Saturdays were always the best time for Jake and me, ’cause it didn’t make any difference whether it was winter or summer, a Saturday meant sleeping in late and doin’ whatever we wanted for a whole day.
‘Course, in the summer, it was another day tacked onto a whole week out of school.
Jake and me were just wandering around the neighborhood lookin’ for somethin’ to get into, and we decided to go over to Mr. Green’s store, a little neighborhood grocery store right around the corner.
Mr. Green was always good to us kids. In those days, none of us had much money to carry around or to spend, but an RC cola or Nehi Orange only cost a nickel, same as most candy bars or a box of Cracker Jacks.
A box of Cracker Jacks always lasted a good deal longer than a candy bar, and there was a prize in the box as well.
Sometimes the box would contain a “tattoo” that we could soak in water and apply to an arm and sport it around until the next bath came along.
But today was a Nehi grape day for me, used to wash down a cattail while Jake got himself a Dreamsicle. He had a hard time decidin’ whether to go with the Dreamsicle with its ice cream center or with one of those little cartons of vanilla ice cream and orange sherbet. They came in a little wax-covered paperboard carton with a short wooden spoon. They never seemed to last quite as long as a Dreamsicle, though — so Dreamsicle it was.
As we sat on the bench in front of the store finishing up our delicacies, I spotted an empty fruit crate around the corner in the alley that ran by the store.
“Hey, Jake, look! Mr. Green’s thrown out a crate we can use to make some swords.”
We rushed back into the store to ask Mr. Green if we could have the crate. “Sure, boys,” he responded, “better for you to take it than for me to just throw it away.”
Our plans for the day were now made!
We rushed to the side of the building and scooped up the empty crate, carrying it between us like some treasured possession.
Scurrying back to my house (I lived closest to Mr. Green’s store), we went to my stepdad’s shop, ferreted out a hammer and saw along with some small nails, and began the process of remaking the wooden crate into two instruments of mayhem.
The crates were made of slats of pretty soft wood held together with staples, so the first chore was to remove the staples, trying not to damage the longer – and most valuable – slats.
We cut the sides as long as the pieces would allow and then short pieces to make the hilt of the sword. We also sawed one end of each long piece to make a point and then nailed the short pieces to the long pieces to create a handle. With the nails going all the way through both pieces of wood, we had to bend the sharp ends down, and this helped hold the hilt in place.
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We had learned long ago, from our vast experience in sword making, that one had to put two nails through the hilt. With just one nail, the hilt would inevitably rotate, rendering the sword far less potent.
Off we went to engage in swordplay, until time to go in for supper or until one or both of us wound up with a barked knuckle, a splinter, or a bruise from a misplaced thrust.
Maybe tomorrow or the next day, we would meet again on the “battlefield” — perhaps with a cape made from an old towel or a pirate hat folded out of yesterday’s newspaper.
And the good thing about it was that we had enough crate left over to make more swords when these broke or the hilts fell off!
Then again, who knew what new device we might come up with tomorrow or the next day that could be made from an old orange crate. After all, there were still several weeks of summer left for our imaginations to run wild, along with two kids with swords.
