P.J.: A Memoir
Chapter Four
“I really don’t drink, but I’ll split a quart with you.”
-Johnston Peter
Sarah Effie Dowd opened the screen door on the front porch, placed her hands on her ample hips, took a deep breath and called, “Phil-ee-AHHSS!”
P. J., who was just coming around the side of the porch, answered, “Yessum.”
Sarah Effie emitted a breathy squeak, clapped her hand over her heart, and glared at her son.
“Don’t you ever do that again, Phileas Jimson!”
“Do what again?” asked P. J.
“Answer me like that. I like to have had apoplexy!” She was still breathing heavily from the effects of her son’s unexpectedly quick answer.
P. J. started to protest, but thought better of it. He had recently resolved not to question the vagaries of his elders. Sarah Effie turned back into the house.
“Come get your lunch.”
P. J., who had eaten enough candy and ice cream to choke a bear, dashed past his mother into the kitchen.
“You wash your hands first, young man.” Sarah Effie’s admonition brought P. J. to a skidding halt. Reluctantly, he changed direction and trudged through the dining room to the bathroom. There, he proceeded to rearrange the morning’s grime using as little water as possible. He returned to the kitchen and slid into the breakfast nook where he began to wolf a baloney-and-cheese sandwich as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Adrenaline does wonders for the appetite.
P. J. finished his sandwich and milk and was about to bolt for the door when his mother cocked a critical eyebrow at him.
“Just what kind of a haircut do you call that?” Sarah Effie wanted to know.
P. J. instinctively thought to evade the issue, but the look in his mother’s eye caused him to reassess.
“It’s a flat top, ma’am.”
“Well, I swanee! I never thought I’d live to see the day when a son of mine was proud of having a square head!”
P. J. decided that did not require an answer and made his escape. Sarah Effie, befuddled by the fads of the day, nearly forgot to issue her usual warning.
“You stay within calling distance, y’hear?”
Considering Sarah Effie’s dynamic vocal range, this gave P. J. a fair amount of freedom.
The sound of hammer hitting stone led P. J. across First Avenue to the decaying stucco elegance of the Crowells’ house. This dubious architectural achievement had been built just before the Depression by a retired Yankee industrialist who had more money than taste. In addition to the white stucco walls, it had a roof of orange terra cotta tile. The windows were of church-like leaded glass and were shaped like gothic arches in the wing that held the living room. The second story windows were round and there was a set of French doors opening onto a small balcony overlooking the Dowd’s back yard. The balcony was bordered with ornately wrought black iron. Inside, the sunken living room featured 20-foot cathedral ceilings and faded religious frescoes.
Nestled in the angle of the L-shaped house was a patio fenced with stucco crenellations and black iron spears. A scummy green goldfish pond was the focal point of this charming nook. A couple of seedy-looking carp managed to survive in the murky water. There may well have been other things growing in the pond, but no one had the stomach to investigate.
On the side of the house away from the patio was an aluminum carport installed by the latest owners. Next to the carport was a two-story frame building. The top floor held an apartment where Grandma Crowell lived. Tall, thin and snappish, Grandma Crowell might have been a reincarnation of Baba Yaga. The bottom floor of the building was a double garage that hadn’t held a car in years. What it did hold was the Crowell Collection. Ernie Crowell hadn’t discarded anything in the fifteen years he had owned the place and the garage was a treasure trove of junk that fascinated P. J. He was only allowed to enter, however, when accompanied by his father. Benny Dowd, like everyone else in the neighborhood, always sought out the Crowell Collection when he needed something he couldn’t find in the stores. Odds were it could be found in the garage if one had sufficient courage and perseverance.
The most important part of Ernie Crowell’s collection did not reside in the garage, but in the side yard. Every month or so dump trucks would pull up and discharge a huge pile of used bricks from some building that was being demolished. No brick in Manatee County had escaped Ernie Crowell’s notice in years. People were happy to deliver their old bricks to Ernie, though they often wondered why anyone would want them. Ernie Crowell was a man of vision.
At any hour of the day or night, one could hear Ernie patiently chipping the mortar away from the scarred old bricks. The bricks were then stacked neatly in the side yard. By 1958, the stack measured sixty feet long by forty feet wide by ten feet high. Benny Dowd, often driven to distraction by the constant tap-tap-tap of hammer on brick referred to Ernie as “The Crazy Brickpecker.” When used brick became fashionable as a building material in the early sixties, Ernie Crowell retired in comfort.
P. J. stood watching Ernie hammer away at the bricks for some time before he was noticed. Ernie glanced at P. J. briefly, then continued taking a brick from the pile to his left, chipping off the mortar, and laying it gently on a pile to his right. He didn’t say a word. He rarely did. Something about the florid giant of a man made talk unnecessary. P. J. started transferring cleaned-up bricks to the monstrous stack a few feet away.
After a couple of hours of this routine, Ernie clapped P. J. on the shoulder and nodded toward the house. The sweaty pair trudged into the kitchen where Ernie got a bottle of his home-brewed beer out of the refrigerator. He knocked the cap off against the edge of the counter, poured half the bottle into a glass and set it in front of P. J. Ernie then downed the rest of the bottle in one enormous gulp and reached for another.
P. J. was about to take a cautious sip of the brew when Erma Crowell walked in. Erma was plump, graying, and about a foot-and-a-half shorter than her husband. She worked as a public health nurse and possessed a gift for healing that extended to animals as well as human beings. Thus, her house was usually a menagerie of birds with broken wings, orphaned baby raccoons, and assorted house pets that defied their owners’ abilities to keep them healthy. Erma was aware that her husband’s home-brew was widely regarded as an efficient solvent by those who hadn’t the nerve to drink it.
“Ernest, you hadn’t oughta give beer to that child. It’ll stunt his growth.”
Ernie regarded her with surprise and considered the matter for a long moment. He emitted a belch that should have been measured on the Richter Scale.
“The kid done a man’s work. He oughta get a man’s drink.” The subject was closed.
P. J. sat up straighter at this lengthy speech from the big man. He reached resolutely for the glass of beer and took a healthy swig.
A few minutes later, after he had stopped coughing and his vision had cleared, P. J. took a more cautious sip of the cold, bitter liquid. He managed to get it down with little more than a grimace. He looked sheepishly at Ernie. The big man winked at him and nodded approvingly. A rite of passage had been successfully negotiated.
10:54:14 PM 
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