It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

By Don Keele Jr.

Third grade was a tough year for me.  Not in school.  I loved my schoolwork and my teacher.  It was after school where I had problems, or more specifically, the walk home after school.

We lived about a half mile from the elementary school I attended and back in the day, if you lived within a mile or so, you were expected to get yourself to and from school, either by walking or riding your bike.  Fortunately, my dad worked at the academy next to the elementary school, so he would take us to school in the morning, but getting home in the afternoon and getting our chores started was our responsibility.  I say “our”, because my older sister, Pam, also had to walk home after school.  But she didn’t walk home with me.

She was taking piano lessons at the time, and since we didn’t yet have a piano, she would go to the academy to practice for 30 minutes before she walked home.  I, on the other hand, would start out immediately after school to see if I could make it past a certain home before the boys who lived there arrived home.  If I made it before they got home, it was a good day.  But if I didn’t, we played a game.  It was a popular game, for them, called, “Beat the Dweeb”, with me, of course, always being selected to play the part of the dweeb.

You need to know that I was diagnosed with asthma almost from birth, and this being the days before good inhalers, if presented with a choice between running and breathing, I usually chose breathing.  I say usually, because my tormentors could almost always force me to choose “run now, breathe later”, as an option.  It was not a pretty sight.

 A little background.  They lived in a house on the corner across the road from our town’s large water tower.  It sat on a grassy knoll at the top of the hill with the road making a 90-degree right turn just past it and then going down hill to where I lived.  To get past their house, I had three options: 1) Stay on the road all the way around the corner, the “long way.”  2) Cut up and across the grassy knoll, which was the shortest route on the 90-degree corner. 3) Turn off early, go down these nice, little old ladies driveway, cut through the woods behind the water tower and into the back yard and down the driveway of a crotchety old man who seemed to love nothing more than shooting buckshot and salt pellets at the feet of anyone who came on his property, slowly aiming further up their body if the desired results were not accomplished in a timely manner. I really never considered this to be a good option.

Back to “Beat the Dweeb.”  The game all started when one of them was picking on me at school one day, and the teacher heard me say “OWW…STOP IT!”  She asked what was going on, so I told her.  She asked me who started it, and I simply shrugged and pointed at the source of my agitation. He, in turn, pointed at me.  Since he had been in trouble for picking on people before, (almost daily) she called him down and he had to stay after school.  The next day he and his brother started this new game.

Here’s how the game was played.  They would run home across the fields the back way, while I walked the road. (see running and breathing comments above)  I tried to walk fast in hopes of beating them, but rarely did.  They would hide somewhere in their yard or in the trees in their yard or over by the water tower, so that I had no clue where they might be coming from.  Once in position, they would wait for me to try and sneak past.  Then, at a given signal, they would run or drop from their hiding places, screaming and running towards me.  One of them would knock me down, and then they would take turns kicking me or beating on me, calling me names like, “Little Snitch,” or “Sissy” or “Girl” or “Dweeb” (hence the name I gave the game).  The game would go on until they got tired or felt like they had expended as much energy as they could afford for the day, then they would run off laughing. When it first started, I tried to fight them, but found I was too small, too weak, too winded, as well as outnumbered, and soon reverted to just balling up and covering my head and just waiting it out.  Once they were done, I would uncover my head slowly, to make sure they were gone, and then get up and head for home.

There were a few variations to the game.  As they got better at chasing me, instead of just knocking me down or tripping me, they added a new challenge for themselves.  They would run alongside me trying to grab one of my fleeing feet and then jerk it out from underneath me causing me to tumble, allowing the game to proceed normally from there.  My only hope was to get over the crest of the hill by the water tower and in sight of the home on the downhill side of the tower.   If I could get that far before they caught me, the lady who lived there would often come out and rescue me, with them running as soon as her front door opened.

She would dust me off and ask me if I was all right. Being totally humiliated, I would assure her that I was and then ask her please not to tell my parents or anyone about it.  I told her that I knew it wouldn’t last much longer.  I would then go home and change clothes, putting my dirty, grass-stained clothes in the washer and get them started before starting any of my other chores.  Usually by time the clothes were done washing, my sister would come in and start her chores and since I was now in my “work clothes” she would be none the wiser.

Any bruises or cuts that showed up on my body I passed off as having happened by accident on the playground.  I had fallen.  I had slipped out of a swing.  I had tripped and run into a tree.  All of these were believable because of my well-known lack of athletic ability.  Clumsiness, it was called in those days.  As in, “that poor boy is just about as clumsy as an ox.”  I knew nothing of oxen and their clumsiness, just that I was often compared to them.  Which gave me a good alibi when it came to explaining the humiliating cuts and bruises I had received during the most recent “Beat the Dweeb” game.

One particular day the game went on much longer than normal.  Perhaps the score was tied between my two tormentors and they were forced into extra innings.  It could also have had something to do with the fact that I shot my mouth off to them on the playground earlier in the day when I was surrounded by my friends and feeling a little more cocky.  Whatever the case, I was really catching it that day.  When they finally tired and the last kick was delivered to my side, one said, “Come on, let’s go,” and they left.

I stiffly got up and headed home, trying to stay out of sight of any of the neighbors.  I ached all over and I cried quietly to myself as I went down the hill to the house.  Once inside my bedroom, I plopped down across my bed and lay there in a pool of humiliation mixed with rage and self-pity.  I wanted to get those boys so badly.  I lay there for a few moments allowing myself an anger fantasy that had me doing all sorts of things to my tormentors until they were begging me for mercy.  A slamming front door brought me back to reality.

I jumped up and started to change shirts. Halfway up with my shirt, with dirt and grass in my hair and on my clothes my bedroom door came flying open.  It was Pam starting to tell me about something that had happened at school.  She stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the bruises on my back and my sides and the grass and dirt all over me.  I pulled my shirt back down.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I fell off the swings at the playground.”  I stammered, trying to sound convincing.  She looked like she wasn’t buying it, so I quickly added, “I was trying to go really high and then jump out like the 8th graders do, only I messed up and ended up crashing.”

She looked long and hard at me and then said, “You’re lying!  What really happened?”

“That’s it.  That’s what happened,” I shot back, “now will you get out of my room?”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what really happened.”  She took a step forward.  Though only a year older, she had already achieved her growth spurt and now towered over me. I started to leave so she grabbed me by the front of the shirt and said, “Tell me what happened.”

I started crying as I jerked her hands off of my shirt, “I don’t want to talk about it, now just go and leave me alone.”

“Somebody beat you up.  Tell me who it is and I’ll take care of them for you!” she said.

This was a new ray of hope in what had become my dim existence.  My sister was already well known in our school for her fighting prowess due to her go-around with the toughest school bully.  He had openly challenged her in front of other kids and then thrown down the gauntlet.

She had told him, “I don’t want to fight you, but don’t think I can’t take care of myself if you try something.”

He had circled around her a few times, she turning with him, always keeping him in front of her.  Finally he had lunged in to grab her and faster than any of us knew what happened, she picked him up, flipped him over and pile-drove his head into the grass.  He lay there for a few stunned seconds, then jumped up and ran off crying, his reign of tyranny having just come to a humiliating end by no less than a girl.

I hadn’t counted on Pam coming to my rescue.  Perhaps it would be possible to end this game of “Beat the Dweeb”.  Maybe even forever.  I turned around to face her.
“Would you really take care of them for me?” I asked.

“Sure, just tell me who they are and I’ll deal with them,” she responded.

I spilled the whole sordid story of humiliation and fear with them jumping out from different places and of being tripped and kicked and beaten and dirty clothes and washing them myself and not wanting anyone to know because I was embarrassed that I couldn’t take care of myself.

She listened sympathetically and finally said, “Ok, I have a plan.”  I felt better already.  “Since they come out from a place you’re not expecting, we’re going to do the same thing.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“They do the unexpected.  You do the unexpected,” she replied.

“I still don’t get it,” I said.  “All I have ever been able to do is run, fall, cover my head and endure the beating while trying to breathe.  They will expect that.  I expect that!  So how am I going to do the unexpected?”

“Ok, first, you aren’t going to go home at the same time.  You’ll wait until I’m finished practicing the piano. They will be expecting you much earlier.  Maybe they will get tired of waiting and then you can slip past.” I liked the sound of that. She continued. “ But I doubt it.  So, instead of taking the road or the path over the rise by the tower, you’re going to go down the path behind the trees towards the old man’s house.”

“What?” I cried out in shock and dismay.  “No way!  If I outrun them, I’ll just be facing buckshot from a double-barrel.”

“That’s just it,” she explained. “It’s not what they would expect.  And anyway, you’re not going to go as far as the old man’s place.  Just towards it.  Not running.  Walking.”

“Walking???” I shouted. “Why walking?  They’ll catch me sooner.”

“That’s the point,” she said.  “Don’t you get it?  You’re going to be my decoy to lure them behind the trees.”

“What’s a decoy?  I don’t like going behind the trees because they can beat on me longer and no one sees them.”

“Precisely!” Pam said.  “That gives us the advantage.”  Light suddenly dawned in my fogged “dweeb” brain.

“Oooohhhh, so I lead them back behind the trees, and then you can come and take care of them where no one sees. Right?”

“Exactly,” she said, glad that I was finally catching on.  “You lead them down the path and let them catch you.” I was starting to warm to the idea when another thought hit me.

“But if they catch me, they will beat on me like before.  I don’t like this idea.”

Pam quickly responded, “I’ll take it from there and I don’t think they will want to beat on you again once I get finished with them.  What do you think?”

I thought it over and said, “Ok, just don’t let them beat on me very long.”

“I won’t,” she assured me.  “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

I went to sleep that night excited that my after-school “game” might soon be over.

The next day, I waited while she practiced.  Then we headed home.  As we neared the water tower corner, Pam turned to me and said, “Ok we don’t want them to see me, so you go up and walk calmly back behind the trees.  Let them see you and let them catch you. Remember, walk calmly.”

“Ok,” I replied, “but remember, don’t let them beat on me very long.”

“I won’t…now go.” She pushed me forward.

I walked up towards the corner scanning the trees, the bushes, their yard, all around their house and finally spotted them creeping up behind their hedge.  I turned into the little old lady’s driveway and headed for the path through the woods.  Suddenly they broke out from behind the hedge and crossed the street, screaming like banshees.

Instantly my reflexes took over.  Forget walking calmly; I was out of there.  They caught me just before I entered the path in the woods, but well out of site behind the trees.

“Thought you were going to sneak by us, did you?” the older one yelled as he kicked my side.  “Well, think again, you little sissy.”

“Yeah,” said his younger brother, dropping down on top of me, grabbing me by the hair and yanking my head up.  “Dumb move, dweeb. You’re back here behind the trees where no one can see, so you’re really going to get it today!”  He slammed my head to the ground.

“Come on, Pam, where are you?” I was thinking.  Ugh.  Another body-slam.  Suddenly I felt both boys being lifted off of me.  I rolled over slightly to see Pam, who now had each boy by the back of his shirt.

“You leave my brother alone,” she screamed, as she grabbed their heads and cracked them together. Bam! She threw the younger one down and backhanded the older one. Biff. He went spinning off.  The younger brother came charging in to give her a head-butt. She sidestepped him and brought both her clasped hands down onto the back of his head, sending him face first into the dirt. He began to cry and got up to run for home. The older brother was up and took a swing at her, his punch catching her firmly on the jaw.  Big mistake.

She yelped, grabbed him by the shirt with her right hand and swung him into a near-perfect left jab to the nose.   Blood spurted from his nose and he began to retreat towards home.  She followed and pushed them both down yelling, “You touch my brother again and it will twice as bad.  I’ll hunt you down if I have to.  Now get on home and leave him alone.  For GOOD!”

She came back over to where I lay on the ground, still very much stunned at what had just happened.  She reached down and extended a hand.

“You okay?” she asked pulling me to my feet.  I nodded.

“Wow—that was awesome!” I said.  “They didn’t know what hit them.  You were all over them.  They didn’t stand a chance.  Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said.  “Let’s get on home and get our chores done before mom and dad get home.”

The next day, I again waited for Pam to finish practicing, and then I walked past their house with confidence.  We went the long way around the corner. I gave them a nod and a wave as I motioned towards Pam with a look that said, “Hey guys, you can’t touch this!  Got my big sister with me and you know she can take you both.”  They just sat there and watched us go by.  It was, indeed, a beautiful day in the neighborhood for me.

After that, I started playing trumpet and practiced in the music building while Pam practiced the piano.  We would walk home together, and as long as I was with her, all was well.

You have probably realized by now that you also have an enemy.  The Bible says his name is Satan.  He lies in wait just to play “Beat the Dweeb”, and you’re it.  He comes at you from all sides.  He’ll drop into your head screaming what a loser you are.  He’ll jump out from behind the hedge and cause you to fall into the sin that so easily besets you.  He’ll beat you up with a well-placed punch to the heart and leave you bruised and shaking with the dirt of sin and shame all over you.  He’ll double you over with guilt.  He will humiliate you and terrorize you.  He’ll cause you to be anxious during the day and lose sleep at night wondering what is coming at you next.  In short, he’s not a nice guy.

The Apostle Peter put it this way: “Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” 1Pet. 5:8

He’s out there waiting. Lurking. Prowling.  Looking for someone to devour.  You.  Me.  Anyone he can get his demonic paws on. He’s always there and always bigger and meaner than you or me. And while that’s real and that’s scary, here’s the real deal.

We’ve got a Big Brother who has already beaten him and all of his minions.  He has already cast them out of heaven, and then He came down here and continued to chase them.  Satan landed a well-placed punch when he put Jesus on the cross.  But the Bible says that was only a heel wound.  Jesus came back from the grave and crushed Satan’s head. (See Gen. 3:15)

When Jesus died and then rose again, He beat the devil.  He took command of this world and sent the devil running.  And because of that, if you walk with Jesus through the neighborhood, you will never need fear Satan again.  You have the authority of your Big Brother Jesus to stand on.  You can resist Satan by calling on Jesus.

If Satan starts bothering you, all you have to do is yell, “Jesus, Satan is pickin’ on me again.  Can you take care of things?”

Jesus stands up in your behalf and the Bible says the devil flees.  Look at scripture.  “Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” James 4:7

You don’t have to get beat up by the devil anymore.  Resist him. Not in your strength, or you’ll get clobbered.  Resist him by calling on Jesus. Here’s how Peter finishes the thought. “And the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will Himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To Him be the power for ever and ever. Amen” 1Pet. 5:10,11