LONG SUMMER DAYS

The loud bell rang and filled the Bacon School halls and it was over - school was over for the summer...and those long summer days had begun...

Those wonderful days so long ago,

When kid’s games passed the hours

Lazy days in the sun.

Shagging flies in fields of weeds.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were the long days…

On the porch out of midday sun

A hot debate;

“Ashburn’s the best in the game.

Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were sweet days…

Water from the hose could quenched all 

Mom’s ham and cheese with yellow mustard

Wrapped with tender care

Would be a feast that soothed the soul.

Those were my days

Days that seemed to never end

We played hard from early morn

Until the streets light bade time to go

And fire flies led the way home again.

What full days they were

When I was young

And then to sleep with the crickets song

And gentle breezes through the pines

Accompanied dreams of homers and cheering throng.

I wish again for those boyhood days

Days I thought would never end

 But they did!

The school bell rang; winter came.

And we yearned for the sun to come again

We dreamed summer dreams

Dreams of games in the summer sun.

This year we’d bat 400…

This year we’d win ‘em all

And we waited for the long days to come again.

BRADLEY - THE WINNER

We were called the “South Millville Boys” and south Millville was literally on the other side of the tracks from the wealthier part of town where the “bosses” of the glass factories live.  South Millville was where the workers, the packers and sorters and makers of the millions of glassware that flowed out of our town lived.

And Brad was the alpha boy.  The best in all things boy.  Brad was competitive. 

We played everything on the sandlot fields of the Bacon Elementary schools across the streets from Brad’s house whose porch in summer was the meeting place for us.  And he was obsessed with winning ever game we played together after school.  Brad was a natural winner - the tallest of us all and his prowess dominated our baseball, touch football, half court basketball games each night until the street lights blinked on to tell it was time for supper.  But he was also very shy and would never have attempted to perform on a high school varsity team – of which he would have been a start there too.

In the short dark days of winter after “real” high school football ended (games in my day were seasonal; football in the fall; basketball in winter; tennis spring, and baseball summer…except, of course, bowling which was year-round. Today, I wait for the day when the Phillies, Eagles and Sixers are all on TV at once – so I can gripe once again that this just isn’t right.) we played half court basketball until the sound of bat hitting ball was heard in the land.

The buzzer in our classroom clock buzzed! And I rushed home on my Schwinn to change from my school clothes into my play clothes which were usually last year’s heavy corduroys that were now three inches above my ankles and a plaid flannel shirt which didn’t reach my wrists.  And I would be back to the school basketball court in under 5 minutes as our half-court basketball game would start once the teams were chosen.

Choosing sides was always one of the most embarrassing aspects of kid life - for at least one of the guys each night – the one who would get picked last.  Brad and brother Bobby always made the picks.  They were always the captains of the school yard which they considered an extension of their own yard.  Those who got on Brad’s team were assured of a win.  The choosing began with a flip of the coin.  Brad even won most times at this.  He chose Green a really good player.  Bobby chose Magoo, whose name was Charlie.  But he was Magoo because of his very thick glasses – he was a good shot when he could find the basket.  Next Billy, the foul-master, went to Brad.  Billy was a ruthless defender who rarely got the ball.  He just hacked at everyone under the basket.  And of course, to my chagrin, I was picked last again by Bobby – I was not built for b-ball; too big; too slow - it was not my game of choice – but the winter months would be very lonely if I didn’t play. 

The teams were set and once again the lost for Bobby was already inevitable and we knew that in an hour he would go home mad again and not speak to his brother for the rest of the night.

Now where we played was called a court, but it was just a corner of hard packed dirt school yard with just one rusting backboard and a net less net.   This setup to my great relief made our games half court contest – I hated running.  But playing on dirt had its downside.  The ball took crazy bounces and stones turned an ankle from time to time.  Then there was the ball.  Now I use the term “ball” but what we played with only relationship to a basketball was that it was round.   And it had certainly been around for generations in Brad’s collection for years – scared and scratched from many battles.  (Matter of fact it was leather.  No rubber basketballs were in my day – Brad was the provider of most of our equipment for the many games we played as riding a bike holding a basketball was not easy.

We began our game – Brad’s Warriors against Bobby’s Knicks, the brother’s always used team’s names and we pretended we were pros.  Brad was not only key player, he was also referee and arbiter for our own custom set of rules most of which have been eliminated from the game. 

He dominated the game with looping hook shots and great arching set shots, long before the 3-point play was even imagined.  Matter of fact, during our 3 on 3 games he was known to actual pass the ball to himself and then execute an impossible spinning lay-up as we watch in awe.

All of us wondered why he never “went out” for a sport in high school – but never asked him why.

The dusk came early on this gray day.  Brad’s team as usual was ahead by 20 points as brother Bobby tried his best to catch up with his best trick shots – he always got a bit maniac as his team neared another loss to his big brother.  But once again Bradley was the winner and as ref of the contest declared, “Whatever team scores two in a row will end this game.”  With a strong drive to the basket, followed by a steal from me as I tried my best to raise my shooting average, Brad capped the game with a twirling layup that a Globetrotter would be proud to execute.  Game over.

It was time to go home and Brad with a broad smile walked away following Bobby once again muttering that his brother was a cheater…passing to yourself is not fair.  And so, another day of play ended as I pedaled as fast as I could home – my mom always hated it when I was late for the supper.

THE HAIRCUT

Ever since I could remember my Pop Pop Herb took me for my haircut to an old Italian barber on High Street .  And no matter what you asked for – everyone got the same haircut.  No sideburns and short on the top.  But everyone in my sixth grade at Wood School was touting the merits of George’s Barber Shop on North High as the best flattop in town.  Pop’s haircutter didn’t even know what a “flat top” was – short on the top he said when I asked him.  

George R. was famous for actually using a “level” to make certain the flattop was flat. 

So I talked Pop into trying this new young barber that ever had a striped mechanical barber pole revolving next to his door.  Pop was dubious – but always aimed to please me in every way – spoil me my grandmother said, but Pop never paid much attention to her.

At the regular day and time we enterd the new shop on a Saturday morning in a warmer than usual spring.  There were three ahead of us – which was great as I got to look at the usual present pile of “men’s magazine” which were ubiquitous in all barbershops.  And this well thumbed pile was a great one.  Girlie magazines rather than old Popular Mechanics and Field and Stream!  This got a raised eye brow from Pop, but he didn’t intervene.  I guess he figured I was old enough to see some wanton flesh?

 

I flipped  through a two year old edition of  Men’s Digest and a tattered Esquire looking for the “pictorial”.  Then I saw for the first time a Playboy Magazine and the unbelieveable centerfold.  A publication I could never buy at the news agency on High Street for want of discovery as a perverted voyeur.  I immediately went to the centerfold that was always bantered about on the playground by my wiser chums – their lurid review always starting with “did you see Miss September?”

Now I could say YES.  And Miss October, and December.  Pop interrupted my lustful fantasies – “You go first and tell him what you want, he said,”

I got into barer chair with it’s interesting green leather head and foot rests.  George the barber then began his unending chit-chat which I now notice was laced with the F-word and all the other curse words known to kids.  I thought this was very funny for an adult to use the words we used everyday out of ear-shot of our matronly teachers, words that would always get us expelled for a few days if heard.

I caught my Pop in the big mirror wall and with every curse word his grimmace got darker. 

I asked for a flat top  and George the Barber put a giant flat comb on my head and to my amazement with one swipe of his whirring clippers I had a precise quarter inch of hair runway on my head that a Thunderbolt fighter plane could land on.  After a few buzzes here and there I was done.

“Next”, he yelled.   And Pop said no just the kid this time.  Pop paid him the three bucks and we left.

When we got in Pop’s big Buick I asked why he didn’t get his haircut?  He muttered, “Not from a foul mouthed jerk.”  Now Pop wasn’t a prude for sure, but I know now he must have been embarrassed that I was hearing these curses with him.  

For years I returned to George’s Shop and laughed at his antics. 

But Pop and I never had a haircut together again.

KIRBY, THE PAPERBOY

Kirby was our paperboy and he was the best ever – I’ll tell you why. 

You see being a paperboy is a calling and one has to have a “knack” to be good at it.  There are few who make greatness – Kirby was one of the few.

Most people don’t realize just how much work goes into the job.  One doesn’t just become a paperboy (and by the way there were very few paper girls – this was not sexist and not that girls of  the 50’s and 60’s were afraid to venture out in rain, snow or dark of night – they weren’t allowed by their parents because this wasn’t “good” for them“ – time has proven this to be a profound mistake.)

 THE DAILY REPUBLICAN – the title did not refer to the party but to the form of government established for our nation and it was the one and only local paper.  The chief scribe for our daily, except Sunday, garbage wrapper was the high authority who chose those he thought worthy to deliver “his” paper.  Most homes in town wanted their paper at “supper” time, and no misses or father would have nothing new to gripe about after dinner from their favorite chair.

Kirby was 6 feet plus tall in elementary school and was immediately added to the Daily’s team the same day he applied – the Editor decided he didn’t need a trial of his skills and assigned him a “route” near his home.  
Over the next 5 years Kirby added customers until he had over hundreds waiting for the sound of their paper hitting the screen door or...

A key component for a paperboy is the bike – which is my day was their only way of conveyance available to them – today our  paper persons have momma drive them around when it sprinkles or the temperature drops below 50 degrees.

Kirby’s bike was a hybrid put together from junked bikes he found around the neighborhood.  It had no fenders, a frame that look like a Schwinn brand and high handle bars that were vertical to match his tall frame.  The most striking aspect of the bike was the extended seat which accommodated Kirby long legs.  When he sat on the seat he could fully extend his legs all the way.  Kirby was the fastest rider I ever saw.  He would have burned up the Tour-de-France.

One didn’t actually see him ride by - he was a blur and the only evidence of his being there at all was the telltale sound of the paper hitting something.

But I get ahead of myself.  The routine of all paperboys goes like this.

They rush to the newspaper office after school and fight to be first or near first in line to get their allotment of papers.  Most get a small stack that was easy to handle.   Kirby got a five big stacks and immediately went to work.  
Paperboys throw the papers to save time as they ride by the customers houses.  They don’t deliver them neatly like the mailman.  They wing them in the general direction of the front door or sometimes toward a special place requested by the customer.  Winging them requires that they be rolled as they come flat and impossible to toss.   Each paper is rolled and fastened with a red rubber band that seems to have been made for this purpose.

  Kirby was a master roller upper.  His hands flashed as he attacked his piles of papers – time was essential and being on time meant better tips when he made his Saturday rounds to “collect” his bounty.

The rolled papers were stacked vertically into a bright orange canvas bags with the label of the DAILY REPUBLICAN in big black letters – these bags were proudly hung on the handlebars nearest the tossing hand.  Having a paperboy bag was a badge of pride for this small group of entrepreneurs – they were thought of by their peers as the chosen few.  They were kids with a job and not beholden to the largesse, whims or punishments of parents.  

Back to Kirby.  All of his preparation led up to the delivery.  Each boy had his own method of throwing the paper as he biked by the customers home.   And it took practice to achieve consistent accuracy while pedaling and steering with only one hand – while going at a “breakneck” speed.

Kirby didn’t just throw the papers – he had turned this task into an art form.  Most boys use the “across the body right hand vertical slinger.  Kirby had mastered that he first day.  Like a jazz musician he prided himself on his tossing improvisation.  Sometimes he used the underhand hurler.  Next house behind zinging one from his back.  Next he let one fly from under his leg – the most difficult and dangerous of all paper recognized paper tossing techniques.

Each late afternoon my grandmother would pause her household chores when she heard Kirby’s fierce peddling a block away.  She waited for the “thunk” of the Daily as he slammed it into her front door.  Occasionally however she would hear it bang on the roof which would always result in a loud curse – “Dammit Kirby slow down…you put it on my roof again.”

These wayward throws seemed to only happen when Kirby was off his schedule – I surmised when he was very late that he had to serve detention for a minor school misdemeanor which put him an hour behind his routine.

My everlasting memory of Kirby will last forever.

Going to the shoot some hoops at the playground I saw him hurtling toward me.  He was much later than usual and peddling faster than ever – going at a rate worthy of a Guiness Record.  He was riding without using his hands to steer and tossing papers with both hands, firing left and right and actually hitting some of his customer’s lawns, some not so close.

 As he passed me he stopped firing for a moment to say “Hi Cal” – and then it happened.  His foot slipped off one pedal and he slid off the seat and straddled the bar between his legs.  This caused him to uttered a desperate scream that still makes my hair stand on end when I think of it.  I imagine the pain as his private parts rolled wildly on the frame of the bouncing bike.  His arms started to fail like a windmill and his long legs shot out sideways – but he didn’t crash. Somehow he regained control, plopped back on his seat and without stopping to attend to his body or injured pride he continued on his appointed rounds.

This indeed was a real pro, a Master Paperboy named Kirby.   

NIGHT AT THE MOVIES

I finally had the courage to call Kathy a cute sophomore I met in the cafeteria line.  I got her phone number from a mutual friend.  Her father answered and sounded stern.  He reluctantly said that K could come to the phone – “But be brief, she must get back to her homework!”  Yikes!!

After some inane chat, to my surprise she said she might go to the movies with me on Friday night - but she would have to ask her parents first before she could accept my invitation.  She also let me know that her dad not favor her driving in cars with older high school boys.  I was a bit taken back but hoped I would be accepted by her parents.  (Later after we were “going steady” I learned that her father, a former teacher who had actual taught my mother, called one of my teachers for a recommendation – she told him I was an honorable guy, on the honor roll and had earned two varsity letter which I think did the trick.)

I borrowed my grandfather’s 1954 Chevy coupe because unlike my dad’s car it had a radio and it was an automatic – I really wasn’t all that good shifting my dad’s stripped down ford with its slipping transmission.  At K’s house I called at her door rather than just blowing the horn – this was a wise mandate suggested by my mother.  

K’s dad invited me in and scanned me from head to foot and back again – he was scary. 

“How do you think our basketball teams going to do this season?” He tried to make conversation as I waited for his only daughter.  My answer, "Good."
I wondered if I were he would I let my daughter go out with me? Hum.

I worried I put on too much Old Spice and feared maybe he was thinking me a wise guy or high school “gigolo”.  K's dad was a business manager and they lived in a big brick house far from the other side of the tracks – where I literally came from.  I was dating indeed far above my station.

I had eight dollars, my entire life savings, in my wallet.  Plenty for tickets to the show, popcorn to share and a nightcap ice cream sodas at the Goodie Shop down the street.

The Levoy Theatre was one of two movie houses in our town.  It was the fancy one, built when movies were the kings of entertainment, long before television bumped them down a notch or two.  From vaudeville to Dish Night to 3D in colorama – it had been a fixture in town for years.  After a stop at the enclosed ticket booth five large double doors led to a an ornate foyer where an ancient gentleman, who started as a boy usher there, now was the guarding ticket taker.  He stood by a small tower device, took and tore one’s ticket in half give you the half and deposited the other into a tower - a depository of many winning contest numbers over the years.  

Inside another set of large doors was a very well  stocked refreshment counter which took up half of the back of the theater.  It was ruled over by the wife of Mr. Ticket.  She too had been there since Fay Ray was a youngster.  The smell of freshly popped corn with extra butter was impossible to resist.  

There were three aisles that led to the gilded   stage, complete with deep burgundy velvet curtains hiding the screen and an orchestra pit,  now usually empty since the “talkies” came to Millville. Above us was the sensuous dark balcony – the passion pit for folks who didn't come to watch movies. I would not think of guiding K up the stairs tonight - first date protocol made it off-limits for at least two more dates.    

As we walked down the center aisle high above  was an artwork of a bygone age - a large plaster medallion bas relief on the ceiling in front of the stage.  It looked like a giant white coin and depicted three half naked, nymphs dancing forever to Pan's tune.  I think it was there to give our emporium of cowboy ambushes and car chases an arty atmosphere.  On each side wall were two giant fabric maps in faded blue and gray - the American continent on one and Europe and Asia on the other.  Another attempt to add international "culture" to our small town movie going.

Friday nights were scheduled to appeal to the high school trade. It was not a night for film noir.  It was dedicated to slapstick and romance.  We chose seats  half way down in the middle.   K indicate that sitting too close “made her dizzy.”

The lights dimmed as K dug into "our" popcorn.  I was determined to hold back the Hershey’s chocolate to at least the start of the feature.  The creaking curtains parted as the audience hooted to see a Pop Eye cartoon light the silver screen.  Next a newsreel with the loud narrator was greeted with a few groans.  A couple of coming attractions led to the Feature Presentation and it is indelibly burned into my memory.  

Rome Adventure, a  romantic film that introduced  Suzanne Pleshette to the film world.  A perfect first date movie.  
And as it progressed to Troy Donahue’s kissing with a young school teacher on vacation – my teenage libido stirred deep within my corpuscles and I felt the  the need to begin the age old dance of love.  

The question?  Try to hold hands?  I started to feel warm and hoped my roll-on, guaranteed to not offend, stick deodorant would do its job.   I stop thinking about the movie and started to watch the big clock over the exit door and made a silent vow – in ten minutes I would make Thee Move.

Time ticked at a snail's pace but the appointed moment final came and I nonchalantly place my hand next to K’s on the armrest.  Our pinkies touch but simultaneously she thrust her hand it into the popcorn box.  Foiled at my first sortie, I decided to try the arm on the back of her seat stretch move.  A classic for a first date.  If she didn’t recoil this would mean I had a green light to go to the next step - my arm would move from seat back to her shoulder and then…who knows where this could lead - true love perhaps.   

Small beads of sweat started to appear on my upper lip.  It was now or never.  I carefully moved my arm to the back of her seat.  K immediately shot a surprised glare that froze me, removed my arm and handed it to me saying, “Please don’t…It's far too soon,” - the dreaded response.

The movie ended and we made our exit.  K said she need to go straight home so skipped the ice cream parlor.  We didn't say too much driving her home.

When we pulled into K’s driveway she politely thanked me for “a very nice time” and quickly made an exit.  Our date was concluded.

As I drove home I regretted being "fast" as she must have thought of me.    I guessed that I wouldn’t be seeing her again.  
Little did I know at that moment K was chatting on the phone with her best girlfriend – with a big smile.

I had no idea that she had skillfully set the hook and soon would be reeling me in – and that a new life adventure was about to begin.

THE FIRST AND THE LAST

The first senior week of school is finally over.  After a summer of loafing it seemed like much longer than only three days after Labor Day 1961.  And my legs kill.  Up and the down staircase five or six times a day and then hours of football practice.

But Friday's was always a "light day" (usually unless we lost the week before!) - no pads and we just run every offense and defensive play in the book.  But we got to go home early (unless we lost the week before !!)

Sore muscles or not tonight Bub and I were going out.

He picked me up in the yellow bomb - our loving name for his 1949 Buick that his father gave him after he got the blue bomb, a 1958 buick - he was a "Buick Man" as the afficianodo of that brand was known.  They were a sect set far above the Chevy owner and the Plymouth owner was not even allowed in their league of drivers.

We "tooled the Great White Way" which was our name for Millville's one and only main drag - High Street.  I still wonder just what it was above to be called high.  After several tours of the familiar circuit Bub said, "No babes! Chip in 50 cents for gas and we can go to Ocean City."

"And more important - and back," I added.

We set the old Buick land speed record - doing at least 47 MPH all the way on the empty road as the poor old thing wheezed and sputtered on our dollar's worth of petrol.

Ocean City was closed.

The most depressing thing about a boardwalk is the weekend after Labor Day.  "CLOSED FOR THE SEASON...WE APPRECIATE YOUR BUSINESS...SEE YOU IN THE SPRING...THANKS FOR A GREAT YEAR"
The signs read on most of the shops along the boards.  And there was a chilly wind off the water.  Not at all like the many warm nights we spent "walking the boards" and on the prowl for babes.

There was evidence of the end of summer everywhere.  The ponies on the big merry-go-round where covered with canvas.  There were no cars on the tracks of the loop-da-loop.

This was more depressing than High Street was.

Bob's Grill at the end of our long stroll was open - of course the many sexy waitress were not there.  An ancient old dude made two milk shakes for us in an empty place that would have been overflowing just days before.

But all good things must eventually come to an end.  Our summer vacations would be no more as we would both work those once days off for the next four years of college.  Ocean City had changed.

And appropriately as we walked back to the car a light rain started to fall which made it more depressing.  We drove the 26 miles to home without saying much. Bub and I would never go looking for chicks again.  Summer jobs, college life and new girlfriends changed everything.

And an Ocean City adventure on the boards would never come again.

BUFF - THE WONDER DOG

For my readers -
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My mother always said that I had bad luck with my pets – I think she was right.  They either ran away, were felled by an exotic disease or got run over.  A Rat Terror I had for just two weeks - he attacked a friend and cost my mom $15 bucks for a tetanus shot.  He was shipped to a farmer friend on my grandfather's orders. Today we would have been sued and lost our home.

One brief time in college I even had a hamster that had to be “put to sleep” –  an euphemism for “killed” which is told to everyone to soften the blow. 

And a goldfish I won at the county fair didn't last one night - I think he/she drowned.  My pet history is worse than  a Greek tragedy.

When I was 10 I begged for what would be my last puppy for decades using the age-old reasoning – "All my friends have great dogs, why can’t I have one???"  Of course, the usual response used by all parents was uttered by Mom: “You’ll have him for a week and then forget him and I will have to take care of him...feed him...train him...put him out in the middle of the night”.  But after weeks of cajoling, that included hints about my upcoming birthday, my mom relented and announced we were going for a surprise trip after supper - she took me to a kennel in the next town.  As we pulled into their parking lot this started the bow-wowing of dozens of pups.  I think they knew that an adoption was about to happen.  Inside this smelly pet store there was a wall of metal cages stacked three atop each other  containing different breeds.  I paused at each as Mother made an editorial comment  - “Too big he’ll eat us out of house and home…Too yappy I hate yappy ones…He looks mean…I don’t think so…And then I saw thee one.  A reddish-brown Cocker-Spaniel whose eye color matched his shining coat perfectly.  “Oh, mom, I love this one.”  (I used my best pleading voice that always worked in toy stores.)   The owner who was following behind us interjected – “Well my boy you know your dogs – this is a male pup from a champion sire who was directly kin to Fireball III, the best in show at the Philadelphia Dog Show years back.”  Wow this was a dog with a genuine titled pedigree for a change rather than the mixed result of a happy accident that were usually wandering our street.  My Mother, who many times overdid it with gifts for me, then spent two weeks of her pay that she was saving for our Ocean City vacation - $65 bucks for a champion puppy (today add at least one zero).  She issued a stern caveat, "You will have to do all your chores with no complaining for a year to earn this expensive pup!   This sweet guy had "papers" and his official name was longer than mine.  Baron Von Schlegel III (a German Poet of the 1600’s).  Like royalty he even had a roman number after his name.  However, I called him Buff.  Mom also bought him a wicker basket with a soft mat and a water bowl.  I cradled him in my arms all the way home - he was just a baby and went to sleep instantly after giving me a wet lick on my cheek.  When we brought him in the house my grandmother said feigning disgust, “Margaret you said NEVER AGAIN.  I suppose you brought me home a sooner?”  (Nanny called all dogs “sooners” translated meant sooner pee on the rug than outside.  And she was right for that very moment Buff let go of a steam that would have made a fire hydrant proud to produce.  Nanny just gave us both her "look" and got the mop.

Buff was the greatest birthday present ever – so far.  

And we fast became like the Saturday Evening Post cover picture – A Boy and His Friend.  He was a quick learner or my grandmother was a great canine trainer, because in just a few days she had him scratching at the door to go out and do his duty.  To me he was a wonder and I couldn't wait to come home from school each day and play with him. From then when we would go out and leave him we would find him “dancing” at the back door holding it in until he could fly out to the back yard.  

But then after our winter of bliss it happened.  On a fateful night in the early spring that I will always sadly remember, when I let Buff out he spotted a rabbit and took off like a shot, barking at the top of his barker. He disappeared into the dark pines.  I waited for him to come back for hours, constantly looking at our back door for his “let me in” scratch  – but he didn’t return.  Pop said that I shouldn’t worry – “He’ll come back when he gets good and ready,” he assured me of this several times.  A day passed and no Buff.  My mom called the police and the ASPA.  No Buff!  On the next day Pop took a ride after dinner and promised me he would find him.  After an hour I heard the big Buick pull in and I had my fingers crossed.  Pop came to the door carrying something in a blanket – OMG it was Buff!  My hopes faded as I thought he had died but they were re-kindled when I saw Buff's little cropped tail wag.  But poor Buff was in very bad shape. Pop said he found him lying by the side of a road blocks away and suspected he'd been hit by a car chasing that silly rabbit and laid there unable to come home.  My hopes faded as I thought he was dead but they were re-kindled when I saw Buff's little cropped tail wag.  Poor Buff was in very bad shape.  He was panting and it was very heavy.   Nanny asked, “Herb do you think he going to be alright…?”  “No Ethel, I don’t think so …but he may get well...he is a tough guy...”, Pop voice trailed off as he rolled his eyes at her. (This was decades before the 24-hour Pet Hospitals)  I stayed up with my dog as he slept in his basket. Several times he woke up and licked my hand.  I stroked his head softly.   Eventually I fell asleep as we laid side by side on the chilly kitchen floor.  In the early morning Buff crossed the Rainbow  Bridge for all good pets…and a part of my heart crossed with him. (For the next 50 years, I could never try to have another dog in my life until my son Jon brought me home Bailey Boy IV  – another dog with a Roman numeral...but that’s another story.)