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

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Yellow Legal Pad

In this episode, the Art of Refiring July 1st is staring me in the face, less than two weeks away. For years, retirement seemed like something that happened to other people. Suddenly, it's on my calendar. I've been thinking a lot about the dreaded "R-word" lately. Not because I'm worried about having enough to do. Quite the opposite. What fascinates me is this strange paradox: Why does retirement make so many of us nervous, while having a job—even one that regularly drives us crazy—somehow feels comforting? Let's be honest. Most of us spend years complaining about meetings that should have been emails, reply-all disasters, impossible deadlines, and that one coworker who insists on microwaving leftover fish in the breakroom. Yet when the idea of walking away finally arrives, we hesitate. I think I've figured out why. A career isn't just a job. It's a highly structured coping mechanism. For forty-plus years, somebody else has basically decided what I...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Big Rip and the First Tee

The telescope (Celestron) sits quietly under its cover, temporarily blinded by Southern California's annual meteorological hostage situation – June Gloom. Somewhere above that thick gray ceiling, photons that began their journey before humans appeared are streaming across the cosmos, only to be intercepted by a marine layer that seems to have veto power over astronomy. Instead of observing the universe, I find myself imagining – The End of Everything (Astrophysically Speaking) by physicist Katie Mack. According to modern cosmology, the universe may eventually end in a Big Rip, a Big Crunch, Heat Death, Vacuum Decay, or some other catastrophe that sounds suspiciously like a rejected heavy-metal album title. Astrophysicists spend their careers calmly discussing the possibility that reality itself could suddenly cease to exist because a quantum field had a bad day. It's a remarkable way to start a Saturday morning. One moment you're contemplating the ultimate fate of spacetime...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Places You'll Go . . .

Well, the time has arrived. Yes, July's drawing near, And somehow I've managed to last seven years! I've analyzed forecasts and studied the trends, While spreadsheets multiplied without seeming to end. We've planned for the sunshine, the storms, and the load, while Mother Nature kept changing the code. But through all the numbers, the forecasts, and charts, the best part of Cenergy's always been hearts. The people beside me, year after year, Made even the toughest challenges clear. To the bright, talented folks reading this today, The future is yours now—you're well on your way. And unlike my era, here's the key: You’ll work with AI just as smooth as can be. The reports that took hours may take only minutes. The models you build with intelligence in it. The data will flow faster than ever before, While AI handles tasks that are mostly a bore! But here's my advice as I head out the door: Technology changes, but people matter more. AI can predict, calcula...
Post a Comment
Read more