A Dime's Worth by William James Johnson

You had to be there to appreciate how important one thin dime meant in a child's life. There may even be some of you who don't realize a dime is a silver coin, smaller than a penny, worth ten cents each, It had a beautiful engraving of Canada's champion racing sailboat called the "Bluenose" which was constructed at Lunenberg on the Nova Scotia east coast.

Just to have that tiny silverboat replica gave a kid a feeling of freedom because he could do all kinds of things with it. My favorite choice was the Saturday movies. Imagine! One thin dime and you could spend all day and part of the evening enjoying a double feature after watching the previews of coming attractions, always an exciting cartoon of that "Cwazy Wabbit", and the latest on the world scene on Time's Newsreal. And get a load of this. If you really liked all of this, you could see the complete ten cents worth of excitement a second time, and no one asked you to leave.

One of the highlights which changed every week, was a serial action movie which always ended with the hero's life in jeopardy. You couldn't risk interruptions to the amazing "Captain Marvel". Each new chapter always began with a brief review of his dilemma, resolved in a few exciting frames. What a guy.

There was also a special treat in those days. Small corner stores sold penny candy in grab bags. Nothing fancy. But a nickles worth of penny candy, that is five bags, would give you enough munching to last for the complete double feature seen twice.

My best choice was to buy a coney island hot dog at the Post Office lunch. You can't get them any more. Served on a steamed bun which held the footlong weiner, floating in mustard, and drenched in peppery chili con carne, covered in diced Spanish onion. And believe it or not. It cost only five cents. So a dime could buy you a fantastic lunch. Two coney island dogs, before leaving for the movie.

And remember, all of this took place during the depression, which began when the stock market crashed in 1929. I was born in 1927, and I am still around. Seventy percent of the workers in my town were unemployed. I began to realize spaghetti was not just for Italians. You could tell what day of the week it was, by what was for supper.

I should mention as well Comic Books cost a dime. Kids would bring their new editions and have me read them aloud, because I put in all the sound effects. Sometimes there would be as many as ten excited kids sitting on our front steps. The boy who owned the magazine would sit next to me, looking at all the fantastic illustrations. The others listened to the escapades of "Batman and Robin", or "Faster than a bullet". It was an interesting time.

I Am Not a Crook by William James Johnson

This is a quote by former president Richard Nixon during the historical "Watergate Hearings". It is probably the one thing for which "Dirty Dick" will always be remembered..I too, am not a crook, but I was accused of being a thief when I was nine years old, in grade three of my Catholic school, Holy Name of Mary. We lived in a parish which was known by its abbreviated title of "O.L.P.S" which meant "Our Lady of Prompt Succor". Whatever that means.

There was a knock on our classroom door, and standing in the hall was a senior student.

"I'm supposed to bring Billy Johnson to the principal's office,"

Just to hear I was being taken to Sister Dionysius' office set up a nervous trembling through my entire body. "Didi" as we all called her, had a threatening reputation. Just being in her presence made some kids wet themselves. There was definitely a witches brew about this emaciated celibate whose chin in the sunlight shone with silver, wiry wiskers.

Her tall figure, all in black except that white thing which framed her unattractive grumpy face, stood with her back to the window to enhance her foreboding presence, her hand on my brother Bob's shoulder.

"So now we have the whole gang of thieves, the notorious Johnson boys. Thought you could get away with it did you?" Her voice sounded like the witch in the Wizard of Oz.

"Away with what?" I asked.

She wacked me in the back of my head with that set of bones which she used as a hand. "Did I ask you to speak?"

"I just want to know what you think we have done, that's all".

"I have a witness who saw the two of you run into the bread truck while the man was making a delivery, and stole two loaves of bread."

Bob had enough of this and he grabbed Didi's arm when she had wacked me again.

"You can't do this Sister. Someone is lying and it ain't us."

She swung at Bob, who is a year younger than me, but bigger. Using his extra bulk, he forced her against the table and made a fist.

"Bob! No. Stop it."

"I'm not a thief and no black witch is going to push us around. You and me Bill. We can take on anyone."

She left the office and we heard her locking us in. She left us locked up until almost the end of the school day. She didn't let us eat our lunches, and we were terrified to go home and have to tell our parents what had happened. They believed priests and nuns could walk on water.

We heard the key turning and the principal in her most strident voice ordered us out.

"Get back to your classes. You've missed enough as it is. Our witness and the deliveryman admitted they were both mistaken. The thieves were the other Johnson family. Now get out of here. You have caused enough trouble for one day."

No apology. Nothing. But the satisfaction "we are not crooks."

Yawkee Storm Sewer by William James Johnson

Before venturing on my detailed discovery of the mysterious man-made hole in the forest, I went to the archives of our local newspaper to see if the location of the well which I had found was where the body of the murdered young girl was recovered. There was no mention of its location except to say there were several of these sewers throughout the surrounding countryside. I decided that I would continue my preparations, even if there was an inherent risk.

One of the great obstacles was the intense blackness in the gaping tunnel once I moved away from the descending stairs. After considering many options, I settled on using candles. I even had an unlimited source of these, called, "vigil lights". These were the small lights in coloured containers in abundance in all Catholic churches. Parishioners who were praying for special favors would buy a candle and light it up. To ensure they would get their money's worth, they preferred to select new candles. For this reason the janitor would remove all used candles and dump in the trash. This became my abundant source, which I loaded into a canvas bag.

It was my intention to find small chunks of floatable wood on which my candles would stand. My scrounging skills were in high gear when I went to a lumber supply yard and told the yard guy that I needed these for a school project. He gave me about 30 cut off pieces of shingles which went into the candle bag.

I rode my bike to Yawkee Bush, and after almost an hour of trudging through the swamp I found the opening. Tentatively I turned my trusty penlight into the void, and began having second thoughts. What if something happened? I hadn't told anyone what I was going to do. At least my bike was up top, within sight of the well. Nothing is going to happen.

My sack of light supplies banged on my back as I went slowly into the unknown. There was about a foot of water in the bottom of the five foot space. This was double what had been here the last time. I could hear surges of water emptying into the tunnel, a long ways off to the right I began splashing as I walked away from the opening. Rats scurried along the edge of the stream trying to get away from me.

Setting the wood carefully, I placed one of my used candles on it which I lit with my dad's lighter I found on his dresser. Suddenly I was startled to see a huddled dark shadow standing behind me. I almost laughed out loud when I realized I was the shadow. It was amazing how far I could see from one candle. With this minimum light, I was not even startled by the number of rodents that swam near my feet. The second candle made me feel like I was in a subway underground.

Ten floating vigil lights spurred my self-confidence. I must have covered a city block in this bleak tunnel. Then without warning, I heard a roaring sound of a torrent of water, flooding the tunnel from where I had begun, sinking each burning candle. No light whatsoever. I could hear the rats panicking, trying to climb my legs.

Keep cool. There's only one way to get out. I had to go back. I had to hurry, because I had no idea what caused the flooding water sound,or how deep it would be. By the time I got back to the steps, rain was pelting down the opening, one of those unexpected summer storms common in our area. The water in the bottom of the well was now waist deep. I looked like a drowned rat by the time I reached my bike. Wet or not, its hard to forget what could've happened. I guess those vigil lights had the power to answer my anxious pleading.

Yawkee Bush by William James Johnson

Yawkee Bush by William James Johnson

If you didn't have the excitement of discovery in a complex bush when you were young, you missed days of adventure. We lived within four miles of an overgrown, forested area which was our favourite place to become everything from Robin Hood, to the ancients who created Stonehenge. Such a place, with an abundant imagination, had no boundaries. Yawkee Bush had the reputation of being one of the prime areas for burgeoning youth to visit with that special young thing who was yearning to become enjoyed. Now that was something you will always remember. The twisted trees sending shoots in every direction gave ample cover once you had prepared the nest.

Swamps, and a murky river dotted with bullrushes made you want to go deeper into the mystery of this ageless forest. It was then I made one of my greatest Yawkee discoveries. After making it across the winding creek, I saw that surface water was flowing towards a concrete opening, about four feet across. Using my special penlight I had obtained by saving Rolled Oat coupons, I looked through the opening and there were rusted metal steps leading into a wet well about a hundred feet below me. I just had to see where this structure was going. Usually I wouldn't take a chance like this alone, but I thought I might never find this well again.

At the bottom, I saw the shallow water was flowing towards the right, into a black void. This must be one of those storm sewers I had read about. Just a few months before my experience, the body of a young rape victim had been discovered in one of these storm sewers. That's enough for now. I'll tell you about my return to the well in my next blog.

When I Was a Kid by William Johnson

When I Was a Kid by William James Johnson

Is it my imagination or did we have more fun and adventure when we were kids? As the oldest in a family of five boys and three sisters, I was expected to be sure the young ones never got into any serious trouble. I came close to witnessing a potential murder between my brother Bob, and our third sibling Bruce. Bruce was given the task of watering mom's garden which, normally would have been done without an event taking place. I guess Bruce was in one of his crazy moods, and armed with a high powered hose, suddenly got the urge to include Bob in the watering. I should mention Bob was the largest boy in the family, raised on breast milk, while I was given life saving Carnation milk. Even to this day, I gag when I see that red and white can.

Sorry, I didn't mean to leave Bob soaked to the skin, rushing after Bruce's physical future. He rushed at the smaller lad, intent on doing him serious harm. Bruce had no other choice but wack Bob on the head hard enough to break a brass nozzle, and open a serious gash in Bob's skull. Have you ever seen a steady stream of blood pouring out of a wound all over one's clothes. As kids say now it was awsome.

Bruce threw the remains of the hose at Bob's feet, and made a thundering escape down the alley followed by the injured brother screaming at me.

"Get that son of a .....And let me hurt him. Christ I can't stop the bleeding."

I took off my shirt and wrapped it around his wound. Bruce stayed at a friend's house for a couple of days. Bob survived and dad blamed me for not stopping it. He convinced me with his belt.

This was not one of those days when we were having a lot of fun. Bruce was the first to die in our family, at 57, of alcoholism. But there were a lot of fun times. I'll tell you more later.

Unplanned Day

Unplanned Day by William James Johnson


I am having one of those unplanned days. My significant other, I should say wife, but I'm trying to sound like I'm cool or whatever the current term is for a guy who is trying to interfere with the onset of "who was the guy with the pointed nose who played Sherlock Holmes in all those British crime movies before they had all the "CSI" equipment.?

Now you can see why I say I'm mixed up today. I forgot what I was going to tell you about why I began to mention my wife. She got up before me and felt I should realize that the TV weather guy was warning a huge snow storm was heading our way, and she had discovered we urgently needed milk, bread, and a small jar of stuffed olives, and get some romaine lettuce to go with all those croutons she had made last night. Oh, and be sure the lettuce is not too old.

I looked out off my frosted bedroom window and marvelled at the beauty of the fern patterns which obscured my view of the snowy build up, bending my unprotected shrubs.

"Should I take the car?"

"A&P is only a block away. You can be there and back before you get the car out."

She's right. She's always right. I squeezed into my parka and forced the drift away from the side door. A gust of noreaster thrust me back against the frame.

"Do we really need this stuff now?"

"I wouldn't have gotten you out if I didn't need it. You're wasting time."

That one block walk was not my favorite thing to do in a gale that can kill the feeling in your fingers in a few minutes. I thought I had put my gloves in my parka so I would not have to be searching for them. Must have been in a different coat.

The store was packed with other sleepy spouses, waiting in line for a cart. Wouldn't you know it. I got one with two wonky wheels which preferred to go east instead of straight north. The wobbling and rattling noise aggravated my fellow shoppers, but not nearly as much as the banging sound of a pyramid of Heinz concentrated tomato soup on special that day. I think it was what is called a "lost leader". That damn cart suddenly got a life of its own and caught a corner can which brought all the specials rolling down the aisles.

It wasn't over yet. A senior citizen was rifling through a large stack of penny saving coupons which the cashier patiently calculated for the old sweety, while I tugged at my milk, and bread, and lettuce, which seemed okay.

"Now that wasn't too bad was it. Oh hell. I wanted stuffed olives. I can't stand these with the pits. Would you mind getting the right kind." I like olives, pits or not.

Brain Washing by William James Johnson

Brain Washing by William James Johnson

You may recall the interesting plot in the movie, "The Manchurian Candidate", where the Communist captors, using a technique of deep hypnotism, create agents out of the American prisoners captured during the Korean war. After destroying their past life memories by using drugs and psychological methods, they rebuild their value abilities, to the point where these reprogrammed military subjects can now carry out any instruction given them by their new masters, which includes orders to assassinate US politicians.

It was during this time I discovered a couple of books I would recommend:"Struggle for men's minds," and the "Rape of the mind." Both stress the importance of first destroying the existing ethical programming of the subjects before superimposing the new behaviour judgement the controllers are seeking. It gave as an example the long preparation a novice must endure prior to becoming an ordained Jesuit priest. This takes 12 years of extreme disciplinary study and physical sacrifice, when the normal study in preparation for ordination to the priesthood is 7 years. The formula is called "breakdown and rebuild."

Now here is the essence of my blog. I have observed in America there is hardly any home without a television, the "brain washing" machine of our generation. Most of us spend our leisure time after our day's work, lounging comfortably with our favourite brew, completely vulnerable to the commercial spewing almost 30 minutes during each so-called hour long show.
In fact, have you noticed how the same commercials are shown twice in sequence, and some even three times.

This flagrant abuse of our time is obviously continuing because it works. Brain washing electronically works. And what about the speed of the digitalized images, designed to keep the audience off balance. You try to make sense out of the non-message, while your brain keeps working on the buzz of rapid pictures to which you have just been exposed.

We all can choose to switch channels, but they are all using the same techniques. Turn the device off. Impossible. Forty inch monitors cost too much to be ignored. And besides they have become our new masters. We don't do much as a family anymore, because our favourite show is on. Sit down and be quiet. Your brain is being reprogrammed.