Skip to main content

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . .

It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it.

Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism.

Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers.

A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town.

For those of you who grew up or now live in a metropolitan area, patrolling our town meant cruising up and down Main Street at about 15 MPH, a remarkable distance of 0.6 of a mile.

Anyway, we were cunning. After dark, we would fill paper bags with rotten tomatoes and shower Barney’s car as he patrolled Main Street.

There were three of us, Perry, Nathan, and me.

Immediately after a tomato clobbering, we would high-tail it over fences, through backyards, to Nathan’s house, casually resting on his front porch as Barney drove up in front of the house.

With trepidation, Barney would roll his window down and ask, “What are you boys up to tonight?”

“Nothin’, Just hangin’ out.”

As soon as he pulled away, in a flash, we were back behind that fence on Main Street. And yet again, he would get pounded with rotten tomatoes.

We were stealth masters and projectile launch angle experts. Barney never caught us or even figured out it was us. The blame always went to the local high school boys who raced around town standing in the back of an old pickup truck. They were loud, obnoxious jerks. They deserved it.

Ah, yes, Halloween memories. I can’t imagine kids doing anything as docile as that today. On second thought, maybe you have a dramatic story to share?

This is Patrick Ball. Thanks for listening, see you in the next episode.

Labels:

Comments

Anonymous said…
I remember one Halloween when 3 of us...I won't give names since our classmates might read this...set out to soap the windows on a certain house. That house belonged to Mrs. Neff. Cuba High people know who Mrs. Neff was...a substitute teacher who most of us hated. So on a Friday night we 3 went to the football game. We told our parents that anyway. Instead we went Mrs. Neff's house in darkness and soaped the windows on one side if the house. We were almost done when *BAM* the door swung open and Mr.Neff was running at us! We ran like hell and went to the football game. We were standing together talking when I saw Mr. Neff and a cop coming our way. Turns out his son in law was a State Trouper. Mr. Neff told us to give him our names. Which we did. Our parents found out about it from the Neffs who were going to turn us in to the State's Attorney! Instead our parents made us clean the Neff's windows and they let us go with a warning to never do it again. I'm sure it was embarrassing for two of our parents who had businesses. Needless to say...we never went near Neff's house again! :)
October 7, 2020 at 8:59 AM
Randy said…
I remember Perry telling me that.. LOL!
October 12, 2020 at 10:47 AM
Patrick B. Ball said…
Yes or no, Anonymous is Marty? I'm sure there are many more stories that have been forgotten.
October 13, 2020 at 5:24 AM
Anonymous said…
The only clue I can give you is...who did you sit by in Mr. Coleman's Algebra..or was it Geometry class? :) In other words...you guessed it. :)
October 16, 2020 at 1:34 PM
Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

When Fear Becomes the Default

In this special episode, When Fear Becomes the Default. Early Sunday morning, I was cycling past a small veterans’ pocket park in San Marcos. The air was still, the streets nearly empty. On one corner stood a young woman, alone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: “Be ANGRY. ICE agents are murdering people.” I pedaled past, but the words stayed with me. I knew the context—the footage and headlines from Minneapolis the day before, already ricocheting through the country and hardening opinions. Even in the quiet of the ride, the noise followed. Two miles later, I stopped at a red light. A black car with dark windows pulled up inches from my bike. My heart jumped. My first instinct wasn’t neighbor —it was threat . I found myself bracing, scanning, and wondering if the person inside was angry, armed, or looking for trouble. Then the door opened. A well-dressed young woman stepped out, walked to the trunk, and pulled out a sign that read “Open House.” She turned, smiled brightly, and sa...
2 comments
Read more

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...
Post a Comment
Read more

Practiced Hands: The 50-Year Warranty

What Doc Burch Taught Me About Staying Active. We talk a lot about "life hacks" these days, but most of them don’t have a very long shelf life. Usually, they’re forgotten by the next app update. But back in 1972, I received a piece of advice that came with a 50-year warranty. It’s the reason I’m still on my bike today, still chasing a golf ball around Carlsbad, and still—mostly—in one piece. The Kick That Changed Everything It started with a literal kick in the pants. A kid at school in Cuba, Illinois, was joking around and caught me just right. By the next morning, my lower back was screaming. My mom didn’t reach for the Tylenol; she reached for her car keys. "Let’s go see Doc Burch," she said. "He’ll fix you right up." Harry E. Burch, D.C., was a fixture in Lewistown. He’d graduated from Palmer College in ’59 and had been our family’s go-to for years. He was a man of practiced hands and steady eyes. After a quick exam and an X-ray, the mood in the room s...
Post a Comment
Read more

On the Fly–Taking Flight

In this special 500th episode,  On the Fly  is moving to a new home. Here’s why—and what’s staying the same. For a very long time (since April 2012),  On the Fly  has lived on  Blogger . Blogger has been a reliable host—dependable, quiet, and never complaining when I arrived late with another half-baked idea, a guitar riff, or a story that needed a little air. It faithfully archived my thoughts, my music, and more than a decade of curiosity. But the internet has changed. It’s louder now. Flashier. More insistent. Every thought is nudged to perform. Every sentence wants to be optimized, monetized, or interrupted by something that really wants your attention right this second. I’ve been craving the opposite. So today, On the Fly is moving to Substack . If you’ve been with me for a while, you know my quiet obsession: the A rt of Seeing . I’m interested in the moments we rush past—the Aversion Trap, the discipline hidden inside a guitarist’s daily practice, t...
Post a Comment
Read more