"Wealth is like a viper, which is harmless, if a man knows how to take hold of it,
but if he does not, it will twine around his arm and bite him." - St. Clement
BY LEE B. PIROLOZZI
The good bishop of Rome must have had Bill and me in mind when he wrote that, so many years ago.
Unaware of the hardships around us, the day started out like most summer days in 1933. We were a couple of 8-year-old boys guiding our hoops and seeking new adventures which all too soon would be woven into the fabric of an old man�s memories.
We both spotted the penny as the morning sun reflected off the shiny copper. I picked it up, and now we were two 8-year-old boys with means, and the awesome responsibility that accompanies great wealth: how to spend it! We headed for the store.
After much nose flattening against the glass showcase which housed dozens of choices of penny candy, and after giving each individual consideration, we decided on the �Guess What?�
Guess What? Contained two pieces of taffy twisted in waxed paper, and separated by a mystery prize. Candy and trophy were wrapped in brown paper with the words �Guess What?� boldly printed on the side.
We quickly consumed the candy, but the prize was another matter. It was a bent nail which, when placed on a finger, looked like it had been driven through it. The nail came complete with a �bloody� bandage to make it look even more realistic. With a little ingenuity and imagination we placed it on the index finger of Bill�s left hand. It didn�t look real enough; it needed more blood.
We wired our trusty hoops down familiar trails toward the creek where we knew the pokeberries were ripe. I squeezed some of the berries onto Bill�s hand and arm. Satisfied that it resembled real blood, we agreed that it would fool almost anybody. Bill suggested we fool his mom.
My 8-year-old logic agreed, and we headed for Bill�s house. Bill�s mom was busy at the kitchen sink, unaware of the two hooligans standing just outside her screen door who were about to scare her out of her wits. Holding his wounded hand, Bill charged screaming into the kitchen, waving his bloody finger in her face. The color drained from her face and, eyes glazed, she collapsed to the floor.
The joke had backfired; the tables had turned. The person we were supposed to scare had now put a sudden and real fear into two jokesters. While we were trying to explain our actions to the unresponsive woman on the floor, Bill�s sister called his dad. Bill�s father was the postmaster and the only employee of the U.S. Post Office in our small Ohio town.
The senior Bill, who was not known for his sense of humor, had to lock up the post office in midmorning to hurry home to deal with some unknown disaster. I did not hang around to witness the proceedings that followed immediately after his arrival, but it took little imagination to contemplate the conclusion to our undertaking. With wails of a very unhappy child ringing in my ears, I faded from the picture as fast as my hoop would take me.
Young Bill�s circumstances would have been less painful had he really run a nail through his finger. The viper had surely bitten poor Bill, but not on his arm.
Back to Hard Times