LaGrange Park, 1951-1954: 3 Short Stories

Sometime in the early 1950s, we moved from Chicago to the suburb of LaGrange Park. I know we were there from my kindergarten through 2nd grade, so at least ‘51-’54. I have a few distinct memories of those days.

Story #1
There was a neighborhood bully by the name of Terry Gannon who lived at the corner and would terrorize us incessantly. I don’t recall ever being physically abused or beaten, but the threat was ever-present. One day, I was across the street examining the hole for the foundation of my grandparents future house when up walks Terry with a glint in his eye (a little like Scud Farkas). He asked if I wanted to see the foundation up real close and I said “No, this was fine.” He then made me climb down the ladder into the foundation and pulled the ladder out and laughed. He then left me there. Finally, when I thought he was gone, I started yelling and after quite awhile, someone came and rescued me. I never knew what happened to him after we moved, but I always felt that he must have become an ax murderer.

Story #2
Ron and I were WWAAAYYY into war stuff....World War II war stuff. We played army in the empty lot next door, assembled model warplanes and battleships, collected used army paraphernalia from the Army-Navy Store in town, had whole armies of toy soldiers, and most of all, were addicted to the television series, Victory at Sea! It was a weekly TV series on our 12 inch black&white TV on at 9 pm, way after our 8 pm bedtime. But we cajoled dad to wake us up to watch it…which we did with sleepy eyes. But as soon as that music started and the narrator’s voice began, we were on battle alert! Even today, the musical score from that series sends shivers down my spine as I recollect those late night viewings.

Story #3
Finally, there was a forest preserve entrance about a block from our house, and dad would walk the dog there every Saturday morning. We would tag along. It was exciting because we’d leave this suburban street and moments later be plunged into this jungle path. A branch of the Salt Creek was about a hundred yards down the trail, which we would walk to and then return home. Dad would tell us almost every time that we should never go near the creek when he wasn’t with us…….so of course we did...every chance we could! One time, Ron and I discovered a large cement mixing pan shaped a little like a flat-bottom boat. Ron took it out into the creek like a Davy Crockett river boat and polled it back to shore. I was scared shitless that he would drown and worried about how I would explain that at dinner that evening. “Where's Ron? You mean my brother, Ron? Oh, I think he may have drowned this afternoon in Salt Creek.”

Yes, we had adventures and lots of freedom for being boys of 6 or 7…..maybe too much!