Jumping Jehoshaphat!
Immediately after loading stacks of old newspapers, wrapped in twine rope, into William “Bill” Arkwright’s orange suburban from floor to ceiling, that exclamatory statement spilled forth from these lips when I glanced through the back window at the sea of newsprint staring back at me.
“How are you gonna drive all the way to New Castle with an obstructed rearview mirror?” quizzed this rising eighth grader, looking up at the silver-haired gentleman.
“An even better question would be where are we gonna sit to make the trip to the local recycling center?” queried my big brother John, walking to the rear of the horseless carriage.
“Those are both very good questions,” noted our Royal Rangers leader, as he was about to tell a tall tale. “I thought it might be fun to drive all over the road in a zigzag pattern with youns strapped to the hood of my automobile; and then you can pretend that you’re riding the Gemini roller coaster at Cedar Point.”
“My dad’s just yanking your chain,” revealed Dirk Arkwright with a chuckle. “Since there are wing mirrors on both sides of this all-terrain vehicle, he’ll be able to navigate the road just fine, and there should be just enough room for all of us to squeeze into the front seat.”
“With all this hard work, I’m definitely working up an appetite; so, I can probably eat a horse… and still have room for dessert,” announced James “Jimmy” Bubb Jr., walking out the back door of the colossal red-brick building with stained glass windows, carrying the last two stacks of previously read copies of the Ellwood City Ledger.
“Hold your horses!” exclaimed Bill, slapping the strapping young man on the back. “Since we’ll be stopping at McDonald’s after our work is done, burgers—from a cow—and french fries are on today’s menu; but if you want dessert, you can shell out some of that do-re-mi in your back pocket.”
“Mickey D’s sounds delicious, but I don’t have any money,” I cried out at the thought of being forced to wash pots and pans to pay for my dinner.
You’ve got nothing to worry about, little man; because I’m springing for the grub, but Jimbo’s picking up the tab for the ice cream.
The lone Trail Ranger in the group looked like a deer in headlights!
Before these Royal Rangers cram into the front seat of that nine-passenger transport like a bunch of sardines and head north on PA-65, why don’t we pump the brakes on this exciting excursion to find out where all those printed publications came from in the first place.
Not long after discovering the church ministry for school-age boys collected old newspapers to raise funds for necessary supplies, a spark was ignited inside this would-be entrepreneur that spread like wildfire; whereupon, he commandeered his younger sister’s little red wagon and attached it to the back of a certain purple bike to make weekly trips throughout the neighborhood to round up as many back issues as he could find.
As I awkwardly carried a couple stacks of discarded newspapers into the bowels of the giant edifice the following Wednesday evening, the Streckeisen brothers both attempted to lighten my load by taking the bundle out from under my arm, but I was determined to do it myself.
When the pair of Pioneers entered the fellowship hall with large accordion doors dividing the space, they immediately notified our senior commander of the situation unfolding in the stairwell; after which he dispatched his first lieutenant.
Once the rising sophomore and Jimmy Bubb met me on the landing near the entrance to the nursery Sunday school classroom, I handed the 17-year-old with spectacles the heavy load before jumping across the last two steps onto Dirk’s back for a piggyback ride all the way to the other end of the basement.
“John will be here shortly with two more stacks,” I mentioned while climbing down from my makeshift pack mule as we entered the dimly lit pass-through next to the furnace room, situated directly behind the stage.
“Jiminy Christmas,” declared the Riverside track star, scratching his head at the sight of rows upon rows of old newspapers stacked halfway to the ceiling. “Thanks to your Herculean effort, it looks like we’ll be making another run to the recycling center on Saturday; but since you’re largely responsible, I think you and your brother should come along for the ride.”
After the rising senior from Lincoln Junior-Senior High School was persuaded to buy everyone ice cream as he brought out the last of the bundled newspapers that Saturday afternoon, the freckle-faced athlete asked, “Where are you going to put those?”
There’s still room under the front seat.
Directly after the amiable young man secured the last of our recyclable materials underneath the bench seating, he and the rest of us quickly piled inside.
“Houston, we have a problem,” proclaimed the father of five upon opening up the driver side door to find me encroaching into his space. “Since there’s not enough room for me to get behind the wheel, you need to sit on Dirk’s lap; otherwise, you’ll have to sit this one out.”
“Like that’s ever going to happen,” I stated with an exasperated sigh, slowly moving toward my outpost commander to exit the vehicle. “When I accidentally landed on Dirk’s lap during the church anniversary service over a year ago, he told me to grab some wood, because there were no babies allowed in the teenager’s pew.”
“We’re not leaving anyone behind,” affirmed the Riverside high schooler, placing a hand around my waist. “Since half the newspapers inside this suburban are due to your ingenuity and perseverance, I’m not letting you miss out on all the fun; so, climb aboard Spaghetti Head.”
Just don’t expect me to burp you after our pitstop at McDonald’s.
“Hardy har har!” I expressed, gleefully climbing on my self-appointed guardian angel’s lap and placing my legs across John and Jimmy’s tanned limbs.
“Is that a banana in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?” I teased with a mischievous grin, finally getting to deliver the joke I’d been saving ever since tripping over my own shoelace and plopping down on the stunned teen’s lap during the special church service the previous year.
Clearly, it would’ve been an appropriate thing to say in the House of God.
Now it was Dirk’s turn to look like a deer in headlights.
“You’ve been waiting a very long time to say that, haven’t you?” the butt of my off-color joke responded with a smirk, as everyone else around him burst into laughter.
I make no apologies, because you walked — or should I say sat — right into that one.