I have been working on a story off and on for about three years now. It is about my childhood and my target audience is my grandkids. I thought I would post an excerpt in attempt to illicit some reminiscence from each of you. I recall a quote from the film “Hope Floats”, “Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to get over.” It always makes me chuckle.
Life Lessons from Bell Bottoms
I grew up on the outskirts of the little town of Beasley, which is about 35 miles southwest of Houston. It was, and still is a small town. I recall the town limits sign boasting a population of 295, but I’m quite certain that dogs and cats were included in that year’s census. There were three men in Beasley from which legends arose. There was my uncle, Edgar Klingle, Teto Matthews, and a man we all called Mr. Herman. All three were men to be respected and in some cases feared. Mr. Herman was definitely in the last category, and he is the focus of this entry.
Mr. Herman was a tall thin man, always dressed in an old faded black suit with accompanying fedora. He wore thick glasses, which gave his eyes an ominous appearance. His beard was long and grey, but he did not have an unkempt appearance. He lived in a small house behind the Church of Christ sanctuary. His front door faced the roadway and upon that porch, a rocking chair sat, and on most days, Mr. Herman would be enthroned upon it.
I do not recall any stories about Mr. Herman shared among us kids, but there certainly must have been. There were no rumors of murder or torture of small children associated with him, as kids often make up tales along those lines about those they fear. But surely there must have been something shared among us, because we all feared him. As a child, you may feign that there is no validity to a friend’s story, but you really believed what they said to the degree as if Hermes himself delivered it. All of us took the far side of the road when Mr. Herman was sighted on that front porch. All of us.
In 1973 I had reached the ripe old age of 10. It was a typical Texas summer. It was so hot that the devil himself decided a cooler climate was in order, and it was prime time to give folks up north his personal attention. I decided to ride my bike into town and see if any of my friends were out and about. I thought maybe we could get a game of baseball going. I rode past many of their homes, the school, and then the baseball ball field without seeing a soul. The town was not just sleepy, but appeared to be dead. Being that no one was about, I thought I would just head up to the local “mom and pop” store to see if any of the guys were hanging out around there. After all, it was the heat of the day and my cohorts were surely consuming whatever sugar infused drink they could get their hands on.
As I said, it was hot, and minimal clothing was the dress of the day. Donned in a t-shirt, and the most stylish of bell-bottom plaid pants (the slogan, “your ugly and your momma dresses you funny comes to mind) with the mandatory sneakers. I will make a small digression for a moment. Bell bottom pants are not fashionable. Who wants to wear a pair of britches that you constantly trip over?! The only reason I chose them is because there were no other pants around. In fact, I don’t even recall wearing them before this day. Being a boy, I didn’t really care if my clothes were dirty or not. And my mother, being the one raising said boy, was well aware of this bit of intelligence. Thus, all of my dirty clothes had been collected and removed from my room. It was useless to seek them out, because they were as hidden as Cortez’s fabled gold.
As I left the ball field I headed north on main street, peddling hard, as I knew I wanted to go as fast as I could by old man Herman’s house. As I neared, I saw him seated on his porch, wide eyes upon me. My fear began to ratchet up. I peddled harder.
Now, back in those days we all wanted to have the fastest bike. I didn’t know a single person who had a ten speed, and as far as I knew there was no such thing, though I did meet a fella once with a three speed. So, in order to make your bike go faster, one would strip off unnecessary stuff to make it lighter. My take on this had been to remove the front fender and the chain guard. So, there I was flying down the road, head down, sweat pouring down my face, and peddling that bike like my backside was on fire and my hair was catching. When…do I dare remember it? All of the stars and planets were perfectly aligned, or misaligned depending upon one’s perspective, and the unthinkable happened! Fate had come to collect. For whatever reason, the left cuff of those stupid bell-bottomed plaid pants got caught in the chain at the front sprocket which, by the way, brings the bike to a decidedly abrupt stop. Oh, and guess where that took place? Yes, you are correct, right in front of old man Herman’s house!
I looked down and my pants leg was bunched up in the sprocket. Remember, these are bell bottoms, which have enough extra material at the cuff to make three pairs of pants. I fearfully looked up (dared to) and saw Mr. Herman arise! Up from the rocking chair he went, and he appeared to grow taller with every second that passed. By the time he was fully standing, he had to be at least eight feet tall. In my mind, the hands at the end of those long gangly arms became claws. The eyes peering at me through those glasses looked so big, so frighteningly large. “The better to see you with my dear.” My heartbeat began to beat rapidly and now I was really pouring sweat! I jerked on the bike and began violently rocking back and forth, but to no avail, my pants were locked solid! This was not good, not good at all.
I looked up again and Herman was no longer just standing, but he was now crossing his yard and making a beeline right towards me! I was struck with terror and I could feel tears begin to well in my eyes. I stared at him as he closed the distance and when he was just a few feet away, he reached into his pocket. All time stood still as he removed his hand from the pocket, and produced the largest pocket knife I had ever seen. Can a man fit a machete in his pocket?! I felt a tear begin to trickle down my face and was saying my goodbyes to my mom and dad when, the old man knelt down beside the bike. My breath caught in my chest, and all eternity stood still. He grabbed the end of the pants cuff that was stuck in the sprocket with one gnarled hand, and with the other yielding the knife, cut my pants leg free. I was in shock! I placed the recently emancipated foot down on the ground and stared at him in disbelief. He looked up at me through those thick glasses, and I could see, not just kindness in those eyes, but a bit of mirth. I watched as a small smile began to creep into his face. He stood up and looked at me. He then grunted something I couldn’t quite make out, then waved his hand in a “be on your way” motion and turned and walked back to his porch.
I’m quite sure my bottom jaw was touching my chest. Mouth agape, I stared in awe as I watched him mount his chair and resume his watch over this part of town. Slowly, very slowly, my senses returned to me. I was still alive! A quick inventory revealed that I had sustained no mortal wounds during the encounter. I put my left foot on the pedal and noted the now much shorter pants leg. As I rode away, I looked back one time and the old man was watching me, and then he waved goodbye. From that day on, every time I passed by his house, I would wave at him and he returned the gesture.
I learned three things that day. You truly cannot judge a book by its cover. Your friends are mostly full of crap. And, bell bottom jeans are a terrible fashion statement, but sometimes they can bring about life changing experiences.
Oh, as a side note, months later I was in the grocery store with my Dad and Mr. Herman also happened to be there. He and Dad had quite the conversation in the German language and that was when I found out that Herman did not even speak English, hence my receipt of only a grunt that day.
C. Klingle
Curtis Klingle 