spread them out on to the snow-covered lot to help dissipate the fire.

Me? I stayed at the table in the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant as I finished my lunch. Having just turned seven-years-old, I was too young to help with the fire management. Mom mused about how this fire could have started. I said nothing.

When Stan and Tom returned, having seen to it that the fire was out and the trees were no longer in danger of burning, they were looking intently at me. Their concern was more about whether a parental prohibition against the launchers would result from this accident than for any embarrassment I might be feeling. While I did not admit anything, their suspicions about the role of this toe-headed 7-year-old in the cause of the fire were correctly placed.

Their little 7-year-old brother had learned from his two big brothers how to create "Kamikaze" kitchen-matches. The trouble with the last match I shot just as we were heading over to lunch was that it landed in the “Christmas Tree Fort” of piled up, discarded neighborhood Christmas trees surrounding the bush in the center of the vacant lot. How was a seven-year-old to know the thing would burst into enough flame to catch the fir trees on fire? Thank goodness for the fast action of two brave big brothers. I just sheepishly remained at the table finishing my lunch with a innocent, "I just don't know what could have started that fire, Mom."

When Stan and Tom returned, having seen to it that the fire was out and the trees were no longer in danger of burning, they were looking intently at me. Their concern was more about whether a prohibition against the launchers would result from this accident than for any embarrassment I might be feeling. While I did not admit anything, their suspicions about the role of this toe-headed 7-year-old in the cause of the fire were correctly placed.

The trouble with the last match I shot as we were heading home to lunch was that it landed among the dry fir trees of our fort. How was I to know the thing would burst into enough flame to catch the fir trees on fire? Thank goodness for my two brave big brothers who saved the day by gettng the conflagration under control before the bush they surrounded was entirely engulfed!

The vacant lot is no more, but the terrace to the yard of the home built on it has a wooden stairway where the rope swing once hung.

The back door and yard of 1303 Ridge Avenue, as seen in 1964.

The Pillow Fight

“Stop! stop! hold it!” the small voice rang out in the dark of the upstairs hallway. Tom and Stan moaned thinking their 8 year old little brother Jackie was hurt again. He was such a runt, they sometimes called him “Runt” among other epithets referring to size. It seemed to them that whenever they did anything, he tried to be as big as his brothers 3 and 6 years older than he and ended up getting hurt. That was such a bother for them. Mom and Dad would get on their case whenever Jackie was hurt, as if they were the cause of his misadventurous injuries. But tonight he had to be there with them because mom and dad were out. They were home babysitting.

This time, however, he was hollering “Stop!” not because he was hurt. You see, it’s this way. The boys had arranged a pillow fight. And the location? In the second floor hallway. Homes like this on Ridge Avenue at the corner of King Street have a long upstairs hallway met at its center point by the stairway flowing down in two stages to the first floor.

“I’ll stand you two,” Stan told them. “You two start at the bathroom end of the hall and I’ll start here at the other end. Whoever gets past the other to the opposite end of the hall wins, okay?”

“Okay, and to make it even,” Tom added, “we’ll turn out the light and do it in the dark.” As the middle child, Tom was the measurer, making sure things were fair.

Stan agreed.

They moved the small table with the paper mache Lourdes Shrine and blessed candle on its silver-plated candle stick out of the way into mom and dad’s bedroom. The hallway was clear of any obstacles to an out-and-out, rough-and-tumble pillow fight.

Before beginning the battle, Tom whispered to Jack so Stan wouldn’t hear, “I’ll hit him on the top, you get him on the bottom.”

Jackie accepted this since he was half the size of Stan’s hefty 14 year-old frame. His head just about reached Stan’s waist.

The light switch was hardly in the “off” position before the rivals proceeded forward, their pillows swinging back and forth against the dark until thy met their mark.

It wasn’t long before Jackie’s pillow found Stan legs and he wrapped himself around one of them, while at the same time trying to swing his pillow. Tom was swinging away above with major body blows hitting Stan. And Stan, ignoring the small obstacle to the movement of his leg, was retaliating with even more hefty pillow blows to Tom. Shortly after that they heard Jack’s “Stop!”

Complaining, they stopped, “Aw, now what, Runt?” and reached for the light switch. The light went on. As they squinted against the sudden brightness, their complaints were changed to amazement. The light revealed a veritable storm of feathers floating down to the piles of feathers already on the floor. Their high energy for the pillow fight quickly switched into clean-up gear. They had to get the feathers up efore mom and dad came home. Never daunted, the clever boys began the task of vacuuming the feathers up with the Electrolux.

Once everything was cleaned up and the burst pillow case well hidden, they were in bed as if nothing had happened by the time mom and dad came home.

The next morning the boys were in the kitchen having the breakfast mom had prepared. Totally confident mom had no idea what had transpired the night before, they nonchalantly ate their breakfast.

The calm was broken by mom’s question, “Did you boys have a pillow fight last night?”

The boys gulped, looking at one another with suspicion about who had ratted on them. Jackie was the immediate target of their suspicion.

Never daunted, Stan innocently asked, “What gave you that idea?”

Continuing her kitchen work without turning around, she responded, “Well, I found all these feathers in the vacuum cleaner.” Oooops, discovered by our own Mrs. Marple!!

Phew! Little brother Jack was off the hook.

MUSIC APPRECIATION

Classical music is part of my life at this time of my life. I owe my earliest memories of classical music to the piano practice by my brother Tom. The melody of Chopin’s Military Polonaise is one of the earliest classic pieces I remember at age 10 or 11. My brother Tom practiced it on the Cable upright player piano Dad and Mom purchased in 1947 or so. He was to perform it at a school recital at St. Peter’s in his sixth grade. I would hear it over and over again as I did my fourth grade home work and he practiced it til he had it memorized.

It seems fitting that that piece by a Polish composer should play a role in my exposure to classical music. We traced our ethnic heritage though our grandfather Andrew John Wentland, our dziadzio, to Poland--Poznan.

Other Classical Music I Heard as a Child on Radio, in Movies, Commercials and Other Sources

{but never recognized as classical music]

(thoughts begun 10/22/93; Prairie Center, Roselle)

RADIO

The beginnings of my classical music education. . .

Music themes I heard as a child as background to voice-overs:

The Lone Ranger: Rossini's Overture to William Tell

Liszt's Le Prelude

Lorenzo Jones & his wife Belle: Funiculì, Funiculà" is a famous song written by Italian journalist Peppino Turco and set to music by Italian composer Luigi Denza in 1880. Six years after Funiculì, Funiculà was composed, German composer Richard Strauss heard the song while on a tour of Italy. Thinking that it was a traditional Italian folk song, he later incorporated it into his Aus Italien symphony. To his great embarrassment, Strauss realized his mistake when an angry Denza filed a lawsuit against him. Denza won the lawsuit, and Strauss was forced to pay him a royalty fee every time the Aus Italien was performed in public.

Your FBI in Peace and War: Sergei Prokofiev - March of Three Oranges

The Count of Monte Cristo: Leo Delieb - Suite from Sylvia

Franz Leonhart -

Sergeant Presto of the Yukon:

Red Skelton and the “Mean Wittle Kid” In the Hall of the Mountain King -- from Edvard Grieg music for Peer Gynt, Suite No. 1, Op. 46

The Red Skelton Raleigh Cigarette Program on radio began Oct 7, 1941. Of all the recurring characters, including punch-drunk boxer Cauliflower McPugg, inebriated Willie Lump-Lump [with his inimitable “Guzzler’s Gin” commercial] the con man San Fernando Red with his pair of cross-eyed seagulls, Gertrude and Heathcliffe, and singing cabdriver Klem Kadiddlehopper, a country cab driver, his "Mean Widdle Kid" Junior, whose favorite phrase ("I dood it!") became part of the American lexicon. This was our favorite character, perhaps because we could identify with his age. The introductory theme music for the Mean Widdle Kid always fascinated me. Little did I know that this was music a classical ballet. Only in 1969 when the Moody Blues did their rock album with the track “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” played at the church-sponsored Coffee House in Rochelle did I connect the radio skit and the ballet music.

Also used as theme on the show was Katchaturian's Saber Dance

RADIO COMMERCIALS

Phillip Morris Cigarette Commercial: Ferde Grofe's Grand Canyon Suite,

On the Trail

MOVIES (later life)

CanCan Jacques Offenbach – Opheus in Hades

Disney’s Sleeping Beauty Tchaikovski – Sleeping Beauty Waltz

Phantom of the Opera [Claude Raines] Bach – Tocata and Fugue in D minor

Father of the Bride and Various Wedding Scenes with Spencer Tracy

Wagner – “Bridal Chorus” from Lohengren

Elvira Madigan Mozart - Piano Concerto #21 [Andante]

CanCan J acques Offenbach – Opheus in Hades

10 Ravel - Bolero

Ground Hog Day Rachmaninoff – Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini (var. 18)

Till the End of Time Lyrics/Music: Ted Mossman/Buddy Kaye, 1945

Adapted from Chopin's Polonaise No. 6 in A Flat Major

Not to be confused with Chopin’s Military Polonaise, Opus 40, no.1

Nor with his Polonaise no. 53 “Heroic”

Cartoons:

Bugs Bunny Chopin - Marche Funébrae

“Dumm-dumm-da-dum, dum-da-dum-dum-dum-da-dum. . . .”

I remember Stan or Tom ominoously humming this melody to indicate to me the threat of imminent danger to me, understood by me as the possibility of one or the other meting out some physicality on me. Very early in my life, I knew what their intonation of the first bars of this piece meant.

Bugs Bunny Brahms - Hungarian Dance #5 “Lullaby and Goodnight . .”

Rabbit of Seville Rossini – Overture: The Barber of Seville “Largo at Factotum”

MUSICAL PARODIES

Spike Jones and his Wacky Wackateers

Gioachino Rossini - Overture to William Tell (“Beedlebomb”)

Tchaikovsky - None But the Lonely Hearts (John . . .Mary)

Alan Sherman (1963) “Camp Granada Hello, Muddah, Hello Faddah” based on

Emilcare Ponchielli - Dance of the Hours from La Giaconda

Used also for the “Hippo Ballet” in Disney’s Fantasia

TELEVISION DAYS

Alfred Hitchcock TV Theme Music Gounod - Funeral March of the Marionettes

RECORDINGS

Mario Lanza Leoncavalo – Vesti la giubba, Pagliacci

Verdi – La Donna Mobile, Rigoletto

So much of this "unconscious" exposure to classical music resulted from Tom, and the remainder from other sources at a young age. Along the way as I was growing up, I was typically drawn to the popular music of the time. I remember Tom getting a VM (Voice of Music) record player--with 78, 45 and 33 1/3 RPM in 1960 on which he played his favorites. Mario Lanza was one of his favorites, both popular music from the sound track of "The Student Prince" and from his operatic work.

I'm indebted to him for acquainting me with the classics even though I didn't appreciate it at the time.

1724 2nd Avenue and Guns

I never really thought of guns as important in my life. As I look back to my early years, I remember only my big brother having guns. Perhaps the fascination with guns was like the prurient interest I had in my brother’s girly magazines. They were both fascinating to me because there was something forbidden about them. And I, the little brother, was given or found access to them.

I remember the first time I shot a gun. I was in grade school. My brother Stan was in high school. He had a .22 calibre rifle. I don’t know where he got it or how, at that age. I didn’t question thngs like that. I do know that Mom and Dad didn’t know he had it. The only time he fired it, as far as I know, was in the basement of our home at 1724 Second Avenue in Rockford. He had set up a shooting range there between the east and west walls.

I remember the first time Stan asked me if I wanted to fire it. It was one day when mom and dad were gone. He was in the basement target shooting into a stack of newspapers piled against the west basement wall. He was sitting on his left folded leg with the right one bent and braced out in front of him.

“You want to shoot it?” he asked.

My eyes lit up with wonder that he really asked me. I was so naïve to think his invitation was by way of guarantee that I would not squeal on him. Guilt by association was not part of my vocabulary at that age.

As I got down in a position that aped his, I aimed the rifle.

“Aim through your right eye, not your left!” he coached me.

I was embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed he had done it that way. I corrected my aiming eye. I slowly squeezed the trigger.

“Bam!” went the rifle. I didn’t notice whether I hit anything. I just remember the kick of the gun butt against my shoulder. It didn’t hurt. It was just surprising.

“Want to try it again?”

I took aim again, this time with the right eye.

“Bam!” This time I was ready for the kick. And I watched as the gun fired to see where the bullet struck the papers.

It wasn’t much. I don’t know that I ever fired a gun again. It just seems as if I came of age that day—at the ripe old age of nine.

Wentland's Second Avenue Grocery, 1724 2nd Avenue, 1949[LIFE Photo by Margaret Bourke-White]

Pvt Stanley F. Wentland in 1950... he wears the Sterling Silver US Army Infantry "Marksman" badge with the "Rifle" bar attached. Stan was always good with a rifle. Read the story about "Guns" at Pvt Stanley F. Wentland in 1950... he wears the Sterling Silver US Army Infantry "Marksman" badge with the "Rifle" bar attached. Stan was always good with a rifle.

One of my favorite images of Stan is this pensive moment I captured at one of the family Christmas gatherings at his and Dorothy's home at 7903 Randy Road.

The Shot Not Heard Around the World...just the neighborhood

[Reader Advisory: This story is recounted here in two versions, the first, as I remember I'd been told it, the second, further below, as Tom told me later. When I shared tho original story with Tom, he made a number of corrections to the tale and how it all actually came down. According to Tom, as recounted in the second version below, it all took place inside in Stan's bedroom in the upstairs residence, not out in the street. That version follows my retelling below. I think the first version is much more captivating, even though it's not accurate. But then, I'm biased.]

The shot rang out through the usually quiet east side “little Sweden” neighborhood around 1724 2nd Avenue. Tom writhed in pain on the pavement, the oddly-shaped hole in the leg of his jeans still smoldering and the skin of his upper rear thigh with a third degree burn. The screams of Peggy and the other two teenaged girls split the fall evening. The leave-strewn street helped absorb the shrieks echoing down the tree lined 1700 block of Second Avenue. Stan stood in the street looking down at his brother. Still holding the smoking 40-gauge shotgun, he was thinking, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

Earlier that day, Stan and Tom had set up how this scenario was supposed to develop. Actually Stan talked Tom into this little trick he wanted to play on the girls when they came over to their house that night. Mom and Dad would be gone to the Moose Club. Their eleven-year-old brother Jack would be at a friend’s house. The plan sounded so simple.

“I’ll take out the shot from one of the shotgun shells and replace the shell in the gun,” he said to Tom. “I’ll pretend to have a fight with you and you go runnin’ down the front stairs to the street. I’ll get the shotgun and chase after you. When you get outside, I’ll shoot at you, and you fall like I really shot you.” Tom was a good sport. At 15, he loved the thought of scaring the girls. “Are you sure this’ll work?” He asked with a twinge of distrust not so much of his 18 year-old brother as the way the plan was to play out. “I mean, what if somethin’ goes wrong?”

“What, you chicken or somethin’?” Stan egged him on. “It’ll be fine. Just imagine the girls. They’ll be so scared they’ll pee in their pants.”

Tom’s pants leg had an 8 inch round hole burned in it. And the skin of his upper right thigh was burned raw. Something had gone wrong. Oh, the sham fight began all right, the chase went fine, and the girls were given a scare as Stan had planned. What he and Tom hadn’t planned was how far away Tom would get before Stan would fire at him. As it turned out, he chased Tom so fast he caught up to him in the street and was less than 6 feet from Tom when he pulled the trigger. The blast rang out through the neighborhood. Tom turned his back to Stan as he attempted to brace himself against the shot. The burning wadding came out the barrel of the gun like a fireball of a skyrocket at the city 4th of July fireworks. The wadding hit Tom in his upper right thigh and burned right through his khakis to his skin. The smell of burned cloth and skin was in the air. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. After Stan helped put Tom’s burning pants out. Tom limped back up the stairs. The girls were scared all right. But the aftermath was nothing like Stan and Tom had planned. The girls didn’t stay around for long. Tom got the burned pants off and was putting Unguentine on his burned skin. Stan and he were wondering how they would tell Mom and Dad. Tom got to bed but wasn’t able to sleep very well. The next morning, Tom was getting up and limped into the kitchen. He was supposed to helping out in the grocery store below their home that morning.

“What’s wrong, Tom? Why’re you limping,” Mom asked, as she was getting breakfast together.

“I just scraped my leg goin’ over a fence last night,” Tom replied with his head down to keep from having to look Mom in the eye. She always saw through him.

“Let’s see.”

Tom pulled his pajamas down to reveal his thigh.

“O my gosh, Tom, “that looks bad! We should get you to the hospital.”

“Aw, Mom, it’s all right. I’ll be fine!”

Stan wasn’t saying a thing, appreciative and relieved that Tom hadn’t said what really happened.

I don’t remember when Tom told me what really happened. I do remember the next day when I asked Tom to see his leg. He showed me. I remember the outline of the large bean-shaped patch of puss-covered flesh surrounded by a red-ring outline. I also remember thinking it didn’t look like a scrape wound. At some time when mom and dad weren’t around, he told me what really happened. As I look back, I feel complimented that Tom would confide in me. I feel I became a little more important at that time. I think my self-esteem rose a few feet that day.

It was many years later before Mom and Dad found out what really happened. That’s why I felt so important. Tom had told me before he told them. It was one of those little acts of confidence that only a little brother could appreciate.

Senior Year picture of Tom shows him a few years after the incident described here.

How It Really Came About

The shot rang out through the usually quiet east side “little Sweden” neighborhood around 1724 2nd Avenue. Tom writhed in pain as he limped away, his jeans bearing the burn in an oddly-shaped hole in the upper rear thigh still smoldering and the skin showing a bloody third degree burn. Stan looked in disbelief looking at his brother. Still holding the smoking 40-gauge shotgun, he was thinking, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

Earlier that day, Stan had thought of this little trick he wanted to play on his brother that night. Mom and Dad would be gone to the Moose Club. Their eleven-year-old brother Jack would be at a friend’s house. The plan sounded so simple.

"I’ll empty the shot from one of the shotgun shells and replace the shell in the gun, he thought to himself. And then I'll call Tom into my room. When he shows up at the door, I'll pull the trigger and there'll be a big bang from the gun, nothing more..." Such was Stan's thought. But the aftermath was nothing like Stan had planned.

But after pulling the trigger, Stan saw that Tom’s pants leg had an 8 inch kidney-shaped hole burned in it. And the skin of his upper right thigh was burned raw. Something had gone wrong. Oh, the shot was heard all right. But what Stan hadn't calculated was how close Tom would get before Stan would fire at him. As it turned out, Tom, standing at the door of Stans' bedroom, was no more than six feet from the end of the rifle barrel. When he saw Stan with shotgun, he turned to his left and doubled up his left leg attempting to brace himself against the shot. The burning wadding came out the barrel of the gun like a fireball of a skyrocket at the city 4th of July fireworks. The wadding hit Tom in his upper right thigh and burned right through his jeans to his skin. They both could smell of burned cloth and skin in the air. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Afterwards Stan, totally miffed at the harm done to Tom, helped put Tom’s burning pants out, and Tom got the burned pants off. Luckily Stan had purchased a military first aid kit from the Army Surplus Store. He got it out, tore open the envelope of sulfa powder and spread it on Tom's wound. Some of the pain was alleviated. Stan and he were wondering how they would tell Mom and Dad. Tom got to bed but wasn’t able to sleep very well. The next morning, Tom got up and limped into the kitchen. He was supposed to be helping out in the grocery store below their home that morning.

“What’s wrong, Tom? Why’re you limping,” Mom asked, as she was getting breakfast together.

“I just scraped my leg goin’ over a fence last night,” Tom replied with his head down to keep from having to look Mom in the eye. She always saw through him.

“Let’s see.”

Tom pulled his pajamas down to reveal his thigh.

“O my gosh, Tom, “that looks bad! We should get you to the hospital.”

“Aw, Mom, it’s all right. I’ll be fine!”

Stan wasn’t saying a thing, appreciative and relieved that Tom hadn’t said what really happened.

I don’t remember when Tom told me what really happened. I do remember the next day when I asked Tom to see his leg. He peeled back the gauze pad taped to his thigh revealing his wound, and I remember the outline of the large bean-shaped patch of puss-covered flesh surrounded by a red-ring outline. I also remember thinking it didn’t look like a scrape wound. At some time later, when mom and dad weren’t around, he told me what really happened. As I look back, I feel complimented that Tom would confide in me. I feel I became a little more important at that time. I think my self-esteem rose a few feet that day.

From here you can go to an additional collection of stories shared at Tom's Celebration of Life in Rome, Georgia, on May 30, 2024 by clicking here

This site is under continuing revision and editing...please be patient and come back at regular times so you don't miss anything. :-)

Being an Altar Boy

Recently I came across this copy of a booklet like the one I received in grade school and was immediately transported back to the cloakroom of 5th Grade classroom at St. James School, Rockford, where, with other boys of the class, I was being instructed by Tom Doran, a sixth grader, on how to pronounce the responses in Latin. Thomas G. Doran [February 20, 1936 - September 1, 2016] was later to study at Loras College, St. Pius X Seminary (Dubuque, Iowa) and the Pontifical Gregorian University and to be ordained by Martin John O'Connor, rector of the North American College, in St. Peter's Basilica, Rome, in 1961. I went on to study at Sacred Heart Seminary, Geneva, Illinois, St Mary of the Lake, Mundelein, and Mt. St Mary of the West, Cincinnati, and to be ordained by Loras. T. Lane, at St. James Pro-Cathedral, Rockford in 1963.

Not much in common. Even less in common as he was ordained Bishop of Rockford. June 24, 1994, eight years after I left the diocese. Tom's predecessor as bishop had been Arthur J. O'Neill, who served as assistant pastor at St. James when we were in grade school.

All that personal history and more came back to me as I perused this publication.

BTW

Anyone needing training as an altar boy for the Tridentine Mass (those who follow this liturgy do not allow girls/women as altar servers), Fr. O'Brien's little booklet is still available in reprint and available for just $6.90 as can be seen by clicking here.

But, for free, you can read the full text yourself by clicking here

I smiled as I read Fr. O'Brien's detailed directions for all the movements and precise actions the publication directed the altar boy to memorize, to say nothing of the Latin...made easy by the "English sound for each Latin word placed above it in the form of simple English words." Try it: Odd day-um kwee lay-tee-fee-cot you-ven-too-tem may-ahm. Good! You just spoke the Latin for "To God who gives joy to my youth."

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