“Betcha can’t hit the road” taunts Richie Jeskulski from the playground across the street.  Stanley Brownell and I scramble for throwing stones.  We’re  four-year-old neighbors who had been heading down to the park in pursuit of our big siblings when waylaid by the pile.  The gray hunks of basalt had been dumped into an inverted cone in a newly cleared lot across from Codrington Park. 

 

First we race to the top for king of the hill, sliding back down and climbing up again.  Next we tumble the biggest rocks down from the top.  I belt out the Roger Miller song “King of the Road” and that’s when Jeskulski issues his dare.  Stanley tosses his underhand through the branches and the impact sounds like a roll of caps.  I heave the next one as high as I can.  Three crows fly up as it shoots through the leaves, arches over the telephone wire, picks up speed on the way down, and crashes with a shattering of glass.  The car screeches to a halt and a man leaps out screaming “Hey you kids, get over here.”   In the ensuing silence I look at Stan, he looks at me, and we leap down the back of the hill.

 

We’re sprinting down the road with hearts pounding until Stan pulls up.  I glance back just long enough to see him being spanked.  Spurred on, I hit the dirt track of Tea Street full tilt and turn onto the newly paved Hanken Road.  I think I’m in the clear as the gate to our chain link fence clangs closed but then I hear the slap of his shoes hitting the pavement.  Running around the house, I slip into the back door and scoot under my sisters’ bunk beds. 

 

A loud bang at the screen door startles my mother from the nearby washroom. 

 

She greets him with “You get away from my back door”, slamming it in his face.

 

He yammers “But where’s that boy who broke my windshield?” 

 

She locks the door and yells back “There’s no boy in here.  Now get outta here or I’ll call the cops” before retreating upstairs to lock the other doors.

 

My breathing returns as I hear the guy walking away.  I hide under the bed as long as I can stand it, finally reasoning that Mom might never know if I pretend nothing is wrong.  I calmly walk up the stairs into the living room.  She looks up from As the World Turns and says “All right mister, just wait till your father gets home” before returning to the favorite of her shows.   I pack up my plastic Army mess kit and run away from home.

 

 

 

The borough of Bound Brook is aptly named and its western boundary is the Middle Brook.  This clear running creek springs in a Y from between First and Second Watchung Mountain, east-west volcanic spurs from the Appalachian uplift which cut across central New Jersey to within sight of the coast.  The two forks of the brook meet at a gap below Chimney Rock before tumbling a mile south along the edge of town and into the Raritan River.  Just about every neighborhood in the square mile town adjoins a sycamore lined stream and each stretch is claimed by the nearby kids. 

A week before the stone’s throw episode my six-year-old sister Karla and I had gone down to our part of the brook, crossing the bridge at Union Avenue and onto a narrow trail along the western rim.  We were skirting a long straight ditch and heading for the poop hole, two remnants of a colonial army sentry post for the 1777 winter encampment behind First Watchung, when surrounded by a group of whooping boys.  

 

“Pull down your pants”, commanded their leader Dicky Dick, pointed his sharpened stick at Karla.

 

“His too, his too”  chime the Campbell kids, moving around to see as Dicky poked his stick into my belly. 

 

I was fumbling with my zipper when Karla shouted “Run.”  We raced for the bridge with the Crescent Drive kids in hot pursuit, barely making it to the safety of the road.

 

 

 

Running away from home would have normally meant hanging out at our stretch of the brook but I’m afraid that gang might still be there.  So after the mess kit is packed and the canteen filled I sneak out the back door and head around the half circle of Hanken Road humming “no food, no phone, no pets, I ain’t got no cigarettes” until coming to the end of the road.  Left is Tea Street and the quickest way to home and my father’s belt.  Straight ahead is the cracked car.  I turn right into the west end of Bound Brook.

 

I had heard my older brothers and sisters talking about the Italian and Polish gangs in that part of town so my heart is racing again as I tear through briers to get to the familiar gurgling of the brook.  After skipping a few flat red stones, I leap from rock to rock until my PF Flyers are soaked.  Exhausted, I sit down on the ledge of a concrete sewer, wolf down the Charles Chips and lemonade, and try to decide where to spend the night.  Crawling into the sewer pipe might work but I’d heard Karla say there was a dead cat in there.  I thought of following the brook down to the trestle by the river but remembered my brother Bob describing a huge snapping turtle that lived there.  Then the noises start. 

 

“Snap” from the bushes by the road jerks my head up.

 

“Creak, creak, creak” descends from a nearby sycamore.

 

“Caw-caw-caw” from overhead makes me jump.

 

“Go home, go home” whispers the trickle of the brook.    

 

Dad’s mint green 1959 Oldsmobile wagon is sitting in the driveway.  I creep along the house and Mom catches me peeking in the kitchen door.  She yells “Come and get it”  and I flinch as Dad strides past.  He just settles into his seat at the back of the table and my brothers and sisters pile around so I creep in to the kids table and sink into the little chair, expecting the yelling to start at any moment.  It never does and those are the best chicken and dumplings ever. 

 

 

PHOTO: 1963