Late Nights and Lunch Breaks

Late Nights and Lunch Breaks 
By John R. Greenwood


Introduction

It was after eleven on that bitter night in February. The traffic out front had thinned to a few teenagers coming home from their evening shift at the Supermegamovieplex. You could hear the boys coming from a block away as they downshifted super tuned Honda Civics low enough to drown out the bass-thumping speakers. They would nail the throttle in mid turn and two-wheel around the once quiet corner where my little ranch of white aluminum stood guard over the neighborhood. Earlier in the evening I had been watching the girls in their Dodge Neons skid up to the intersection. You could see the hair pulled back vice-grip-tight with cell phones glued to the left ear-shoulder. They would be vainly looking in the rear-view mirror while briefly glancing down the road in one of two directions. This phenomenon keeps insurance premiums; premium, and parent’s dreams; nightmares. 

On this same evening and after reading myself dizzy over the past several weeks I realized that if I ever wanted to achieve my dream of becoming a writer of any significance, I would need to actually sit down and write something more involved than simple poems, captions to photographs, and semi-clever Facebook posts. Being inspired had become a hobby. I can find inspiration in a television commercial, tree stump, or bag of fruit, but I always refuse to pay the additional fee needed for the ambition to do something more with it. I am by nature a spontaneous procrastinator. I will get to the edge of; delving in. But I never get deeper than sorting out piles of ideas. Maybe I am afraid of failure? Maybe I am afraid of success? I believe I am simply a bit lazy. If it involves prolonged commitment, I will weaken at the knees and vertigo will set in. My latest inspirational tool was a book titled, “Don’t Quit Your Day Job,” edited by author Sonny Brewer. It is an anthology of stories written by authors about the day jobs they have held. Realizing at the end of the book that I although I have maintained a prolonged career at the same company, I have enjoyed a wide variety of sub-jobs that have circled around the one that has paid the bills the longest. I have delivered newspapers on horseback and inserted Sunday supplements in them. I framed houses and painted them inside and out. I have performed driveway truck repairs in sub-zero weather on many a dark winter evening. I have delivered quarts of milk to porches at the end of streets and at the end of an era. I have washed windows, milk tankers, dishes and cars. I have felt the bite of an open circuit, pissed off dog, and miscalculated hammer swing. I have shingled, shoveled, and shucked. I raised boys, hell and flags. I love my family, country and life. I can drive you home, or to work, or nuts. 

What I have not done is realize my dream. I guess it’s time to wake up and start dreaming. 

This book is a collection of truthful tales as I recall them. I will use my well seasoned sense of direction to set a table of experiences and observations that have filtered down through a life of many layers. My wish is to quench your thirst and make you thirsty. If you have smiled at the sight of a young father chasing a fresh stepping toddler through a crowed mall, I have a story for you. If you shrug your shoulders in an “Oh-well-I-was-young-once-too-surrender” to a new idea some teenager came up with to terrorize his stressed out parents, I have a story for that too. If you have resigned yourself to a life of, “I love this world no matter how high the deficit climbs,” I am sure you will enjoy the bumpy country-soaked ride on which you are about to embark. This is not meant to be literature at it’s finest. It is meant to be a heartfelt attempt to wring out a half century of life’s experiences like a wet dish towel. This venture’s fuel? The desire to go out swinging with all my might. The title derived as a roadmap to the, “The End.” at the end. It may also take a few predawn hours or an after dinner keyboard romp to complete. But my goal of jumping off the edge of, “delve” has now begun. Thank you for buying a ticket. 

Late Nights and Lunch Breaks by John R. Greenwood

Author and his dog Spike on the steps of the Greenfield General Store
Circa 1958-59

Chapter One

The Greenfield General Store and The Path

The center of my hometown from birth to my first legal beer was the Greenfield General Store. The store anchored the village dead center. All small town general stores in the first half-century were modeled in it’s image. My home was paint-peeling white and just one house to the north. A hard packed dirt path ran down one side of the village. There were no sidewalks within six miles of my childhood home. “The Path” would turn out to be the lifeline of my world for the first eight years of existence. I would learn to ride my bike on, “The Path” and at the age of six pulled over my first speeder with the sky-blue police-bicycle my father had rescued, repaired, repainted, and recycled for my five-candled birthday. I have owned many bicycles, motorcycles, cars, and trucks over many decades; that simple sky-blue bicycle, with the chrome wheels and coaster brakes, still carries the most cherished memories. The reason is obvious.  

The Greenfield General Store down “The Path,” with one house in between, was right out of Mayberry RFD. “Quaint” would fit it perfectly. The store’s main attraction was a weathered and initial-carved bench that held more stories than a big-city library. I would gladly pay a month’s salary for that bench today. That bench graced the store’s porch for decades. The initials carved in its’ seat and solid spruce back, spanned generations of small-town hand-holding teenagers. It held quiet evidence of late night raids by brave young boys with cheap steel jackknives they’d won at the county fair. Attempting to crack the codes of a heart-filled JG+PB or Billy(?)Was Here”, was a favorite pastime of its seated visitors. On pre-Halloween, Cabbage Night, the brave bench would find itself perched atop the store’s porch roof or on the stoop of the Town Hall across the street. With no hint of distress the bench would simply return to duty, smiling with the knowledge of childhood pranks gently done, and highly regarded. 

Inside the old dry-hinged screen door with the Wonder Bread push bar lay a vast world of penny-candy filled display cases, heavy oak counters, ice cold soda coolers, and hanging fly strips yellowed and busy. Creaky wooden floors with a spongey-give worn smooth by work boots and PF Flyers ran front to back. A real-life butcher block could be found tucked in the stores back acre.  A large brown roll of meat wrapping paper and white twine lay poised for the next hand trimmed steak. There is something unforgettable about the smell of a butcher’s domain. The mix of damp sawdust and aged beef trimmings permeates the temples and settles deep in the mind’s recesses only to return instantly with the thunderous thud of a heavy cleaver as it lops off a thick hunk of red grainy beef.  

The store’s owner at the time of my earliest recollection was named Harry. He was wiry old character with wavy grey hair anyone over the age of fifty would kill for. Harry portrayed grumpy but it was an act. Old men who pin nicknames on young children aren’t grumpy they’re only upset they can’t go back and do it over. Harry tagged me with the name, “Johnny Jump-Up.” With a gentle gruffness he would threaten to, “pin my ears back.” I was never afraid. 

There was an eight foot long glass display case full of penny-candy just inside the front door. It was the centerpiece of the store and it attracted wide-eyed children and adults alike. Bazooka bubble gum, Tootsie Rolls, and strings of red and black licorice filled the hand-smudged giant. I recall one hot summer day around 1960. I was five and in the store with my beautiful young mother in the yellow and white sundress. A salesman came in just as we were leaving. He asked my mother if we would like to sample a new soda. He had sample cups and bottles of the new beverage. It’s name was Mountain Dew. I can taste that small paper cup sample today. Funny how those simple country moments embed themselves in your mind just a fraction below the surface, always ready for easy retrieval when happy thoughts are needed. 

The Greenfield General Store would embrace a handful of different owners through the years. As a pre-teen I worked for one of them after school and on Saturday afternoons. In a world just minutes ahead of child labor laws and hours before my generation, another generation was about to be enveloped in play-less lives inside the so called safe walls of their homes. I was fortunate enough to experience the joy of being a grocery shelf and soda cooler stocker, a floor sweeper, and a trash collector. I earned large sums of loose change, free ice cream and a life long work ethic. Old straw brooms and heavy metal dustpans were my tools of choice. No child was harmed in the formation of responsible young persons in the 1960’s. It was healthy to work. It was good to own blisters from raking leaves and digging potatoes. It was fun to fill pickup trucks with bales of hay. Itchy arms and sweat soaked white t-shirts were normal and expected. The Greenfield General Store was a large part of my young life and though it has been retired to the boredom of office space it will remain a large portion of my fondest memories. 

Late Nights and Lunch Breaks by John R. Greenwood

Chapter Three 

"The Kaydeross Creek"

“The Hole”

What do country boys do on hot muggy July days when they are bored and cranky? They jump on old rusty bicycles and pedal down rocky dirt roads to their favorite swimming hole. Our destination was appropriately named; “The Hole.” The creek that hosted, “The Hole” was the Kaydeross. Steeped in Indian folklore the Kaydeross ran through the town of Greenfield and eventually emptied into Saratoga Lake. The Kaydeross ran a little light in the summer months. The Hole got it’s name from the rock dam that created a ten foot deep by twenty foot wide pool of summer heaven. There were two steel railroad ties that bridged the two banks of our private paradise. A rope swing provided ample entertainment. A creekside tree with a thick heavy branch enabled brave stunt-boys a platform from which to launch out in to the air above the water. They would hit the water heavy and hard. It was important to curve your body upward immediately or you might find the rocky bottom with your fearless and crewcut covered skull. It wasn’t uncommon to see a spring stocked trout at the bottom. They would disappear quickly to the safety of deep crevices under the overhanging bank. An old stump worn smooth and slippery created another creek side thrill ride from which to jump into The Hole. We had no towels or swimsuits, only cutoff Levi’s and the summer sun to dry us off. It was a bit of an adventure to get to our cooling off spot. Riding several miles on a dirt road fighting off chasing dogs and horseflies gave the whole experience a safari feel. The ride home ended happily with a trip to the Greenfield General Store for a cold Hires Root Beer, Hershey Bar and a bag of salty potato chips. Chaffed thighs from riding bicycles for miles in wet jean shorts were only slightly less painful than the sunburned backs and foreheads we brought home. 

Late Nights and Lunch Breaks by John R. Greenwood

Chapter Two

Tackle Football and Falling Leaves

Young boys with torn sweatshirts and muddy Converse sneakers playing tackle football in long wide yards with high grass and falling leaves is a small town tradition. The fall smell of dry crunchy leaves heightens the senses and invigorates the energy of teenage boys. These were the happiest days of my youth. Our playing field of choice was perched atop Dake’s Hill, the highest point in Greenfield Center. The field was actually a section of the Dake family’s yard. One sideline was a row of vintage maple trees; tall, bark-thick, and unyielding. The opposing sideline was a hedge of wild thorn-heavy roses. One missed tackle and a trip to the depths of that hedge would inevitably result in a slow bloody extrication of a boy close to tears. One end-zone was a pair of century old maples, the other was a grey, four foot high wall of moss covered stones. Sundays were the day most chosen for our games. These afternoon fall rituals of touchdowns and bruised shins would last until tempers or hunger pains flared.