The Boy Who Never Grew Up (Or Why Cornforsale?)

 

This is a story that as you will see that left its mark deeply upon me as a boy. One I carry to this day with honour.

And as you will see is impor­tant to the back story of the car­toon PuckDat.

It was back in 1971 when my fam­ily had just moved into a new home and the sum­mer vaca­tion was just about to arrive that I encoun­tered a young man who changed my life.

I had finally been relieved of some of my duties and i was free to go explor­ing my new sur­round­ings on my bike. I had just wheeled it out passed the cars to the edge of the road when I first saw him, just stand­ing there across the road star­ing at me with a big goofy grin. His hair was a shock of black that stuck up at odd angles in some places while stick­ing flat to his head in oth­ers and hist two front teeth stuck out severely.

“Hey, whatch­adoin?” he said as he waved a big sweep­ing arm wave and widened his silly grin.

Then he quickly came over to my side of the street and he was right next to me.

Bruised knees and scabby elbows, dirty face and a great big smile.

“My name’s Char­lie,” he said, “What’s yours?”

“My name’s Billy,” I told him.

“Hey Bill, whatch­adoin?” he said.

I stopped and looked at him.

What was with him?

I didn’t get it. He was my size but, he seemed awful simple.

“How old are you?” I asked him.

“Five,” he said as he held up two hands and eight fingers.

Now I knew there was some­thing weird here but, before the con­ver­sa­tion could go any fur­ther he was called away and he was gone just like that.

As we set­tled in to our new home, a visit from Char­lie became a daily thing at our house and as the sum­mer pro­gressed I learned what made Char­lie dif­fer­ent. He was men­tally hand­i­capped and as my Mom explained it to me, he would never grow up like most peo­ple did. He would always be the same.

The daily vis­its con­tin­ued that sum­mer and towards the fall, my father acquired a wooden shin­gle with the fam­ily name carved in it. As luck would have it, he was putting the shin­gle up when Char­lie hap­pened by for his usual visit and inquired of my father “Whatchadoin?”

“I’m hang­ing up this sign,” my father replied.

Char­lie accepted the expla­na­tion and watched as my father con­tin­ued his labours.

Once he was fin­ished, he stood back to look at his work and Char­lie spoke again “What’s it say?”

“It says The Reids,” my father replied as he decided the job was done and started to gather up his tools.

Char­lie then went to one of my sis­ters and asked her what the sign said and he got the same reply.

He seemed sat­is­fied and went off on his way only to return the next day to ask the ques­tion again, “What’s the sign say?”

And every time one of us would tell him, “It says, the Reids.”

One day that fall as my Dad was work­ing in the yard, once more Char­lie arrived on the scene and asked the ques­tion about the sign. My Dad has always been one for telling silly sto­ries and his frus­tra­tion with Charlie’s repeated ques­tion and his mis­chie­vous side some how col­lided and he blurted out “Corn for sale.”

My sis­ters and I hap­pened to be within earshot when my father told Char­lie this and we all started laugh­ing. And Char­lie laughed with us.

The next day how­ever, when Char­lie came by with his mother in tow, he pointed to the sign and said it says Corn for sale and started laughing.

Once more I was stand­ing nearby and this time I laughed with him. Char­lie knew it was a joke and now it was his and he did every time he came by for all my years through high­school and col­lege. There he would be on his daily visit point­ing at the sign and say­ing Corn for sale.

I’ve car­ried on Charlie’s joke through­out my life and often when peo­ple ask me my last name I will say Corn­for­sale and when they ask me to spell it, I reply R-E-I-D and I smile and think of my old friend Char­lie, the boy who never grew up.