Everyone Needs a Club House

We had the clubhouse of clubhouses. It had two floors, multiple rooms and closets. Our parents warned us about going in there, but what did parents know other than how to ruin some fun. Just because the ceiling sagged, broken glass littered the floor and the hard wood floors had lost their hardness years long ago, it still had all the requirements of a great secret clubhouse.

Even though our parents repeatedly told us to stay away from the house, we went any way. A clubhouse worth its salt required certain items like maps, secret codes, secret pledges, secret entrances, escape routes and rituals only club members could know. Of course, we had the traditional secret handshakes, eye winks and passwords even though every kid on the block was a member.

In the summer, we held meetings everyday to discuss what shenanigans we would pull like throwing dirt clods over the rooftops to hit Old Man Jones' house. Sometimes, we'd do the same thing to Paul Everette. He had only one leg and we like to make him get up or cuss.

When the dirt hit his roof he'd let out long strings of invective. "You goddam kids. I'm going to get out of this chair and come whip all your narrow asses." It'd be dark. but we'd take off through the weeds laughing as only stupid kids can.

Our club only had a few rules, but one specific rule was no candles without a water bucket. We learned through visual experience. My older brother, Paul Bradley and Fred Brown used a rickety tool shed behind the Bradley's garage. Of course, we were not allowed access. Not being permitted to enter their clubhouse probably saved me from a serious ass-whipping.

To this day I remember Paul, Poone and Fuzzy tumbling out of their clubhouse with a trail of smoke behind them. We knew what happened almost immediately because peeped through the cracks and watched as they whispered over a lit candle. In addition to tools, the shed was stacked from ceiling to floor with old dried out newspapers.

The smoke quickly turned fire when they came tumbling out. Someone brought a water hose but the stream was so weak it didn't clear shoe leather. Long story short, the fire department came and extinguished the fire, but not the flames that jumped from backyard ass-whippings.

That never happened to us. We were hit by a parental raid. Only four days after we commandeered our compound, the parent police swooped down on us like birds of prey. Our cover was blown. Someone sold us out. I was sure it was one of the girls we didn't allow to join.

When the parents showed up, they called for us by name. Now, the scurry began. Some of us went out the downstairs windows only to be scooped up by a waiting parent. Some hid in the houses many rooms only to give after considering the consequences. However, our evacuation wasn't without humor.

Freddy Anderson was one that decided hiding was a better way to go rather than coming out. I was standing next to my mother and father when we saw Freddy hide behind a closet door. Unfortunately for him, while his attention focused on the door, his mother looked at his back directly through the closet window.

Troy Wilson provided entertainment for even the parents as he used our secret escape route to vanish into the weeds unseen. Troy chose to use our upstairs escape route, which consisted of several sheets tied together like a rope and nailed to the window ledge.

We all watched in awe as Troy flew out the window, grabbed the escape rope and plummeted to the ground still holding the unattached sheets in his hands. It was a sight to see. For a moment we thought Troy might fly, but ultimately he lacked the tools.

Needless to say, ass-whippings were the order of the day, plus, all of us were on restriction. They tore the house down the following year and the one thing that still stands out in my mind is Troy flying through the air clasping that unattached sheet rope.