Anne suspected that someone was hiding behind the brick barbecue
grill (someone always did). As she made a slow, wide circle around
the grill, trying to see who was crouching behind the brick structure,
she also tried to keep one eye on the can. So far, this was not an
unusual scenario for this game in this yard. But this time, instead of
darting around the opposite corner of the grill in a last ditch effort
to reach the can before Anne did, Jeff laid the small metal grate flat
in the tall grass and squeezed through the hole, into the belly of the
brick oven. The sooty ashes did not bother him at this point. This
was commando work. When Anne saw no one behind the brick grill,
she stood puzzled, thinking for sure she had heard something
rustling back there. When she looked up, Jeff had already popped up
from the top of the grill and hit the ground running! He kicked the
battered Maxwell House coffee can amid a flurry of cheers and
laughter. The captives were free!
Paul Clemmons showed up doing handstands. He was always showing
up with a new trick. This time, he came into the yard upside down,
feet in the air, walking on his hands. Despite these stunts, Paul
never seemed conceited. His attitude was, “Hey, you can do this,
too!”
“Man,” I said. “How do you do that?”
“You can do it, too!”
See what I mean?
“But how?” asked big Eric, placing his hands flat on the ground,
kicking into the air like a mule, and falling over sideways.
“First,” said Paul Clemmons, “You have to learn to stand on your
head.
Lean on the wall for balance. Or else have somebody hold your
ankles.”
We took a “time out” from kick-the-can. Everybody either paired up
or leaned against the side of the house to attempt this new
challenge. I wanted to pair up with Nancy Griffith but I hesitated
and she went to Anne.
With Roger holding my ankles steady, my arms trembled from the
effort of supporting myself upside down. The top of my head, as well
as my palms, pressed hard against the ground but I achieved balance.
“Alright,” I said to Roger. “Let go.”
He let go of my ankles and I was doing it – standing on my head!
Just then, Eric Littleton shouted, “Oh, shit!” and tumbled like a sack
of potatoes over toward me. His shoe came down right on my fingers.
“OW!” I squawked as I fell and rolled into a sitting position. “Damn,
man!”
“Sorry, Whimp!” he chuckled. “Are you okay?”
“Whimp” is a contraction of Whit (my name) and wimp (Eric’s
opinion of me).
One of my fingers was bleeding.
“Go in and ask my mother to give you a band-aid,” said Anne.
“Awww,” mocked Eric. “The baby needs a band-aid.”
“Shut up,” I said.
So, while the rest of the gang resumed playing kick-the-can, I went
into the house. Looking out the kitchen window while Mrs. Wade
washed my finger and wrapped a band-aid around it, I was privy to a
sight never before witnessed by mortals. I saw how Paul Clemmons
hid in leaves.
Jeff was it this time. While he counted to fifty, hands covering his
eyes, everyone else scrambled in different directions to hide. So
intent were the kids to get out of sight before Jeff finished
counting, they paid no attention to each other. No one noticed Paul
Clemmons as he knelt beside a big pile of leaves.
From inside Anne’s house, through the window, I watched him jab
his hand and arm into the side of the mound, all the way up to his
shoulder, and then lift a damp clump of top leaves like a thatched
hut roof. I saw that one of the secrets was to look for thin branches
sticking out; the branches helped brace and support the mass of
wet, sodden leaves. Paul lifted the “flap” with his elbow and rolled
his body into the leaf pile, letting the top of the mound fall back
down on him. The pile of leaves looked undisturbed and, if I had not
seen it myself, I would never have suspected anyone was in there.
I went back outside.
“I’m going to sit this game out,” I told Jeff.
I wanted to see what would happen.
Darkness had settled in. At one point, with everyone captured
except for Paul Clemmons, Jeff even poked the end of a rake handle
into each pile of leaves, but never felt anything suspicious. Paul
knew that now, with so many prisoners rounded up, Jeff would not
want to stray far from the can unless he had to. I barely saw the
mound of leaves move. Under cover of the night, keeping his body
low and flat on the ground, Paul crept out, ever so slowly, on the
opposite side of the pile from where Jeff stood surveying the usual
hiding places in the distance. The chatter of the other kids drowned
out any rustling of leaves.
Jeff now looked up into the trees. Climbing to the top of the oak
tree was just the kind of thing Paul Clemmons might do. Scanning
each limb carefully, Jeff took three steps away from the can. He
later said Paul was like a phantom hurtling out of nowhere at full
bore.
They both raced to the can, my brother trying to shout, “I see you!”
but before he could get it out, Paul had beaten him by a split
second. His kick sent the can sputtering on a low, level trajectory,
skimming and flipping along the ground.
By now, some of our mothers had called Mrs. Wade and asked her to
send their children home. We called it a night and went, depending
on each family’s custom, to baths, or late dinners, or TV, or
homework, and finally, bed. I decided that I would hide under a pile
of leaves the next time we played kick-the-can.
I did not have to wait long. The next evening, Saturday, we
gathered back in Anne’s yard at dusk. I was in luck. The three piles
of leaves were still there.
Roger was it.
“And no peeking!” yelled Anne.
Page 3
grill (someone always did). As she made a slow, wide circle around
the grill, trying to see who was crouching behind the brick structure,
she also tried to keep one eye on the can. So far, this was not an
unusual scenario for this game in this yard. But this time, instead of
darting around the opposite corner of the grill in a last ditch effort
to reach the can before Anne did, Jeff laid the small metal grate flat
in the tall grass and squeezed through the hole, into the belly of the
brick oven. The sooty ashes did not bother him at this point. This
was commando work. When Anne saw no one behind the brick grill,
she stood puzzled, thinking for sure she had heard something
rustling back there. When she looked up, Jeff had already popped up
from the top of the grill and hit the ground running! He kicked the
battered Maxwell House coffee can amid a flurry of cheers and
laughter. The captives were free!
Paul Clemmons showed up doing handstands. He was always showing
up with a new trick. This time, he came into the yard upside down,
feet in the air, walking on his hands. Despite these stunts, Paul
never seemed conceited. His attitude was, “Hey, you can do this,
too!”
“Man,” I said. “How do you do that?”
“You can do it, too!”
See what I mean?
“But how?” asked big Eric, placing his hands flat on the ground,
kicking into the air like a mule, and falling over sideways.
“First,” said Paul Clemmons, “You have to learn to stand on your
head.
Lean on the wall for balance. Or else have somebody hold your
ankles.”
We took a “time out” from kick-the-can. Everybody either paired up
or leaned against the side of the house to attempt this new
challenge. I wanted to pair up with Nancy Griffith but I hesitated
and she went to Anne.
With Roger holding my ankles steady, my arms trembled from the
effort of supporting myself upside down. The top of my head, as well
as my palms, pressed hard against the ground but I achieved balance.
“Alright,” I said to Roger. “Let go.”
He let go of my ankles and I was doing it – standing on my head!
Just then, Eric Littleton shouted, “Oh, shit!” and tumbled like a sack
of potatoes over toward me. His shoe came down right on my fingers.
“OW!” I squawked as I fell and rolled into a sitting position. “Damn,
man!”
“Sorry, Whimp!” he chuckled. “Are you okay?”
“Whimp” is a contraction of Whit (my name) and wimp (Eric’s
opinion of me).
One of my fingers was bleeding.
“Go in and ask my mother to give you a band-aid,” said Anne.
“Awww,” mocked Eric. “The baby needs a band-aid.”
“Shut up,” I said.
So, while the rest of the gang resumed playing kick-the-can, I went
into the house. Looking out the kitchen window while Mrs. Wade
washed my finger and wrapped a band-aid around it, I was privy to a
sight never before witnessed by mortals. I saw how Paul Clemmons
hid in leaves.
Jeff was it this time. While he counted to fifty, hands covering his
eyes, everyone else scrambled in different directions to hide. So
intent were the kids to get out of sight before Jeff finished
counting, they paid no attention to each other. No one noticed Paul
Clemmons as he knelt beside a big pile of leaves.
From inside Anne’s house, through the window, I watched him jab
his hand and arm into the side of the mound, all the way up to his
shoulder, and then lift a damp clump of top leaves like a thatched
hut roof. I saw that one of the secrets was to look for thin branches
sticking out; the branches helped brace and support the mass of
wet, sodden leaves. Paul lifted the “flap” with his elbow and rolled
his body into the leaf pile, letting the top of the mound fall back
down on him. The pile of leaves looked undisturbed and, if I had not
seen it myself, I would never have suspected anyone was in there.
I went back outside.
“I’m going to sit this game out,” I told Jeff.
I wanted to see what would happen.
Darkness had settled in. At one point, with everyone captured
except for Paul Clemmons, Jeff even poked the end of a rake handle
into each pile of leaves, but never felt anything suspicious. Paul
knew that now, with so many prisoners rounded up, Jeff would not
want to stray far from the can unless he had to. I barely saw the
mound of leaves move. Under cover of the night, keeping his body
low and flat on the ground, Paul crept out, ever so slowly, on the
opposite side of the pile from where Jeff stood surveying the usual
hiding places in the distance. The chatter of the other kids drowned
out any rustling of leaves.
Jeff now looked up into the trees. Climbing to the top of the oak
tree was just the kind of thing Paul Clemmons might do. Scanning
each limb carefully, Jeff took three steps away from the can. He
later said Paul was like a phantom hurtling out of nowhere at full
bore.
They both raced to the can, my brother trying to shout, “I see you!”
but before he could get it out, Paul had beaten him by a split
second. His kick sent the can sputtering on a low, level trajectory,
skimming and flipping along the ground.
By now, some of our mothers had called Mrs. Wade and asked her to
send their children home. We called it a night and went, depending
on each family’s custom, to baths, or late dinners, or TV, or
homework, and finally, bed. I decided that I would hide under a pile
of leaves the next time we played kick-the-can.
I did not have to wait long. The next evening, Saturday, we
gathered back in Anne’s yard at dusk. I was in luck. The three piles
of leaves were still there.
Roger was it.
“And no peeking!” yelled Anne.
Page 3
Page 2, The Boy Who Hid in Leaves
Not many stanzas later, Anne spotted Eric
Littleton’s big butt poking from behind the
shrubs and called him out. Now captured, Eric
plopped down beside Nancy and me.
Roger was on a mission to set the three of us
free, but his downfall was, indirectly, his
exceptional height. He started out well
enough.
Standing up straight behind the oak tree, he
waited until Anne was looking the other way
and loped over to the back of the tool shed.
This brought him closer to the can, which sat
like a silent sentry near the bank of grass
where we prisoners sat, hopeful of rescue. The
shed was tall enough to hide Roger, but he had
forgotten about a power line that ran from the
shed to a telephone pole outside the yard.
Most people could have walked under the
wire, but tall Roger ran smack into it with his
forehead, gasped, took two steps further
forward, then reeled backwards as though
sprung from a slingshot, out from behind the
shed into plain view.
Anne shouted, “I see you, Roger!” and tapped
her foot on the can.
Roger was a good sport about it, doing his
lanky dance that consisted of shrugging his
shoulders, spreading his big "oh, well" hands,
Not many stanzas later, Anne spotted Eric
Littleton’s big butt poking from behind the
shrubs and called him out. Now captured, Eric
plopped down beside Nancy and me.
Roger was on a mission to set the three of us
free, but his downfall was, indirectly, his
exceptional height. He started out well
enough.
Standing up straight behind the oak tree, he
waited until Anne was looking the other way
and loped over to the back of the tool shed.
This brought him closer to the can, which sat
like a silent sentry near the bank of grass
where we prisoners sat, hopeful of rescue. The
shed was tall enough to hide Roger, but he had
forgotten about a power line that ran from the
shed to a telephone pole outside the yard.
Most people could have walked under the
wire, but tall Roger ran smack into it with his
forehead, gasped, took two steps further
forward, then reeled backwards as though
sprung from a slingshot, out from behind the
shed into plain view.
Anne shouted, “I see you, Roger!” and tapped
her foot on the can.
Roger was a good sport about it, doing his
lanky dance that consisted of shrugging his
shoulders, spreading his big "oh, well" hands,
| Above: "Suspense," Below: "March of the Pumpkins" Photos by Jamelah Earle |
and approaching the other captives with his trademark jive bouncy walk, the same one he used on the basketball
court when he missed a shot. He sat down with the other prisoners on the slope of the grassy bank.
My brother Jeff discovered an ingenious maneuver that impressed us all. Hiding behind the brick barbecue grill, he
discovered a small opening at the base of the structure, covered by a metal grate. Its purpose was to help clean out
old ashes and debris, but apparently, no one had used it in a while. Only a younger, smaller kid, like my brother Jeff,
could have fit through the opening.
court when he missed a shot. He sat down with the other prisoners on the slope of the grassy bank.
My brother Jeff discovered an ingenious maneuver that impressed us all. Hiding behind the brick barbecue grill, he
discovered a small opening at the base of the structure, covered by a metal grate. Its purpose was to help clean out
old ashes and debris, but apparently, no one had used it in a while. Only a younger, smaller kid, like my brother Jeff,
could have fit through the opening.
