Chapter Four

Chapter Four
Cherokee And Rosedale
The elementary school we attended was called Rosedale and I attended there from Kindergarten through part of the fifth grade. In the 40s grade levels were identified as grade 5 b and 5 a. After I was hit by the car, I missed a half of year of school, so I was what they called a mid-term student. This meant that while other students ended the fifth grade at the end of May identified as being in 5 a, I was ending 5 b. My mother had decided that it would good if she kept Dave out of school to be at home with me as I recovered. So he was also a mid-term student.
During my years at Rosedale several things happened, but two events stand out that were potentially life-change for me. One had to do with a test the school wanted me to take. Everybody probably has a story about how they were misunderstood in school. I’m no exception. As good as our mother was in so many ways, she did have some peculiar ideas that bordered on eccentric. She never wanted her children to stand out for any reason—good or bad. If anything happened that might put us in the spotlight, she was uncomfortable and even somewhat suspicious. So when the teacher sent a note home with me, asking my mother’s permission for me to take special test, my mother automatically assumed that the teacher was saying that I was dumb. Because of this, she refused to give her permission. Unfortunately, from that day forward, I was convinced that I was not as smart as the other kids which gave me a “why try” attitude. It wasn’t until I was in college that I finally found out that the teacher wanted to test me because she thought I might need to be in an accelerated program at school. Naturally I can’t help but wonder if I would have been a better student if my mother had told me sooner.
On another occasion, Rosedale had a talent show and I decided to tryout. By the time I reached the fourth grade, I found that I could make people laugh by imitating certain sounds with my mouth—cars, animals, airplanes, etc. So I thought this might fit in a talent show. However, when I tried out the teacher in charge wasn’t impressed. But, instead of simply telling me no, she said she wanted more singers in her show and asked if I knew a song I could sing. My dad sang and played the guitar, and one of the songs he sang was called “Old Shep,” a very sad song and I had listened to him enough that I was able to remember all the words. So I sang that song for the tryouts, convinced that I was wasting my time. To my surprise she put me in the show. I honestly couldn’t believe that anyone would be entertained by listening to me sing.
On the night of show, several of our neighbors attended. Because of the sadness in the song, several of the little girls cried which made my act a little more noticeable that the others. For a few weeks I was a semi-celebrity. It didn’t last very long because popularity was based on the sadness of the lyrics. However, a couple of days after the show, one of our neighbors came to our house to ask my parents if they would let her be my agent, to have me sing at different events around town. I honestly have no idea what would have been involved, but it didn’t matter because my parents said no. It is interesting that I don’t remember being very disappointed, but I still wonder what it might have led to. I am thankful that my parents were wise enough to decide against it. It wasn’t until many years later that I had a short-lived stint in show business.
Another thing I remember about Rosedale was my friendship with a girl named Floy Dean Ragsdale. She died of leukemia when I was in the fifth grade. This was my first experience with the death of someone I had spent a lot of time with. It was also the first time I realized that death wasn’t just something that happened to old people. I handled it by pretending it wasn’t true, by not thinking about it.
In those years, the extent of our involvement in sports was finding a vacant lot, choosing up sides and playing ball—mostly softball and baseball. Sometimes we did play touch football, but we usually played that in the street. I’m not sure why we didn’t play it in a vacant lot. Of course, the game was interrupted from time to time when cars would come down Cherokee Street. One street over, toward Broadway was Bannock Street. So, when a car would interfere with our game we would yell at them as they passed by, “What’s the matter with Bannock?” We were too young to be reasonable.
One of the vacant lots was right next door to us. It wasn’t very big, but it was big enough for a soft ball game of workup. I don’t know if the majority of people today know what the rules of workup are. It was best if you had enough people to cover all of the positions and have two or three people as batters. A batter could stay in that position unless they were struck out, put out at a base or was left on a base with no one to bat him in. When the batter was put out then the one who had been playing catcher would move up to be a batter and the one who was playing pitcher would become the catcher—thus the name, workup. Another way that a batter could be put out was if someone caught his fly ball. Then the batter would change places with the one who caught the ball. This was a faster way for someone out in the field to get up to bat.
Two games of workup stand out more than the others. I was playing center field, which was usually a boring position in most workup games. So, to keep from getting bored, I had a big/little book to read when things were slow in the outfield. Since they don’t have big-little books today I guess I had better describe them. The contents were the same as comic books but instead of a magazine format, these were like small books—thus the name, big/little books. As I am trying to describe these books I know that most people are probably thinking, “What?”
Anyway, on this particular occasion I was out in center field reading my big/little book. The batter hit a high fly ball and as I was reading the ball came straight down, hitting me on top of the head. I was afraid the other players would be upset with me, but they were too busy laughing for them to be upset. On another occasion it was my sister who got the laughs. She was pitching and the batter hit a line drive directly into her stomach. It knocked the breath out of her and as the air was leaving her lungs, the sound she made was like, “uhhhhh, daddeeeee!”
During the months I was recovering from my fractured skull, the doctor told my mother that I needed to be very careful not to get a hard hit to my head. It seems the concussion had caused some kind of fluid to build up near my brain and a hard blow could have caused that fluid to do possible brain damage. A few months after the accident Dave and I were walking down Bannock street about a block from our house when a neighbor decided to be a bully and since I was the smallest, I was his target. He shoved me causing me to lose my balance and I slammed my head against a cement wall in front of a neighbor’s lawn. This is the only time I ever saw Dave hit somebody in anger. The blow to my head probably wasn’t hard enough to do any damage, but Dave didn’t know that, and even though I know it sounds like an exaggeration, Dave hit the bully hard enough under the chin that it actually lifted his feet off the ground. I know some people still wonder if I did end up with some kind of brain damage. If I did, it wasn’t from this occasion. The only result was that the bully backed off and never bothered us again. Having witnessed what Dave had done to him, I can’t say I blame him. This wasn’t the only time one of my brothers came to my rescue.

Chapter Three Part Three - Streetcars & Teddy and Other Relatives

I think it was about that time I lost Teddy. I don’t remember when he came into my life or who gave him to me. But, for a while, he became more important that my imaginary friend Johnny. Teddy’s fur was supposed to be white, but it didn’t take long for him to turn a dirty grey when I carried him around everywhere I went. Even though he was a stuffed toy teddy bear, I remember thinking of him as being just as real as any of our other animals.
I have vivid memories of the times when my mother decided that Teddy needed to be white again. After surviving the washing machine, he would end up hanging by one ear on the clothesline. During those times I would spend several hours checking to see if he was dry yet, so that I could take him back into my life again
Eventually, he didn’t survive another washing and he ended up as several pieces of fuzz. Looking in retrospect, I remember that everyone in my family shared in my sadness, not because Teddy was important to them but because I was important to them.
World War II brought many things to our lives. We learned what rationing was. Sugar, gasoline, chewing gum (?), and rubber, are just some of the things I remember. There were some things we couldn’t get at all, such as bananas. I still have no idea why gun was scarce during that time.
The war also introduced me to patriotism. Everywhere we went we were bombarded with the importance of being patriotic. It was in the movies we saw, the radio programs we heard and even in our comic books. It was all around us and it was exciting. It affected me so much that, even today, my emotions are stirred when I hear the national anthem.
By the end of the first year of the war we had learned to hate three countries—Japan, Germany and Italy. The Icons for these countries were Tojo, Hitler and Mussolini. We even had a dart game with pictures of these men as targets. To hit Hitler gave us 100 points, 75 points if we hit Tojo and 50 point when we hit Mussolini. Unfortunately, some of this propaganda resulted in some ugly things. Japanese Americans were sent to camps in the name of national defense. These were people who had been born in our country and yet, they were rounded up and even had some of their property confiscated—the ugliness of politics and propaganda. I guess you could say it was like a government-sponsored racism.
One good thing that came about in those years was the unity it brought to our country. It not affected the country and the individual states, each neighborhood worked together, and just about every individual found a way to serve even to the point of sacrifice. At school we had scrap metal drives, paper drives, rubber tires and drives for every kind of vital material. To explain what these were, students in each grade at school would go from door to door collecting all these materials and then take them to the school. I guess I could look it up, but I don’t really know why paper drives were so important. To make it interesting, every school was in competition with the other schools and we were as excited about this as were when we competed in sports.
Before the war, just about every child could identify every car on the road with few exceptions. Of course, back then the majority of those were either Ford’s or Chevrolets with a few Buicks, Chryslers thrown in, and every one of them looked different. Not only could we identify the make of the car but also the year it was made. Then, as the months went by into the war, we were also able to identify the airplanes that flew over. Anybody could identify Lockheed P 38 Lighting with its twin booms and the cockpit between them. The Curtis P 40 was known by several names: as Warhawk, Tomahawk, Kittyhawk but probably best known as the Flying Tiger. Then there was the P 51, Mustang also known as the Thunderbolt. We could also identify the bombers, like the B 17 Flying Fortress, the B 24, the Liberator, and later, the B 25 Mitchell, and the B 29 Super Fortress which replaced the B 17. We knew them all.
I have other memories of Ford and Chevrolets. They were the cause of many arguments between my mother’s two brothers. Uncle Neville never owned anything other than a Ford in his lifetime. Uncle Dave was loyal to Chevys during my younger years. He eventually went to Buicks and finally to Chryslers. Every time our family would get together and that gathering included my two uncles, they would find something to argue about. Most of the time it was about cars, but sometimes it would be about things like trade unions. Being in construction, Uncle Dave was a union man and Uncle Neville was not.
The loyalties to Ford and Chevy spilled over into the world of kids. You were either a Ford man or a Chevy man. I’m not sure where it came from, but a popular put down was, “A Ford is nothing but a tin can with cardboard wheels.” Then, of course, there was the old standby that would be said to Chevy owners. “The reason they are called a Chevy is because they shiver all over the street and lay in the garage.” This was funny back in the 40s.
There was another member in my mother’s family. My grandmother had married a man name Walker and they had a son name Hugh. I’m not sure, but my grandmother divorced this man and married my grandfather, Charles Colglazier. They had four children and Hugh was their half brother.
Uncle Hugh caused me to believe that every family probably had a family member who was strange—the black sheep. By the time I met him, he had already established a family in Oregon, abandoned them, moved back to Colorado and married another lady name Neva. In all fairness, I need to include some of the details that brought him to this point.
When he was in Oregon he was working as a lumberjack. There was some kind of an accident and he ended up with a broken back. Unfortunately, this disability caused him to lost his ambition. While recovering he was being paid full compensation, not having to work at all. He got accustomed to getting something for nothing and, even after the compensation ended, he never made any real effort to hold a job for very long. I never found out how it happened, but Neva was slow, with an IQ of someone in elementary school.
Uncle Hugh and Aunt Neva didn’t come around very often, but when she did visit us, she always showed up unannounced, riding her bicycle to our house. Even though cleanliness was not very important to them, my mother always treated them well. Sometimes if was very difficult to be patient, especially with Neva, but my mother was always tolerant with her. My mother would never fail to ask Neva if she had eaten and Neva was always hungry.
In those years, it was not unusually for tramps to come by and ask for something to eat. We didn’t call them tramps to be unkind. They were not called “homeless.” They were either known as tramps, hobos or bums. These were the men who rode the rails—sneaking on to freight trains to hitch a ride from city to city. My mother never failed to feed these men. She would tell them to go around to the back door and a few minutes later she would come out with a plate full of food. I grew up thinking that this was something everyone did.
Since my parents didn’t own a car, streetcars were an important part of our lives. I find it interesting that I don’t remember the first time I was allowed to ride a streetcar by myself. I’m sure I couldn’t have been more than 8-years-old. Since we only lived three blocks from Broadway, it only took a few minutes to catch a number 3 that ran down Broadway from Hampden in Englewood, a suburb south of Denver and then to the middle of downtown. Of course we could transfer to a number 5 at Broadway and Alameda and it would take us to University Boulevard near Louisiana. A number 6 would go east from Broadway on 6th Avenue, but I don’t remember where it turned around. Number 14 ran from the middle of downtown, straight east on Colfax, turning around a few blocks from Aurora, a suburb of Denver. Of course there other routes that went to other parts of the city, but I don’t remember their numbers.
Like most families, we have stories that we have told over and over again. More than one of these was when Dave and I were going to take a streetcar somewhere. We used the number 3 streetcar more than any of the others since it covered most of Broadway from one end to the other.
Sometimes you could find a place to sit and sometimes you had to stand. Of course, back in those days, we were trained to get up and give our seats to any female or older person if it was crowded. That’s the way we were taught, so we didn’t give it much thought. That’s just the way it was. Because of that, my brothers and I usually traveled standing up, holding on to a pole.
I don’t remember where my brother and I were going that day. It was probably some errand for our mother, like going downtown to pay the light bill or to the coal company near Gates Rubber Company.
During the Word War Two years, very few people had checking accounts. Even though paying with cash was inconvenient, it did eliminate things like overdraft charges and credit card finance charges. We didn’t have much money but at least it all went for things we could actually use. This makes me wonder just how much money the average person would have if they had never even thought of getting a credit card. Some people would probably be able to finance a small country.
Anyway, Dave and I were waiting for a streetcar to go on an errand for our mother. I was probably around 10 and Dave was 12. As brothers do at that age, we were playing around, pushing each other, tickling, etc., and just as the number 3 stopped for us, Phillip had done something to me. Before I could retaliate, he jumped on board and headed toward the back of the crowded streetcar. Quickly dropping my token in the strange looking box, designed to accept them, I went in search of my brother with revenge on my mind. I finally found him holding on to a pole.
It didn’t take me long to evaluate the situation. His grip on the pole is what got my attention. His four fingers were wrapped around the pole, but his thumb was sticking straight up, giving me an obvious target. It would have been best if I had thought about it a little longer before I took action.
My intention was to grab hold of his thumb and bend it backwards—a good way to get even, I thought. I knew I had to move fast, so I quickly reached out and bent the thumb. It didn’t cause him any pain at all. The thumb I was bending belonged to the man standing next to Dave. It not only caused him pain, it also caused him to look at me as if I had lost my mind. I immediately started to apologize, but from the look on his face I could tell he still believed I was crazy.
Dave was enjoying every minute, laughing long and loud as I tried to explain myself. The last I saw of the man was when he was getting off the streetcar, holding his thumb, still looking at me as if he had no doubt there was something wrong with my mind.
This event is just one more reason why I feel sorry for people who have missed out on the fun of traveling by streetcar. I mean, it’s not much fun traveling alone in a car. Maybe it would be a good idea for everyone to travel by streetcar again. It might not be as convenient, but I bet it would cut way down on road rage.
We rode on the Number 3 streetcar more than any of the others. It traveled from the middle of downtown Denver, down Broadway, and then turned around in Englewood, a block north of Hampden. I have lots of memories involving the number 3 route. With one exception, most of them were good.
Going south into Englewood we had to pass a mortuary on the west side of Broadway, and passing it became something I dreaded for many years. It all started with a vacation to Glenwood Springs in Colorado. As far as I was concerned, this small mountain town was about an inch this side of heaven. My mistake was when I went to see a movie called “The Mad Ghoul” during one of the weeks we were there. Since I was the “little boy” of the family, at first I was told that I would not be allowed to go. “Scary movies” sometimes caused me to have nightmares. But somehow I was able to talk my dad into letting me go—something both of us lived to regret. Since the cabin was small, he and I had to share a bed and neither one of us got much sleep that night.
The movie involved a mortuary where the ghoul had to go and get a new brain from time to time. So, my young mind made me decide that these places were where the ghoul lived, and if I would pretend not to be aware of these places, I would be safe. When the Number 3 would pass the ghoul’s house in Englewood, I would make sure I was looking east. This way, I was able to stay safe. He wasn’t going to get my brain.
I enjoyed taking the Number 3 going north because we passed a lot of movie theaters. First, there was the Jewel Theater, where I had my first date. I wasn’t old enough to realize that a girl would not enjoy watching a documentary called “Memphis Belle.” Looking back now, I am able to appreciate her willingness to tolerate my choice.Her name was Donna Meacham and, even though she was considered to be my very first girlfriend, she wasn’t my first love. I mentioned earlier that Arthur Golden was our preacher at Sherman Street and that he came to visit me in the hospital. But the reason he was important to me was because of his daughter Joann. I’m not sure why, but I was totally enthralled with her. It might have been because she and I were in a wedding together.

Stelean Peck and her parents were members at Sherman Street and when she got married to a soldier during the war, they asked me to be the ring bearer and Joann Golden was the flower girl. Because it was a military wedding, I wore a small uniform. Then, when the photographs were developed, the adults kidded me about it being my wedding. Part of the problem is that Joann wasn’t as enthralled with me as I was with her. I doubt that anyone at that time had any idea just how painful all of this was for a 9 year-old boy. I have no idea what ever happened to Joann.




After passing the Jewel, it was several blocks before we came to the Weber Theater and three blocks after that was the Mayan. It wasn’t until years later that I learned we had mispronounced Mayan. To us, it was the “May-On.”
It is interesting that passing those theaters didn’t frighten me. After all, those were the places where the Mad Ghoul had really lived.
Our family depended on other people in the church to give us a ride to church. As I look back, I find it surprising that we were able to get by without a car for so many years. On some occasion, when money was extra tight, Dad would get up early and walk several miles work. And then, he would still find time to work in his garden when he got home in the evening.
Uncle Neville was the one person in our family who had money. We thought he was rich, but he actually just had a good job with the phone company. During the depression he was one of the few who had a steady job. I remember that he always had a nice care. He was a hard and fast loyal Ford owner. In his entire life he never owned anything but a ford. On the other hand, his brother, our Uncle Dave, drove a Chevrolet and then later a Buick and finally a Chrysler. Since Uncle Dave and Aunt Gladys never had children, they were better off financially that my parents. With the exception of our Aunt Betty, Uncle Neville’s wife, they were usually very generous in helping our family from time to time. Aunt Betty was very selective in her giving. Looking back now, I can see where she used her money to try and gain control of my brothers and sister and me. She made it difficult for my mother to ask for help. For example, when I had pneumonia at eight months old and dad was in Fitzsimmons hospital, mom needed a ride to go see Dad. Aunt Betty took my mother’s last quarter to help pay for the gasoline. But she was always ready to take us kids to places that were fun, buying fun things and even taking us on vacation to Glenwood Springs. She was a strange lady—so nice to us on some occasions and very cruel at other times.
She was a smoker and on one occasion she asked if I would like to see her blow smoke out of her ears. Naturally, since I was only about six or seven-years-old, I fell for it. She old me that I would have to stare at her ears without blinking or looking at anything else. Then, while I was staring at her ears, she took her hot spoon from her cup of coffee and touched it to my arm. It wasn’t hot enough to cause a blister, but it still hurt. She thought it was funny.
One year, when she took my brother and me to Glenwood Springs, she bought a big box of comic books, but she wouldn’t let us read any of them on the trip from Denver. Then, during the week at Glenwood she only allowed us to read one comic book a day. At the end of the week there were several left in the box that we never did get to read. Like I said, she was a strange lady.
She had the opportunity to find joy in helping to make things easier for my mother and yet, it seems that she made every effort to do just the opposite. She finally divorced my uncle and ended up as a sad, lonely old lady.

Chapter Three - Part Two

To start this history from the beginning, go to the right hand column and click on June and then scroll down to Chapter One - Part One.

World War II brought many things to our lives. We learned what rationing was. Sugar, gasoline, chewing gum (?), and rubber, are just some of the things I remember. There were some things we couldn’t get at all, such as bananas.
The war also introduced me to patriotism. Everywhere we went we were bombarded with the importance of being patriotic. It was in the movies we saw, the radio programs we heard and even in our comic books. It was all around us and it was exciting. It affected me so much that, even today, my emotions are stirred when I hear the national anthem.
By the end of the first year of the war we had learned to hate three countries—Japan, Germany and Italy. The Icons for these countries were Tojo, Hitler and Mussolini. We even had a dart game with pictures of these men as targets. To hit Hitler gave us 100 points, 75 points if we hit Tojo and 50 point when we hit Mussolini. Unfortunately, some of this propaganda resulted in some ugly things. Japanese Americans were sent to camps in the name of national defense. These were people who had been born in our country and yet, they were rounded up and even had some of their property confiscated—the ugliness of politics and propaganda. I guess you could say it was like a government-sponsored racism.
One good thing that came about in those years was the unity it brought to our country. It not affected the country and the individual states, each neighborhood worked together, and just about every individual found a way to serve even to the point of sacrifice. At school we had scrap metal drives, paper drives, rubber tires and drives for every kind of vital material. To explain what these were, students in each grade at school would go from door to door collecting all these materials and then take them to the school. I guess I could look it up, but I don’t really know why paper drives were so important. To make it interesting, every school was in competition with the other schools and we were as excited about this as were when we competed in sports.
Before the war, just about every child could identify every car on the road with few exceptions. Of course, back then the majority of those were either Ford’s or Chevrolets with a few Buicks, Chryslers thrown in, and every one of them looked different. Not only could we identify the make of the car but also the year it was made. Then, as the months went by into the war, we were also able to identify the airplanes that flew over. Anybody could identify Lockheed P 38 Lighting with its twin booms and the cockpit between them. The Curtis P 40 was known by several names: as Warhawk, Tomahawk, Kittyhawk but probably best known as the Flying Tiger. Then there was the P 51, Mustang also known as the Thunderbolt. We could also identify the bombers, like the B 17 Flying Fortress, the B 24, the Liberator, and later, the B 25 Mitchell, and the B 29 Super Fortress which replaced the B 17. We knew them all.
I have other memories of Ford and Chevrolets. They were the cause of many arguments between my mother’s two brothers. Uncle Neville never owned anything other than a Ford in his lifetime. Uncle Dave was loyal to Chevys during my younger years. He eventually went to Buicks and finally to Chryslers. Every time our family would get together and that gathering included my two uncles, they would find something to argue about. Most of the time it was about cars, but sometimes it would be about things like trade unions. Being in construction, Uncle Dave was a union man and Uncle Neville was not.
The loyalties to Ford and Chevy spilled over into the world of kids. You were either a Ford man or a Chevy man. I’m not sure where it came from, but a popular put down was, “A Ford is nothing but a tin can with cardboard wheels.” Then, of course, there was the old standby that would be said to Chevy owners. “The reason they are called a Chevy is because they shiver all over the street and lay in the garage.” This was funny back in the 40s.
There was another member in my mother’s family. My grandmother had married a man name Walker and they had a son name Hugh. I’m not sure, but my grandmother divorced this man and married my grandfather, Charles Colglazier. They had four children and Hugh was their half brother.
Uncle Hugh caused me to believe that every family probably had a family member who was strange—the black sheep. By the time I met him, he had already established a family in Oregon, abandoned them, moved back to Colorado and married another lady name Neva. In all fairness, I need to include some of the details that brought him to this point.
When he was in Oregon he was working as a lumberjack. There was some kind of an accident and he ended up with a broken back. Unfortunately, this disability caused him to lost his ambition. While recovering he was being paid full compensation, not having to work at all. He got accustomed to getting something for nothing and, even after the compensation ended, he never made any real effort to hold a job for very long. I never found out how it happened, but Neva was slow, with an IQ of someone in elementary school.
Uncle Hugh and Aunt Neva didn’t come around very often, but when she did visit us, she always showed up unannounced, riding her bicycle to our house. Even though cleanliness was not very important to them, my mother always treated them well. Sometimes if was very difficult to be patient, especially with Neva, but my mother was always tolerant with her. My mother would never fail to ask Neva if she had eaten and Neva was always hungry.
In those years, it was not unusually for tramps to come by and ask for something to eat. We didn’t call them tramps to be unkind. They were not called “homeless.” They were either known as tramps, hobos or bums. These were the men who rode the rails—sneaking on to freight trains to hitch a ride from city to city. My mother never failed to feed these men. She would tell them to go around to the back door and a few minutes later she would come out with a plate full of food. I grew up thinking that this was something everyone did.
Since my parents didn’t own a car, streetcars were an important part of our lives. I find it interesting that I don’t remember the first time I was allowed to ride a streetcar by myself. I’m sure I couldn’t have been more than 8-years-old. Since we only lived three blocks from Broadway, it only took a few minutes to catch a number 3 that ran down Broadway from Hampden in Englewood, a suburb south of Denver and then to the middle of downtown. Of course we could transfer to a number 5 at Broadway and Alameda and it would take us to University Boulevard near Louisiana. A number 6 would go east from Broadway on 6th Avenue, but I don’t remember where it turned around. Number 14 ran from the middle of downtown, straight east on Colfax, turning around a few blocks from Aurora, a suburb of Denver. Of course there other routes that went to other parts of the city, but I don’t remember their numbers.
Like most families, we have stories that we have told over and over again. More than one of these was when Dave and I were going to take a streetcar somewhere. We used the number 3 streetcar more than any of the others since it covered most of Broadway from one end to the other.
Sometimes you could find a place to sit and sometimes you had to stand. Of course, back in those days, we were trained to get up and give our seats to any female or older person if it was crowded. That’s the way we were taught, so we didn’t give it much thought. That’s just the way it was. Because of that, my brothers and I usually traveled standing up, holding on to a pole.
I don’t remember where my brother and I were going that day. It was probably some errand for our mother, like going downtown to pay the light bill or to the coal company near Gates Rubber Company.
During the Word War Two years, very few people had checking accounts. Even though paying with cash was inconvenient, it did eliminate things like overdraft charges and credit card finance charges. We didn’t have much money but at least it all went for things we could actually use. This makes me wonder just how much money the average person would have if they had never even thought of getting a credit card. Some people would probably be able to finance a small country.
Anyway, Dave and I were waiting for a streetcar to go on an errand for our mother. I was probably around 10 and Dave was 12. As brothers do at that age, we were playing around, pushing each other, tickling, etc., and just as the number 3 stopped for us, Phillip had done something to me. Before I could retaliate, he jumped on board and headed toward the back of the crowded streetcar. Quickly dropping my token in the strange looking box, designed to accept them, I went in search of my brother with revenge on my mind. I finally found him holding on to a pole.
It didn’t take me long to evaluate the situation. His grip on the pole is what got my attention. His four fingers were wrapped around the pole, but his thumb was sticking straight up, giving me an obvious target. It would have been best if I had thought about it a little longer before I took action.
My intention was to grab hold of his thumb and bend it backwards—a good way to get even, I thought. I knew I had to move fast, so I quickly reached out and bent the thumb. It didn’t cause him any pain at all. The thumb I was bending belonged to the man standing next to Dave. It not only caused him pain, it also caused him to look at me as if I had lost my mind. I immediately started to apologize, but from the look on his face I could tell he still believed I was crazy.
Dave was enjoying every minute, laughing long and loud as I tried to explain myself. The last I saw of the man was when he was getting off the streetcar, holding his thumb, still looking at me as if he had no doubt there was something wrong with my mind.
This event is just one more reason why I feel sorry for people who have missed out on the fun of traveling by streetcar. I mean, it’s not much fun traveling alone in a car. Maybe it would be a good idea for everyone to travel by streetcar again. It might not be as convenient, but I bet it would cut way down on road rage.
We rode on the Number 3 streetcar more than any of the others. It traveled from the middle of downtown Denver, down Broadway, and then turned around in Englewood, a block north of Hampden. I have lots of memories involving the number 3 route. With one exception, most of them were good.
Going south into Englewood we had to pass a mortuary on the west side of Broadway, and passing it became something I dreaded for many years. It all started with a vacation to Glenwood Springs in Colorado. As far as I was concerned, this small mountain town was about an inch this side of heaven. My mistake was when I went to see a movie called “The Mad Ghoul” during one of the weeks we were there. Since I was the “little boy” of the family, at first I was told that I would not be allowed to go. “Scary movies” sometimes caused me to have nightmares. But somehow I was able to talk my dad into letting me go—something both of us lived to regret. Since the cabin was small, he and I had to share a bed and neither one of us got much sleep that night.
The movie involved a mortuary where the ghoul had to go and get a new brain from time to time. So, my young mind made me decide that these places were where the ghoul lived, and if I would pretend not to be aware of these places, I would be safe. When the Number 3 would pass the ghoul’s house in Englewood, I would make sure I was looking east. This way, I was able to stay safe. He wasn’t going to get my brain.
I enjoyed taking the Number 3 going north because we passed a lot of movie theaters. First, there was the Jewel Theater, where I had my first date. I wasn’t old enough to realize that a girl would not enjoy watching a documentary called “Memphis Belle.” Looking back now, I am able to appreciate her willingness to tolerate my choice.
After passing the Jewel, it was several blocks before we came to the Weber Theater and three blocks after that was the Mayan. It wasn’t until years later that I learned we had mispronounced Mayan. To us, it was the “May-On.”
It is interesting that passing those theaters didn’t frighten me. After all, those were the places where the Mad Ghoul had really lived.
Our family depended on other people in the church to give us a ride to church. As I look back, I find it surprising that we were able to get by without a car for so many years. On some occasion, when money was extra tight, Dad would get up early and walk several miles work. And then, he would still find time to work in his garden when he got home in the evening.
Uncle Neville was the one person in our family who had money. We thought he was rich, but he actually just had a good job with the phone company. During the depression he was one of the few who had a steady job. I remember that he always had a nice care. He was a hard and fast loyal Ford owner. In his entire life he never owned anything but a ford. On the other hand, his brother, our Uncle Dave, drove a Chevrolet and then later a Buick and finally a Chrysler. Since Uncle Dave and Aunt Gladys never had children, they were better off financially that my parents. With the exception of our Aunt Betty, Uncle Neville’s wife, they were usually very generous in helping our family from time to time. Aunt Betty was very selective in her giving. Looking back now, I can see where she used her money to try and gain control of my brothers and sister and me. She made it difficult for my mother to ask for help. For example, when I had pneumonia at eight months old and dad was in Fitzsimmons hospital, mom needed a ride to go see Dad. Aunt Betty took my mother’s last quarter to help pay for the gasoline. But she was always ready to take us kids to places that were fun, buying fun things and even taking us on vacation to Glenwood Springs. She was a strange lady—so nice to us on some occasions and very cruel at other times.
She was a smoker and on one occasion she asked if I would like to see her blow smoke out of her ears. Naturally, since I was only about six or seven-years-old, I fell for it. She old me that I would have to stare at her ears without blinking or looking at anything else. Then, while I was staring at her ears, she took her hot spoon from her cup of coffee and touched it to my arm. It wasn’t hot enough to cause a blister, but it still hurt. She thought it was funny.
One year, when she took my brother and me to Glenwood Springs, she bought a big box of comic books, but she wouldn’t let us read any of them on the trip from Denver. Then, during the week at Glenwood she only allowed us to read one comic book a day. At the end of the week there were several left in the box that we never did get to read. Like I said, she was a strange lady.
She had the opportunity to find joy in helping to make things easier for my mother and yet, it seems that she made every effort to do just the opposite. She finally divorced my uncle and ended up as a sad, lonely old lady.

Chapter Three -- Part One

Chapter Three
Cherokee, The War Years

1941 was not only eventful for the United States, possibly for the world; it was significant to our family for more than the fact that we were at war.
Sometime around late 1939 or early 1940, when he was nine-years-old, Jack got a job selling Look magazines. He would sell each one for ten cents and every two weeks someone would deliver 200 to our house and for every one he sold he was paid a penny. This meant he was able to make $2.00 every two weeks which he turned over to mom. This was a time when every family member was expected to do their part to help the family.
He kept this job for at least three years. Sometimes Dave and I would go with him, not so much to help as to keep him company. On one occasion, December 2, 1941, when Jack was almost 12, Dave was 10 and I was 8, Dave and I went with Jack to sell magazines on South Broadway. Englewood was only three blocks south of our house and the three of us ended up in Englewood on the corner of Bates and Broadway. Since I was young enough at eight-years-old to still be cute and cuddly, people seemed to buy the magazines more often from me. Jack had his bicycle with him and, at one point, when we only had a few magazines left, he suggested that he ride his bike north on the west side of Broadway, while Dave went south on the same side of Broadway. There was a Service Station on the east side of Broadway where I had always been able to sell one or two magazines, depending on the number of customers. So Jack told me to go over there and this is the last thing I remember until I woke up in the hospital the next morning.
We were usually very careful about crossing the street, but I obviously didn’t look ways before crossing the street. A car that was traveling south on Broadway didn’t have time to stop when I walked in front of him. Dave heard the sounds of the breaks squealing and the thump when the car hit me. He turned around just in time to see me fall. According to him, I was already trying to get up by the time he got to me. Jack hadn’t made it very far north because he was able to push the driver away from me who was trying to help me. I do have hazy memories of the ambulance siren, being wrapped in a scratchy, wool blanket making me much to warm.
After the ambulance left, Jack had the unenviable job of riding his bike home to tell Mom and Dad about the accident. When he got home the atmosphere made his task even more difficult. The smells of the cooking dinner permeated throughout the house and Mom was in a very pleasant mood. Jack knew he was about to destroy the peaceful evening. No one should have to do something like this, let alone an 11-year-old. I’m not sure how my parents got to the hospital, but when they did arrive they found out I had a fractured skull and severe concussion and at first I was completely blind. Thankfully, this symptom had passed by the time I woke up the next morning.
I was in the Denver General hospital for three weeks. Since the car had hit me on December 2nd, this means I was in the hospital on the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. I remember the nurse coming into the ward that I shared. She was crying and told us, “The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor.” At eight-years-old I had no idea what a pearl harbor was or why that made her cry. Like everyone else, I learned very quickly what it meant.
It is difficult to imagine this now, but my parents were only allowed to visit me one time during my three-week stay. The only one who came more than once was our preacher, Arthur Golden. Now that I look back on this I surprised that I adjusted to this so quickly. The other boys in my ward had various injuries, burns, broken legs, etc. All of us were confined to our beds. It seems I had some kind of fluid in my skull and had to be careful not hit my head. Ask me if it stopped me from getting out of bed when the nurses were not around. One of my roommates, dared me to get out of bed, so, the first time I got up, all I did was stand by my bed. The next dare was for me to walk to his bed a few feet away. I did it. In fact, the final dare was for me to walk out of the ward, to the room across the hall to touch the table we could see in there. Not knowing exactly how dangerous it was, I took the dare. I wish I could say that this was last foolish thing I ever did in my life.
I have great memories about when I was finally released from the hospital. When I got home everyone treated me like a king. I had never felt so important. Even my brothers and my sister treated me special. At that age I wanted it to go on forever. It didn’t. It wasn’t long before I was simply another member of the family. But it was still good to be home.

Chapter Three -- Part One

To start this history from the beginning, go to the right hand column and click on June and then scroll down to Chapter One - Part One.

Chapter Three
Cherokee, The War Years

1941 was not only eventful for the United States, possibly for the world; it was significant to our family for more than the fact that we were at war.
Sometime around late 1939 or early 1940, when he was nine-years-old, Jack got a job selling Look magazines. He would sell each one for ten cents and every two weeks someone would deliver 200 to our house and for every one he sold he was paid a penny. This meant he was able to make $2.00 every two weeks which he turned over to mom. This was a time when every family member was expected to do their part to help the family.
He kept this job for at least three years. Sometimes Dave and I would go with him, not so much to help as to keep him company. On one occasion, December 2, 1941, when Jack was almost 12, Dave was 10 and I was 8, Dave and I went with Jack to sell magazines on South Broadway. Englewood was only three blocks south of our house and the three of us ended up in Englewood on the corner of Bates and Broadway. Since I was young enough at eight-years-old to still be cute and cuddly, people seemed to buy the magazines more often from me. Jack had his bicycle with him and, at one point, when we only had a few magazines left, he suggested that he ride his bike north on the west side of Broadway, while Dave went south on the same side of Broadway. There was a Service Station on the east side of Broadway where I had always been able to sell one or two magazines, depending on the number of customers. So Jack told me to go over there and this is the last thing I remember until I woke up in the hospital the next morning.
We were usually very careful about crossing the street, but I obviously didn’t look ways before crossing the street. A car that was traveling south on Broadway didn’t have time to stop when I walked in front of him. Dave heard the sounds of the breaks squealing and the thump when the car hit me. He turned around just in time to see me fall. According to him, I was already trying to get up by the time he got to me. Jack hadn’t made it very far north because he was able to push the driver away from me who was trying to help me. I do have hazy memories of the ambulance siren, being wrapped in a scratchy, wool blanket making me much to warm.
After the ambulance left, Jack had the unenviable job of riding his bike home to tell Mom and Dad about the accident. When he got home the atmosphere made his task even more difficult. The smells of the cooking dinner permeated throughout the house and Mom was in a very pleasant mood. Jack knew he was about to destroy the peaceful evening. No one should have to do something like this, let alone an 11-year-old. I’m not sure how my parents got to the hospital, but when they did arrive they found out I had a fractured skull and severe concussion and at first I was completely blind. Thankfully, this symptom had passed by the time I woke up the next morning.
I was in the Denver General hospital for three weeks. Since the car had hit me on December 2nd, this means I was in the hospital on the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. I remember the nurse coming into the ward that I shared. She was crying and told us, “The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor.” At eight-years-old I had no idea what a pearl harbor was or why that made her cry. Like everyone else, I learned very quickly what it meant.
It is difficult to imagine this now, but my parents were only allowed to visit me one time during my three-week stay. The only one who came more than once was our preacher, Arthur Golden. Now that I look back on this I surprised that I adjusted to this so quickly. The other boys in my ward had various injuries, burns, broken legs, etc. All of us were confined to our beds. It seems I had some kind of fluid in my skull and had to be careful not hit my head. Ask me if it stopped me from getting out of bed when the nurses were not around. One of my roommates, dared me to get out of bed, so, the first time I got up, all I did was stand by my bed. The next dare was for me to walk to his bed a few feet away. I did it. In fact, the final dare was for me to walk out of the ward, to the room across the hall to touch the table we could see in there. Not knowing exactly how dangerous it was, I took the dare. I wish I could say that this was last foolish thing I ever did in my life.
I have great memories about when I was finally released from the hospital. When I got home everyone treated me like a king. I had never felt so important. Even my brothers and my sister treated me special. At that age I wanted it to go on forever. It didn’t. It wasn’t long before I was simply another member of the family. But it was still good to be home.

Chapter Two - Part Five

My parents were strict disciplinarians. Even though mom would do most of the spanking, all of us kids were more afraid of dad. I can only remember two or three times when he spanked me, but I think his temper is what frightened us. Because of this, all he had to do most of the time was give us a stern look and that was enough to make us behave. We knew we would not get a second chance. Mom would get angry, but she was always in control. Using a switch, that we usually had cut from a tree ourselves, her spankings were short and stingy. When we were in church she would use the well-placed pinch, which was more aggravating to me than painful.
Even though we were certainly not perfect kids, I can honestly say that none of us ever talked back or got sassy with our parents. I can’t even remember wanting to say anything disrespectful to them. I’m not sure about the other kids, but, for me, showing that kind of disrespect to parents just was not an option. After all, they were our parents—mom and dad.
Our kitchen was also equipped with an icebox. Not a refrigerator, an icebox. Putting a block of ice in the top compartment of the box would keep the food placed in the middle section from spoiling. Of course, we had to place a pan underneath the box to catch the water dripping from the melting ice. Two or three times a week the iceman would drive his truck down the alley. His customers would place a large card in the window that had different numbers on each corner—25, 50, 75 and 100. If the corner, pointing up showed the number 25, this meant the customer wanted a 25 pound block of ice.
On hot summer days we would follow the ice truck, hoping to get the small pieces of ice that had been chipped from the larger blocks to make the size the customer wanted. Sometimes the iceman would chip enough to give us all a piece. He was almost as popular as the ice cream man. But since the ice was free, there were times when he was more popular because we seldom had money for ice cream.
When I think of our icebox there is one special memory that comes to mind. Sometimes, on rare occasions, my mother was able to make a pie. Having a cherry tree in our backyard helped to make this luxury possible. Since we had six people in our family it was very easy to cut the pie into six pieces. Sometimes, on the day after we had our piece of pie for supper, we would look in the icebox and find a piece of the pie still there. Even though we knew whose piece it was, we would always say, “Whose piece of pie is this?” Most of the time my mother would say, “Yours if you want it.” I didn’t think much about that back then, but now I recognize it as the symbolic epitome of the kind of mother she was. Because of her sacrificial character, she never hesitated in her willingness to put herself last when it came to her children. This kind of attitude is rare today since the majority of wives and mothers seem to be more interested in making sure that they get their piece of the pie—even to the point of demanding.
In our younger years, some people thought Dave and I were twins. We were blond and had fairer skin than Pat and Jack. I suppose they got most of their genes from my father’s side—French and Indian and Dave and I showed more of the German traits from our mother’s side.
Even though Jack was only one year and three months older than Dave, he always seemed so much older than his two younger brothers. Being the oldest son, I believe Dad had a lot to do with this. More was expected out of Jack, even though Pat was the oldest. Even though we all had certain respect for who he was, in many ways Dad was a tyrant and I believe Jack suffered more under this tyranny than his siblings. As I look back I can see evidence that Dad enjoyed finding something that he felt gave him an excuse to jump all over Jack. In a sense, Jack was never allowed to be a little boy.
Dave was two years and two months older than me and yet he spent more time playing with me. So, in many ways, I was closer to Dave in those years than I was to Jack. However, even though I would do just about anything to please Dave, doing something to please Jack was at a premium. It didn’t happen very often in our younger years. Recognizing that I could be as aggravating as most little brothers, I’m sure this was the main reason it was so rare.
Dave and I spent as much time as possible playing in our own dramatic scenes. Sometimes these dramas would go on for two or three hours. I’m not sure if we were influenced by the movies we saw, but we seemed to be able to anticipate what the other one was going to say as if we actually had a script. For me, these dramatic playtimes were more exciting and fun than playing cars, airplanes or with other toys.
Our devotion to these dramas is a little surprising because we didn’t get to go to the movies very often. While most of the neighbor kids went to the movies every Saturday, we were lucky if we even got to go once a month. This was another thing about our mother that I didn’t understand. She simply didn’t like for us to go to movies. I don’t think it was because of the money because a ticket was only nine cents. This included a double feature, a cartoon and the week serial. We could buy popcorn for five cents a bag and candy for another nickel. All of this for less than a quarter. Years later I found out that she and her sister were allowed to hang out at the local movie theater, which was called the Jewel, located on the 23 hundred block on Broadway. This was where she met Dad and since this was during the end days of the Roaring Twenties, I’m sure that she and her sister, 16 and 18, were a little “wild.” Of course, I would not define this term by today’s standards.
Dad and his brother Ben were working for a distant relative that everyone called “Old man Carter.” I think he was something like a third cousin. He was involved in building several theaters in the Denver area. They included the Jewel, the Mission, the Santa Fe, the Oriental and possibly others that I can’t think of. Anyway, this relative owned these theaters and Dad and my Uncle Ben managed some of them. There was always a family rumor about “Old man Carter” being connected with the local mob. The fact that he was eventually murdered gives some support to that rumor. All of this makes me wish I had asked my dad more questions.
The times when we were allowed to attend a movie was when the whole family went. On rare occasions we were allowed to go with a friend to a Saturday Matinee. This was always a little frustrating because the serials always ended with a cliffhanger and I knew I wouldn’t find out what happened.
I don’t know about my brothers and sister, but movies always to enter another world. From the time when the curtains were opening until the “The End” credit, I was totally involved in that other world. I’m sure some movies were better than others, but it didn’t matter to me. Every movie allowed me to escape.
Our dramatic playing was another way for me to continue this distraction from the real world. These times, like the movies, allowed me to become someone else for a while. I suppose it was no surprised that I ended up acting in a limited sense, and, no, I’m not talking about my preaching.
On very rare occasions, we were able to get Jack to be involved in our dramas. However, when our friends came over neither Jack or Dave would even mention this kind of playing. This is when we would play all of the typical games, etc. that most boys play. I’m not really sure why, but Dave was the only one who was able to fit in to these special dramas.
On the occasions when Dave and I would be allowed to go to a theater alone, we would inevitably get home late because we would stay and see the movie again. During those years you could enter the theater in the middle of a movie and when it got to the place where you first walked in, you could simply stay and keep watching.
I’m not sure why, but our mother seldom allowed us to go to a neighbor’s house to play. Even though there were rare occasions when we were allowed to play in other kids backyards, most of the time, when we would ask Mom if we could go, she would usually say, “Why don’t you ask them to come over here?” It was probably a matter of trust, but I’m not sure if she didn’t trust us or simply wanted us to be close by. In some ways she was very protective and in other ways allowed us to be independent.
In those days there was no lease law in Denver. So Pal was able to go with us when we went to the store or other places for our mother. We would ride our bicycles along the sidewalk with him trotting along in front of us, his tail looking like he was leading some kind of crazy band. Sometimes he would carry an empty tin can in his mouth, which would cause people to laugh as we passed by. I’m not sure who trained him, but when we would get to a street, he would never cross until we said he could.
Pal’s peculiarities included certain phobias. He was afraid of loud noises, he wouldn’t get into a car unless we picked him up and put him in. If we visited other people’s houses he would never go in no matter how hard we tried to coax him. As I mentioned before, our Uncle Neville only live about three blocks from our house, not far to walk. However, when we would ride in his car and didn’t tell Pal to stay home, he would run along side of the car, running the entire three blocks. On one occasion Uncle Neville clocked him running at 35 miles per hour. There is lots more about him which we will cover later.
Those first years on Cherokee were difficult and yet, very simple. We never went hungry, but by every definition, we were poor. We didn’t know we were poor. As far as we were concerned, the poor people lived in a house on the corner of our street. We even called it the poor people’s house. It was even smaller than our house, sitting way back from the street, allowing the front yard to take up most of the lot. To me, the house didn’t look big enough to have rooms, not big enough to sleep in or to set a table to eat on.
The yard was usually littered with trash and pieces of scrap metal. The sides of the house had a scraped look, making it look as if it had been prepared for painting but no one had ever bothered to paint it. If there had been a lawn in the front yard it would have looked nice. But other than a few scattered clumps of ugly, green stems, it was mostly dirt. When I walked by that house I always felt sorry for the people who lived there even though I never saw them. It is interesting that as I walked away I was walking away on shoes that had pieces of cardboard cut out to cover the holes, and yet I felt sorry for them. I knew that my dad would eventually be able to put half soles on my shoes as soon as we got enough money to buy the material.
We didn’t have much, but our lives were mostly uneventful. And then came the war.

Chapter Two - Part Four

In addition to Pal, we had several cats through the Cherokee years. The only ones who stand out in my memory are Figaro, Tommy and one that ended up having two different names. I don’t remember the first name of this particular cat, but I will never forget what his second name was and how he came to be called that. One day, when this cat (really more of a kitten) was about four months old, I was going to go the store for my mother and every time I would start to leave he would try to follow me. After several tries to leave, I finally decided to shut him up in the coal shed. I didn’t know that my dad had been working on something that involved oil. He had placed a small bucket of oil in the shed and by the time I got home from the store the kitten was surrounded by the family as they tried to clean the oil off his body. It seems that his curiosity caused him to investigate the bucket and he fell in. From that day on, he was known as Greaseball.
Taking care of chickens in our backyard was always fun until we got a rooster that we named Butch. It wasn’t until many years later when I found out that other people didn’t name their chickens. We named all of ours. Before Butch and his contemporaries came along, we had a little hen who was more special to us than any of the rest would be. She was allowed to stay outside of chicken pen, walking all over the backyard. As she walked, pecking as he she went, the sounds she would make were not the typical chicken sounds. Instead of trying to describe them in the detail, I will just say that the name we gave her was like the sounds she made. Her name was Pruck Pruck. If we were out in the yard, she would follow us around like a little puppy. She was the breed of chicken that grew feathers on her legs and when she would walk through the mud, the mud would stick to the feathers. When the mud balls on her legs would dry out, you could actually hear her walking. Unfortunately, having free reign of the backyard was her downfall. One of my brothers had been working on his bicycle and after removing one of the wheels, he leaned it against the wall of the coal shed and went into the house. Pruck Pruck came by and brushed against the tire. Sadly, the tire fell on her and broke her neck. I remember that the whole family felt the same kind of sadness we felt when on our cats or a dog died.
But Butch was a different story. He could have been named Mean or Satan or other things along that line. Anybody who went into the chicken pen quickly learned to carry some kind of stick to keep Butch away. On one occasion my brother Dave wasn’t quick enough and ended up getting spurred by Butch. It was bad enough to draw blood and we came close to having rooster for dinner that evening. I hope this doesn’t offend animal lovers, but that is how Butch eventually ended up, and the meat was tough.
For a short period of time we also had rabbits in our backyard. Dad’s idea was that we would raise the rabbits and then sell them to other people for the meat. The problem was that the rabbits became pets. We never ate any of them and we never sold them to anyone else. As tough as my dad was, he was also softhearted when it came to animals. Even when it came time to kill our chickens I can’t remember one time when he did it. He left it up to us boys and I didn’t have any problem chopping off their heads as long as they were never around long enough to have names.
My dad should have been a farmer. As soon as he arrived home from work and changed his clothes, he was out in our backyard working in his garden. I believe he could have grown just about anything. But he stayed with the standard vegetable garden—corn, beans, peas, carrots, radishes, lettuce and squash. I liked to eat all of these as long as some of them were raw. The only things I liked when they were cooked were corn, beans, potatoes and spinach. Being from the old, old school, my parents tried to force me to eat my vegetables, even though some of them made me gag. Eventually my stubbornness won the day and they gave up. I still like very few vegetables today.
Dad would go to extra effort to set up an irrigation system that allowed him to set the hose at one end of the garden and the water would follow the small canals he had made, eventually reaching every part of the garden. When we would help him, he would show us how to make small water wheels that would actually move from the force of the water.