and everyone else around the diamond to hear her shout, “ You! Get over here. Now! ” She pointed the spoon at the ground by her feet.
I turned and ran toward second base. She gave chase. I looked like a bloody turkey with its head cut off as I circled the bases. “Run, Jack, run!” Bunny yelled out. “She’s gaining on you.” I could hear kids laughing.
Mom was a lot faster than I thought and when she collared me from behind at home plate all she said was, “Mister, you are in deep trouble.” Then she clamped one hand around the back of my neck and marched me across the outfield grass and up the Norvelt road. It was about a quarter mile to my house and all I could think of along the way was that from now on I would forever be known by everyone as “the kid who got dragged off the field by his mom.” That was going to be embarrassing. And it did make me think that moving out of this town as Dad wanted to do was a good idea, not because I thought the town was a Commie town but because once you got a reputation for one stupid thing it stuck with you forever . When my cousin Bruce was a baby boy—long, long before I was even born—he went “wee-wee” in his pants in the grocery store then walked around the store in wet pants shouting, “I wee-wee! I wee-wee!” It was as if he had given himself a new name, and to this day the whole town still calls him “Wee-Wee.” I was in the grocery store with him once and in the cereal aisle he pointed to the tile floor and said, “Don’t step there. That’s where I earned my name.” I figured kids on the baseball field would be calling me “Headless Turkey Boy” and when I ran the bases they’d tease me by making clucking noises. And if I was caught in a rundown between bases kids would point and say, “Once again, caught in a rundown by his own mother!”
When we arrived home I tried to distract her as she marched me to my room.
“Hey, Mom,” I asked, “how come the doctor said my blood is iron poor but it tastes like copper?”
“You are not funny,” she growled. “You are now grounded for the summer! You can only leave your room to do your chores, or go to the bathroom, and if you are lucky, mister, you might have the privilege of having dinner with me and your father. But that is it. And I’m going to call Mr. Huffer and tell him you will no longer be on the team.”
“But, Mom,” I pleaded, “we only have six kids to begin with.”
“Make that five,” she replied heartlessly.
“What about seeing Bunny?” I asked.
“It is possible,” Mom replied, “that you will have a beard the next time you see her.”
“Do you think she’ll get any taller by then?” I asked.
“No, but you have every chance of getting shorter,” she replied.
“Can I still help Miss Volker?” I asked forlornly. “She needs me.” Helping Miss Volker cook her hands and type obituaries suddenly sounded like a wonderful way to spend the summer.
Mom paced the floor and thought about it. “I’m only letting you go down there and help her,” she concluded, “because she needs you. Otherwise you can sit in here all summer and think about your shameful behavior. Firing that gun was a dangerous accident but mowing the corn against my direct orders was willful. You deliberately disobeyed me.” Then she pointed her finger at my chest and her voice became very throaty. “You took food away from hungry people. From poor people. Nothing can be lower and more cruel than that. Now what do you have to say for yourself?”
I had nothing to say for myself. What I did was wrong, and then what I said next was cowardly. “Dad made me cut down the corn,” I whimpered, and dabbed at my nose for sympathy.
“Well, mister,” she informed me with no trace of sympathy in her voice, “I’m going to march your father into this room and make him cut you down to size. And when he finishes with you I’ll make him wish he had already built that bomb shelter because he might
I turned and ran toward second base. She gave chase. I looked like a bloody turkey with its head cut off as I circled the bases. “Run, Jack, run!” Bunny yelled out. “She’s gaining on you.” I could hear kids laughing.
Mom was a lot faster than I thought and when she collared me from behind at home plate all she said was, “Mister, you are in deep trouble.” Then she clamped one hand around the back of my neck and marched me across the outfield grass and up the Norvelt road. It was about a quarter mile to my house and all I could think of along the way was that from now on I would forever be known by everyone as “the kid who got dragged off the field by his mom.” That was going to be embarrassing. And it did make me think that moving out of this town as Dad wanted to do was a good idea, not because I thought the town was a Commie town but because once you got a reputation for one stupid thing it stuck with you forever . When my cousin Bruce was a baby boy—long, long before I was even born—he went “wee-wee” in his pants in the grocery store then walked around the store in wet pants shouting, “I wee-wee! I wee-wee!” It was as if he had given himself a new name, and to this day the whole town still calls him “Wee-Wee.” I was in the grocery store with him once and in the cereal aisle he pointed to the tile floor and said, “Don’t step there. That’s where I earned my name.” I figured kids on the baseball field would be calling me “Headless Turkey Boy” and when I ran the bases they’d tease me by making clucking noises. And if I was caught in a rundown between bases kids would point and say, “Once again, caught in a rundown by his own mother!”
When we arrived home I tried to distract her as she marched me to my room.
“Hey, Mom,” I asked, “how come the doctor said my blood is iron poor but it tastes like copper?”
“You are not funny,” she growled. “You are now grounded for the summer! You can only leave your room to do your chores, or go to the bathroom, and if you are lucky, mister, you might have the privilege of having dinner with me and your father. But that is it. And I’m going to call Mr. Huffer and tell him you will no longer be on the team.”
“But, Mom,” I pleaded, “we only have six kids to begin with.”
“Make that five,” she replied heartlessly.
“What about seeing Bunny?” I asked.
“It is possible,” Mom replied, “that you will have a beard the next time you see her.”
“Do you think she’ll get any taller by then?” I asked.
“No, but you have every chance of getting shorter,” she replied.
“Can I still help Miss Volker?” I asked forlornly. “She needs me.” Helping Miss Volker cook her hands and type obituaries suddenly sounded like a wonderful way to spend the summer.
Mom paced the floor and thought about it. “I’m only letting you go down there and help her,” she concluded, “because she needs you. Otherwise you can sit in here all summer and think about your shameful behavior. Firing that gun was a dangerous accident but mowing the corn against my direct orders was willful. You deliberately disobeyed me.” Then she pointed her finger at my chest and her voice became very throaty. “You took food away from hungry people. From poor people. Nothing can be lower and more cruel than that. Now what do you have to say for yourself?”
I had nothing to say for myself. What I did was wrong, and then what I said next was cowardly. “Dad made me cut down the corn,” I whimpered, and dabbed at my nose for sympathy.
“Well, mister,” she informed me with no trace of sympathy in her voice, “I’m going to march your father into this room and make him cut you down to size. And when he finishes with you I’ll make him wish he had already built that bomb shelter because he might
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