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As I was ruminating about years gone by, it dawned on me that I once had actually saved someone’s life, (although nobody ever said as much). Just a while later, that same person, whom I had saved from a fiery death, saved my life – only this time he saved me from being eaten alive by a wild animal. Can you imagine such heroes? Both of these heroes were only five years old at the time. So bear with me while I relate to you how these heroic happenings came about.
As you may have read here before, our family moved onto Genesee Avenue to our new home in December of 1940. I had just turned five and had been uprooted from a neighborhood on York Avenue that teemed with kids.
Genesee at that time was just beginning to build up, and it dead ended before it reached Elm Road. There were many vacant lots and there was not a sign of a kid my age, or any other age, anywhere, for that matter.
On one cold day I saw a kid about my size walking toward me. His big black dog was by his side. He came up to me, stood face to face with me, and silently appraised me and my hooded snow suit.
In spite of the cold, he had no coat or hat and was dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and bib overalls. One strap of his overalls was not hooked up for need of a button on the bib.
Two little yellow rivulets ran down from his nostrils to his upper lip. He kept these in control with an occasional swipe of his tongue. His hair was matted, and it looked like it had not seen a comb in days. His leather high tops were untied. I guessed correctly that he and I were the same age.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Nuthin’, Nobody,” was his reply. “Is that your dog?” I inquired. “Yeah, her name is Lulu.” My older sister came to the door and, seeing my new friend, asked him his name. He said, “Nuthin’, Nobody.” Did you expect some other reply? Dog Lulu came up to his side. He grabbed the dog’s head and began digging near her eye with a small stick. My sister was appalled. “What are you doing?” she asked incredulously. “I’m trying to see what’s on the other side of her eye,” he remarked casually. How silly of my sister to ask.
I learned Nuthin’ Nobody’s real name from the police who brought him and Lulu to his home in a squad car. They said Stanley had been found with his dog, wandering down Mahoning Avenue near Taylor Winfield, which was several miles away. We later learned that his father worked there. His mom scolded him and sent him to his room – a place where Stanley would spend many hours during the time I knew him.
Spring came and my dad and a couple of his friends began cutting down branches and limbs from the overgrown trees in our new back yard and piling them in the field behind the house. That pile became huge. Finally, my dad brought out a can of gasoline and began splashing it around the perimeter of that enormous pile. He reached in his pocket for his trusty Zippo lighter. I screamed “No! No! Stop!” Deep in the middle of that pile of branches and limbs, I could faintly see a small person. Yes, it was Stanley. Once again, Stanley would spend more hours in his room. Can you imagine, though? I was a hero! I had saved someone’s life (although nobody ever said as much).
Stanley had some good points, though. I had very adventurously climbed to the top of the fireplace wood pile in Stanley’s garage. I heard a growling noise which I thought came from Stanley. “Hear that?” he asked me. “There’s a lion hiding under the pile,” he said quietly. I froze in terror. But Stanley came to the rescue. He grabbed his buzzing duck-billed electric scissors and pointed them menacingly at the bottom of the pile. After what seemed like hours, he finally told me that he had frightened the lion away. I climbed down, and was so grateful that Stanley had saved my life. I could have been eaten alive! Now we were both heroes.
After what was probably another year, Stanley and his family moved away. His dad had a new job somewhere else. Now I had to fend for myself without the protection of Stanley and that buzzing duck-billed pair of scissors.
Few people ever realized that there had been two very young heroes in the neighborhood (although nobody ever said as much).
Mumford, of Warren, is a community columnist. Email him at columns@trib today.com.