Boyhood secrets and old bottles

Rummaging through the items offered in a recent garage sale just down the street from my house I ran across a couple of treasures from the past. The guy running the sale passed into being a senior at least two decades ago and now he was going to sell off his stuff, downsize and move into a small condo. "Everything must go!" the sign said. From a used toilet seat to a brand spanking new, still in the box, lighted dial Princess telephone. I enjoyed the memories some of his stuff brought to mind. He was at the ready with stories surrounding each item too. A pleasant experience. On the back wall shelves jutted out laden with his antique bottle collection. They were for sale too but I got the feeling he wasn't in any hurry to see them go because they were almost hidden behind the clothes rack hung from the rafters. Beer bottles, perfume bottles, after shave bottles, water bottles, whiskey bottles, wine bottles and soda-pop bottles. That's where I ran across something I hadn't thought about since years before my amnesia incident. Dusty, some dead ants inside and with a half dissolved label was an old bottle of "Par-T-Pak" Rock & Rye. One of my favorite flavors when I was a teenager. Maybe the taste wasn't exactly my favorite but the story behind Par-T-Pak brand Rock & Rye was.

The word going around between pre-teen and teen age boys, handed down from older boys as a right of passage was that Par-T-Pak "secretly" made Rock & Rye with Rye whiskey. Whoe! Did you get that? Rye whiskey! In a soda pop that any young boy could buy? And then, just to sort of keep that legend going, several of the store keepers in the neighborhood kept Rock & Rye off the shelves and in the back of the cooler. A guy had to actually request it. Then the store keeper would limit what you could buy, "Only two bottles at a time" they would say. Us guys would go as a group from store to store so we could get enough to last around our camp fire that night. And, just in case you didn't know: Only Par-T-Pak made it with Rye Whiskey. All the other Rock & Rye brands were fake! The story kept going around for at least two years as far as I can remember. None of us guys ever got real drunk because of course, we were "in control!" A couple guys acted drunk though, probably because that was what was expected when you drink Rye Whiskey. You know how peer pressure can be at that age. The, one day the word got out that the government had caught on to what Par-T-Pak was doing with the Rock & Rye and sneaking whiskey into it and they made the company stop making it. What did us guys do? We bought cases of that stuff and hid it out in the woods across the tracks close to where we had our camp fires. Our plan was good but we hadn't counted on someone finding those cases of soda pop and throwing rocks at them and busting them all up. That was the end of our secret. The mystery would always remain though. Mysteries are a great thing at that age.

I didn't buy the bottle but the old guy and I had a few moments there where we both understood. A part of us would always long for a dark night, sitting around a camp fire with a bunch of friends, talking about the mystery of Par-T-Pak Rock & Rye, secret whiskey and why girls were such big trouble.

The fountain of youth

I had the excellent privilege of meeting with a large group of past high school classmates yesterday evening. What a delightful experience. A class reunion, in my opinion is the closest we'll ever come to the long sought fountain of youth. When I first walked in my first thought was "What have I gotten myself into?" My memory of names connected to faces is almost non-existent, especially given the changes we all go through as the years pass. However, there was someone that looked across the room and called out, "Joe, I'm glad you could make it!" followed by a rush through the crowd to give me a friendly handshake saying, "I'm '''''', do you remember me?" Yes, I did and suddenly I was in a friendly group of schoolmates once again with a steady stream of acquaintances busily catching up on the happenings in our lives. Within fifteen minutes we were all 18 again.

When we were all in school together it was a slightly different story. I, for my part scurried back and forth from class to class as if I was on a mission. However, being a friendly albeit sort of goofy young guy full of energy, growth spurts and extremely high expectations was finding it difficult to make time work for me very well almost to the point of appearing rude or unfriendly. I was sent to the principal or counselors office over 80 times in high school. Most were for running in the hallways between classes and a couple for being late for a class. Nothing real bad though. I worked before school, after school and on the weekends. After school activities were extremely limited and social activities almost unknown to me. The surprising thing to me is that so many of those kids that I sped so quickly by in the hallways spoke to me of the good times and fond memories they have about me. I left that social event feeling real good about myself. I felt forgiven for being a goofy kid. I brought up a few good stories of my own.

I have learned very much over my lifetime. One of the most important things is that we were all kids once. New to the world and learning the rules as we went along. In our own ways we were all sort of goofy kids. It's a pretty good group of people to belong to and be welcomed by. I couldn't help but say an immature goofy thing or two just to let them know that some things never change. None of us ever lost the love of laughter. We all need that from time to time don't we? It helps us maintain our youth.............Joe

The old, mean guy

I happened across a guy from my old neighborhood the other day. As I looked over a shelf of sale items, deeply engrossed in the art of saving money, a hand touched my shoulder and a deep, mature voice said, "Hello Joey." Even without looking recognition was triggered by his distinctive rich, baritone, almost musical speech. The other was that only a chosen few in my life have been allowed to call me Joey. I turned and looked and sure enough, it was the mean old guy from down the street as I was growing up. He must be in his nineties by now because he was old back then. He was also considered by most neighborhood kids to be as mean as a junk yard dog. For some reason he and I got along OK while other kids thought some day he would kill me and feed me to his chickens.

His ramshackle house was located on the back edge of a gravel road alongside the railroad tracks. His wife planted flowers in the front yard around a stand up bath tub half buried in the ground with a religious statue sitting inside. The rest of the yard, except for a walkway and a fenced area with a chicken coop, was filled with vegetables, two apple trees, a plum tree and a small patch of blackberry bushes, with piles of smelly manure surrounding the roots. The mean old guy worked two full time jobs but still kept the garden growing and spent several hours a week working on repairing and improving some part of the house. He didn't speak to hardly anyone. They had three children, two sons and a daughter. The children were usually inside the house or gone, I can't remember a time when they played outside with the rest of us neighborhood kids. The rumor was that they were being kept prisoners and the mean old guy beat them and his wife every day. They didn't have a TV antenna anywhere on the house. The whole family was weird, they said. I thought they were OK. I met him and his family and talked with them once in a while because I peddled papers to them and also sold the mean old guy his garden seeds from my catalog. I helped him pick them out because he couldn't read. To be continued.

It's supposed to rain pretty good today. Should help my garden grow what I've already planted and help prepare for more planting too..........................Joe