Little George
Although the Becks and the Stauders were the only year-round residents on Crescent Beach Road at the time, I don’t remember that we ever socialized outside of an occasional meeting at The Little Store. What I do remember is that Big George (father of Little George) had earned a reputation for being exceedingly dumb, and Wanda (mother of Little George) was exceedingly loud and exceedingly overweight. Big George worked in town – probably at the Box Shop[i]This was a branch of the local paper mill that turned cardboard into boxes. as did most everyone else in town. Wanda was a full-time housewife, known far and wide for yelling a lot. In the Summer, when everyone around the lake would be picnicking and enjoying the outdoors, she could be heard from the far end of the lake, telling Big George to take out the garbage or come home for dinner. Little George was perhaps as dumb as his father, or probably a bit dumber, but he certainly was not “Little”. He might have been a year younger than I, but he was easily a full head taller.
Around the time I was in 3rd or 4th grade, the school bus started running along Crescent Beach Road to take us to school in Three Rivers. Little George and I were the only kids to be picked up, so the bus would pass by our house, giving me five more minutes to wait in the warm house while it picked up Little George, then it would pick me up on the way back to the highway. Invariably, when I got on the bus, Little George would be waiting to grab my lunch pail or throw my hat out the window or some other such maneuver. Joe, the bus driver, would yell at him, but there was no stopping him from having fun at my expense, at least for the first few weeks of that first school year.
One cold winter morning, as I started up the steps of the bus, Little George reached for my hat – but this time I was prepared[ii]… probably as a result of coaching from my Dad. I stepped aside, grabbing his coat sleeve, and with one quick jerk, he went flying down the steps, head-first and face down into the snow.
I had never been much of a fighter and was never big enough for a real fistfight, so I am pretty sure Joe, the bus driver, was a major player in whatever happened next. I also don’t recall what happened to Little George, but I don’t recall that he ever pestered me again. My mother recounted this story endlessly whenever she got a chance to brag to anyone who would listen. If she were still alive, she would be telling me how to write this now.