Kaufman's Hill: A Memoir

by John Hampsey

Overview

A profound and intensely moving boyhood memoir, Kaufman’s Hill opens with a prosaic neighborhood scene: The author and some other young boys are playing by the creek, one of their usual stomping grounds. But it soon becomes clear that much more is going on; the boy-narrator is struggling to find his way in a middle-class Catholic neighborhood dominated by the Creely bullies, who often terrify him. It’s the Pittsburgh of the early and mid-1960s, a threshold time just before the counter-culture arrives, and a time when suburban society begins to encroach on Kaufman’s Hill, the boy’s sanctuary and the setting of many of his adventures. As the hill and the 1950s vanish into the twilight, so does the world of the narrator’s boyhood. "My pappy says if you’re going to be afraid of everything, you may as well live in the sewer" are the words that first open the narrator’s eyes. And once he befriends the enigmatic, erratic, but charismatic Taddy Keegan, he becomes bolder and no longer lives in abject fear of the Creelys.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781610881531
Publisher:	Bancroft Press
Publication date:	03/28/2015
Pages:	220
Product dimensions:	6.40(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.00(d)

About the Author

John C. Hampsey is professor of Romantic and Classical literature at Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, where he has won the University Distinguished Teaching Award. Previously, he taught at Boston University and MIT. He received his BA from Holy Cross College and his PhD from Boston College. His book, Paranoia and Contentment: A Personal Essay on Western Thought (2005, University of Virginia Press) won enthusiastic endorsements from fellow writers Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Tim O'Brien. Professor Hampsey is currently working on a novel, Soda Lake, an existential mystery mixed with interconnected imaginary portraits. The Alaska Quarterly recently agreed to publish an excerpt. During his career, Hampsey has had more than thirty stories and essays published in such places as The Gettysburg Review (four times), The Midwest Quarterly, Antioch Review, The Alaska Quarterly, The Boston Globe, and McNeese Review, among many others. He lives in San Luis Obispo, California, with his wife and daughter.

Read an Excerpt

Kaufman's Hill

a memoir

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By John C. Hampsey

Bancroft Press

Copyright © 2015 John C. Hampsey
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61088-154-8

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CHAPTER 1

Rat Stick at Twilight

I was down at the creek hitting, at just about anything, with the Creelys. We whipped our sticks at leaves and branches and rocks, and even at the soft silver mud along the creek bank.

When we got to the sewer tunnel, the Creelys stopped and balanced themselves on top of some creek rocks. The late afternoon was cloudy and smelled like rain. The air was still, except for the cool sewer dampness blowing upon us.

The Creelys stepped onto the slab beneath the tunnel and started slapping their sticks against the metal bars that crossed the top half of the entrance, until Frank Creely's stick flipped out of his hand and landed on the other side.

"Go get it," he told his younger brother.

We were all afraid of walking inside the tunnel. So Billy didn't move until Frank pushed him into the creek water. I pretended to ignore them by examining the underside of a mossy rock.

Billy ducked quickly under the bars and walked into the tunnel, his feet stretched out to the sides so he wouldn't have to touch the dark water. A few moments later, he stepped back out, holding Frank's stick in his hand like a trophy, and jumped across the creek, landing under a tree on the other side.

"Hey! Look at this!" Billy yelled.

Frank crossed the creek, his left foot and pants getting wet along the way. And I followed along the creek bank until I could see Billy poking his stick at a dead rat about the size of a small football. It was bloated in the middle, with dark matted fur and closed eyes. Billy jammed his stick at its stomach, harder and harder, until I couldn't look anymore.

"It's dead," he finally said. "What should we do with it?"

Whenever the Creelys found anything, they always thought they had to do something with it.

"Pick it up," Frank said, his voice sounding serious.

But Billy didn't move.

The air began to smell heavier, and I wished it would rain so we'd all have an excuse to go home.

"C'mon, we'll use our sticks," Frank Creely said.

I was worried, because I knew the Creelys. They might try and fling the rat at me, or knock me down and drop it on my face.

"We could take it up to the field," I said. "And bury it."

"Who wants to bury some smelly old rat?" Billy Creely said.

"You're supposed to bury a dead animal when you find it," I said.

For some reason, Frank said OK, and they followed me up the creek bank carrying the rat carefully, its dark body jammed between their sticks.

"Go on and dig a hole then," Frank commanded.

So I ran ahead up to Kaufmann's Field and chose a flat spot next to one of the big white rocks the Kaufmann's people had placed there where our woods used to be, and began scraping at the grass with the bottom of my stick. It was hard to break through the soil, though, and I was afraid the Creelys would get bored before I got anywhere. So I scraped faster, occasionally glancing back to watch them trying to balance the rat in the air. Whenever the rat fell, Frank yelled at Billy and hit him with his stick. And Billy screamed because he didn't want the stick that had touched the rat touching him.

They continued like this, jamming their sticks harder into the rat each time, until I thought they might stab it all the way through. Eventually, they held it steady up in the air and paraded around in circles.

When I heard them whispering, I turned just in time to see their arms swing toward my face, with Billy screaming "Aaooahh ooahhooahh!" like Tarzan does.

For a moment, the rat hung by its guts at the end of their sticks before soaring over my head and landing with one dead bounce on the rock behind me.

The Creelys seemed to lose interest then, and laid down on the brown grass, some of the green rat guts still hooked onto the ends of their sticks. This is just temporary boredom, I thought. Eventually, they'll start up again with rat stick torture. And Frank is always the worst, because he's older and can make us do whatever he wants. Mother thinks there's something wrong with him, and that's why he doesn't have any friends his own age.

My hole was deep but not wide enough. So I kept grinding my stick, feeling the blisters coming on as I knelt under the late afternoon light, with everything seeming to slow down. And maybe that's why I didn't hear Georgie-Porgie arrive from the direction of Kaufmann's Hill.

"What are you guys doin'?" he asked.

"Nuthin'," Frank Creely said without lifting his head.

"We're waiting for him to finish digging," Billy said, sitting up on one arm.

"Why?" Georgie-Porgie asked.

"Because we're gonna bury a rat, that's why," Frank said, his voice impatient and his eyes still closed, as if he couldn't wait for Georgie-Porgie to go away.

"Well, where's the rat?" he asked politely.

"Over there," Frank mumbled, lifting his arm to point, as if he was making a great effort.

Georgie-Porgie, who was Frank's age and always dressed in adult clothes ever since his father died, stepped onto the rock and, holding his blue tie against his bright yellow shirt, examined the rat like a doctor examining an accident victim. He even touched the rat with his fingers, turning it over.

"I know just the thing to do," he said confidently. "But you'll have to wait while I run back to my house."

"We're still burying it," I said.

"Yeah. When the hole's finished, the rat's going in," Frank Creely declared.

Without lifting his head, Frank squinted his eyes at Georgie-Porgie, who glided back across Kaufmann's Field, moving pretty well for a fat kid. He didn't even seem to shift his legs as he pulled his way up through the crown vetch on Kaufmann's Hill.

At the top, his yellow shirt flicked for a moment in the light of the graying-pink sunset, and then disappeared into the woods.

I continued to work on my hole, hoping the Creelys wouldn't see I was nearly finished. As long as they hear me digging, I thought, they will keep pretending they are napping ... while Georgie-Porgie glides along the path through the woods and then runs through the backyards, his fine clothes flapping in the breeze ... and on up Nakoma Street, toward his old brick house on Standish, where his yellow shirt finally disappears behind a screen door.

Little Kenny Franz sat cross-legged a few feet away. Somehow, he had appeared without any of us hearing him. But Frank Creely sensed him, and stood up suddenly.

"Go pick up that rat, Kenny," he commanded.

Little Kenny stepped onto the rock and stood over the rat as if he was trying to figure a way of touching without touching. Finally, he picked up the rat by the back of its neck. And then he didn't seem afraid anymore, and even cradled the rat's body on his left arm before arranging it comfortably inside the hole.

We started burying it without Frank Creely telling us. This will be the end of it, I thought, and then we can all go home. And that's when I heard Georgie-Porgie's voice through the darkening air: "Wait! I've got something."

As he got closer, we could see a silver rod in his hand.

"This sand wedge ought to do it," he said, his body heaving out of breath. "It's the perfect club. Now, let's get everything set up ... Where's the rat?"

"We buried it," I said.

"Here, let me show you," he said calmly.

Bending down in the dim light, Georgie-Porgie uncovered the rat and then re-covered it, this time vertically, patting the dirt firmly around the rat's neck so that only the head appeared above ground.

"So who found the rat?" he asked.

"My little brother did," Frank answered. "So what?"

"Well, he gets to use the sand wedge then."

"It was his idea to bury it," Billy said, pointing at me and looking like he wished he was already back home eating his dinner.

So Georgie-Porgie put the sand wedge in my hands, positioning me at just the right angle and setting the face of the club close behind the rat's neck.

"Don't move," he said quietly, his breath smelling like orange candy. "OK, who wants to bet he can strike it off cleanly with one swing? Any bets?"

"It's a sand wedge," Frank said angrily. "Of course he will."

"Cleanly? Do you bet a dollar? Do you actually have a dollar on you?"

"Yeah. Go ahead," Frank shrugged. "Swing the club and let's get out of here."

Everyone stood still while I tried to decide if golfing a rat's head was a bad thing to do. I thought about how my father used to play golf, and that I would probably take lessons someday. And then, in the closing dusk, the rat head got harder to see, until there was only the slice of silver at the end of the invisible club.

I wasn't afraid of hitting; I just wasn't sure I wanted to ... and the club felt so heavy, and sickening, as I swung it back. Because I wasn't doing it right, and that's why I hit the dirt too soon.

"Give me that damn thing!" Frank yelled.

He grabbed it away and shoved me hard against the rock. I caught myself with my hand, the tiny pebbles grinding into my palm. And then I stayed like that, studying the dark outline of his body. Frank was bent over too much, not like a real golfer at all. And his swing was so quick none of us could really see it in the near-darkness. But we heard the dirt fly everywhere.

Georgie-Porgie knelt down to examine the results.

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "You've taken the top part of his body as well. You haven't done it cleanly."

He took the club from Frank, who could beat up Georgie-Porgie if he wanted to. But he was afraid. Because Georgie-Porgie was the kind of kid who never got beat up.

The Creelys sometimes kidded him, though, singing, "Georgie-Porgie, puddin' pie, kissed the girls and made them cry." When Georgie wasn't around, they changed the words to "Georgie-Porgie, puddin' pie, kissed his mom and made her cry."

"I should have known you guys couldn't do it right," Georgie-Porgie said. "Now, where's my dollar?"

"I took the head off," Frank said angrily.

"Yeah, but you took the shoulders, too. Are you going to give me the dollar, or don't you even have it? Maybe we should ask little Kenny who won."

But little Kenny was gone. He had run home the minute he knew what we were going to do with the sand wedge.

"Forget it," Frank snorted. "Give him the dollar you have in your pocket," he said to Billy. "And let's get the hell out of here."

Georgie-Porgie took the dollar and then retreated, walking backwards toward Kaufmann's Hill.

"By the way," he hollered, after his body had faded into the darkening twilight, "it may have been the wrong club! I think a seven iron would have worked better. Ha ha, ha ha ..."

I stayed against my rock and watched the Creelys fade into the opposite direction, their sticks high in the air as if they were still carrying the rat.

And I should have left, too, because it was late, and my mother was probably worried. But I wanted to find the rat head and bury it with the rest, even though it would be difficult in the dark.

The rain finally started falling, lightly at first. But I didn't care.

The rat head is out there somewhere, I thought. And all I have to do is touch it to find it.

But I was afraid to touch, so I couldn't move.

CHAPTER 2

Seeing Him First

After Jeff Portney moved into the neighborhood, I started going to his house as a new way of escaping the Creelys. I was also hoping he'd be better than big-faced Dickie Labeau, another kid I tried playing with. Dickie would act weird all of a sudden when we were alone in my basement, screaming in a high-pitched voice and jumping up and down and spitting. He thought it was funny, but it made me nervous. And when I said, "Dickie! Please, act normal!," he only got worse.

So I stopped having Dickie over, and he started going with the Creelys, who actually liked it when Dickie went crazy. "Act like a retard!" I heard Frank Creely command one time at the bottom of the brick street. And he and Billy laughed while Dickie screamed and spit-twisted around in circles. When the Creelys got tired of it, Frank smacked Dickie a few times on the face to make him stop.

Jeff Portney lived up on the brick-street hill, near the Creelys. So when I went over to his house, I had to make sure the Creelys didn't see me. Mrs. Portney liked it when I came over. She told me I was "a nice young gentleman," and that I came from "such a nice family," which I didn't understand because Mrs. Portney had never met my mother and father. When I asked my sister about it, she said it was because our father was a downtown attorney.

Jeff was an only child, which was an "unfortunate situation" according to the neighborhood ladies. And poor Mrs. Portney, they said. Her husband always away on business. Maybe that was why she was so interested in what Jeff and I were doing. Because sometimes it seemed like Mrs. Portney actually wanted to get down on her knees and play on the carpet with us. While most mothers would be talking on the phone, or doing something in the kitchen, or staring at the TV,

Mrs. Portney never seemed to do anything but drink iced tea mixed with some bottle from the cupboard and watch us. Sometimes she talked about how much she hated the Creely brothers because they had locked Jeff in her basement closet the day the Portneys moved into their new house. Then they knocked over some Atlas boxes and ran out.

Mrs. Portney complained to Mr. Creely about it, but he just laughed and said his sons were good boys and that they didn't mean anything by it. But it must have made Jeff's mother sad, even though you couldn't see it in her face because of her thick hair hanging down and her narrow body always jerking around.

Jeff and I built a "set-up" in his basement with his collection of little soldiers and cowboys. But he didn't understand that a set-up was more than just placing all the men in the middle of the floor. He didn't know they could all have their own names and live in their own places, like behind chair legs and under tables and up on windowsills, except for Christmas, when they lived in the tree.

A balsam Christmas tree lasted longer than any other, my father always said. Tinsel connected the branches like a train track they could ride along, and the icicles became silver ropes they could swing upon. Peewee, the little black cowboy man, was the best of all, because his legs were spread wide from too much time in the saddle, so he could ride down anything—branches and icicles and even the shiny ornaments. And he was so small no one could see him, which is why our cleaning lady, Lorraine, sucked him into the vacuum cleaner one day, making me cry until my mother found the little pieces inside the matted gray vacuum dust you shouldn't breathe when it floats up into your nose, and miraculously put him back together with so much brown glue that every time I looked at him I'd remember how he used to be. And how lucky I was that my father could never face taking down the balsam tree, even after New Year's; my mother making him move it to the upstairs landing where no one could see it from the street. One year my father kept it there until Washington's birthday so I had all those extra Christmas days for Peewee and my other little men in the tree, until everything seemed to drop away and death itself only existed outside the tree, which meant that any man who fell to the gray carpet couldn't come back again.

Jeff didn't know how you have to pretend to be living inside each man before placing him inside the set-up, and that's why playing with him was almost like work ... under the fluorescent lights in the Portney basement that seemed to drift us away.

When we finished, we sat around looking at the set-up and drinking iced tea, which I wasn't old enough to drink at my house. And then we'd move things around a bit, like the white paper road that coiled across the floor, or switching some of the cowboy men from the carpet to the high ground up on the arm of the couch, or even up on the bookshelf, where they could holler warnings from above that I could almost hear. Others climbed the hill we made of mud taken from the Portney backyard, and still others swam across a lake we made from a silver bowl Mrs. Portney gave us, the lake water spilling sometimes, but she didn't seem to care.

I knew that set-ups only lasted for so long, because parents wanted their basements back again. But Mrs. Portney said her basement could stay like that forever, making me wish my mother could see it too.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Kaufman's Hill by John C. Hampsey. Copyright © 2015 John C. Hampsey. Excerpted by permission of Bancroft Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Rut Slick at Twilight 1

Seeing Him First 9

Taddy Keegan 23

The Garden and the Creek 37

Kaufman's Field 51

Kreutzer's Pond 59

Gilkeson Road 71

The Bock Porch 81

Dulaney's Cave 93

The Mayfair 107

The Great Carnegie 129

The Rivers 155

The Lake 107

… and the Hill 183

Editorial Reviews

08/03/2015
This sensitive and often sad memoir shows the same skill that Hampsey (Paranoia and Contentment) has brought to his many short stories and his work as a professor. The book, set in Pittsburgh between 1961 and 1968, begins with the seven-year-old Hampsey recounting his memories of a group of young boys discovering a dead rat at Kaufmann's Hill (spelled "Kaufman" in the title because of the way a sign looks from the hill's top) in the center of their neighborhood. This short chapter sets the stage for the rest of the themes that Hampsey explores: the youthful discovery of life and death, of sex and love, of family happiness and tragedy. All of the stories are linked by twilight; Hampsey proclaims, "Six to seven was my time—when I could go out and do whatever I wanted and not run into anyone." During those hours he can avoid bullies Teddy Keegan and Buddy Nevin, the troubled priests and teachers from his Catholic grammar school, and also his father, a distant man whose longing for something beyond his family made him "too serious and unhappy in a way everyone could tell, just by looking at him." Hampsey also shows the racial strife that begins to touch his early teens, but his focus is on capturing the furtive beauty of his youthful adventures during "that perfect playtime—the space between almost-dark and when the streetlights come on, when twilight really does exist for a while." (Mar.)

Publishers Weekly