The Neighborhood's Mr. Rogers

In his memoir of growing up in the midwest in the 50's and 60's, "Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid", Bill Bryson tells us about a buddy, Stephen Katz, who was ever ready to participate with his pals in pranks and petty (and not so petty) crime - and also willing to have everyone's back by taking the penalty when accountability time came.

We had a fellow like that in Kennydale. With a difference - he didn't willingly take blame; it was just routinely assigned him by various miscreants, including my brothers and (once) me. He was Jack Rogers, scion of what we thought was an outrageously dysfunctional family on the east (apparently the wrong) side of Meadow Ave. Jack got in a lot of legitimate trouble all by himself so he was an easy target when others wanted to shift the load. A fair estimate might be that he did about half what he got "credit" for.

Under severe parental questioning it was frequently "Dunno, must've been Jack Rogers". There was never a campaign against him. He was simply a handy way to avoid certain punishment would the truth be known.

The most blatant example of his dilemma is an incident involving my (now deceased) brother Jim and one of his friends (who shall remain unnamed 'cuz he still lives in Kennydale). These two were roaming the streets one evening in the early 50's, chucking apples at doors. They made a mistake when they attacked the Smiths on what is now 33rd Place. Mr. Smith was a pretty athletic guy (one of his sons was a champion gymnast a few years later) and obviously had been near the door when the apple struck. He gave chase and before too many blocks had passed caught up with Jim and hauled him up by the collar. "What's your name, son?", he demanded. The answer, of course, was, "Jack Rogers!"

Bryson's Steve Katz eventually came out ok after some troublesome times and gets the honor due him in "Thunderbolt". Alas, it didn't work out that way for our Jack. His was one of the tragedies that began at "Frenchy's" on Lk. Washington Boulevard and ended after a turnover at "a high rate of speed" a mile or so north in front of the original Griffins Boys Home.

Our neighborhood's Mr. Rogers had pretty much done his youthful duty for us by then, though, so it didn't seem like too much of a loss. 'Til now.