The Summer of 48: Operation Sandcastle

Some of my greatest childhood memories are about the terrific times I had under my grandmother's house on Sullivan's Island. My mother and I lived with my grandmother, and we would spend half the summer at her beach house every year. The house was raised about eight feet off the ground on pilings, as most old island homes are, and, to give a sense of privacy, the underhouse area was surrounded by a sort of fence, but the individual boards were spaced about 3" apart.

The underhouse was nothing but sand, except for a small pile of bricks at the west end and some intruding weeds at the edges. Of course, the sand was its most valuable attribute. Without it, I could not have built my forts, castles, bridges, and moats. There was a seemingly fathomless supply of it. I could dig to about four feet and it would still be there, but it would be damp; another foot and there would be mud. I often wondered: If I continued to dig, would the water suddenly gush up with the pressure of the Atlantic behind it and blast through the house, taking with it my grandmother and her card table full of canasta-playing cronies, not to mention a great quantity of my lead soldiers? Within a few hours the entire island, the soldiers and myself would disappear into the ocean, creating the Lowcountry's version of Atlantis and a tourist bonanza for years to come. Not willing to tempt fate, I never dug beyond the mud; there was no practical reason to, anyway, since I only had to dig about 8-10" to reach the layer that was compact enough to build with.

For purely malevolent reasons, my cousins once dug down about three feet in order to make a trap. The hole was wide enough for someone's leg and foot to go down in it. They then placed the thin, green slats from some old, discarded porch blinds over the top and covered this with sand, so it looked just like the rest of the underhouse. My three male cousins all knew where the trap was, as I did. Our parents never knew, but, then, they never ventured into this territory from the boring confines of their adult world anyway. I don't remember exactly who it was we planned to have topple in this perfidious puncture—thank God, we knew nothing of Punji stick then—but we all agreed not to tell their sister, Nancy, and I do recall their having lured her under the house, so perhaps she was the intended victim. Being the only girl in a family of four, eventually five, boys tends to predispose one to an uneven share of harassment.

The plan worked to perfection; unfortunately, Nancy broke her leg. I was not there when the reign of parental terror began, but I'm sure a severe punishment was meted out. However, I was innocent of any participation in this cowardly deed, though my being aware of it probably made me an accessory. Nevertheless, no one incriminated me, possibly fearing my infamous pyrotechnical talents (see "Burning Desire," Omnibus, June 1990).

Oh, there were happier experiences under the house, although this one was certainly not a complete fiasco. I mean, the trap worked just as we'd all hoped; there was just an unforeseen, disastrous complication. Did we learn a lesson from this? Of course. We learned that the traps should be dug on the beach where the chances were less that someone we were related to would fall into them. I also improved on the old model by suggesting that we build a castle on top of the hole (hidden now with sand-covered marsh sticks). This ensured that someone would fall into it, but not just some anonymous, child-hating, 60-year-old fat lady and her snapping Chihuahua. This would be one of those demented sand-geeks who came to the beach for no other apparent reason than to stomp on kids' castles. We cackled among ourselves—perhaps a bit too ghoulishly—as we envisioned the event.

But wait, this was insufficient; this fiend, this destroyer of children's art, this Nazi Beach Psycho deserved more than to just fall into a hole. We'd put a dead jellyfish and some dog dung into the hole. We even considered dropping in some broken bottles. My cousin David's supposition that someone could bleed to death and that we'd all be sent to some Dickensian prison convinced us that we should leave out the glass. My contention that all evil acts committed on Sullivan's Island would automatically be blamed on the Gerbilhead kids (see "Burning Desire," Omnibus, June 1990) was overruled.

This being August, it did not take us very long to find a dead jellyfish, since the beach was strewn with them this time of the summer. David's excited yell that he had found one occupied by maggots brought a simultaneous, "Yeah!" from all of us. We hacked it up a little bit with sticks so the victim would experience the essence of jellyfish, or as one of my older cousins, Frederick, put it, "So he'll have jellyfish guts oozin' between his toes." Once again, fortune smiled on us that day, as Frederick spotted a huge Mastiff with obvious gastrointestinal problems, who made a sizeable, though involuntary contribution to our project.

Although near slavering with anxious anticipation, we took our time in building the castle. We figured the better it looked, the greater the chance that it would attract our unwary malefactor. In fact, the castle looked so good, there was some mild protestation about seeing it destroyed, until Sandy, the oldest at 12, reminded us that it would be a noble sacrifice for a greater purpose: "Hey, it might be one of the Gerbilheads!" That thought excited all of us, even though I did wonder aloud who it would be blamed on then. "Psychotic, itinerant, Gypsy beachcombers," Sandy said.

"Who?" asked David.

"Never mind. Let's do it!" Frederick said.

We checked out the trap one last time. It was perfectly camouflaged, a three-foot deep by one-foot wide hole right in the middle of the castle. We repaired to our observation post, a well hidden spot in the dunes about thirty yards away. It was a perfect spot, an indentation well hidden by sea oats. It was actually an old WWII gun emplacement which had the added protection of sandbags, in case our victim happened to be armed. We had brought firecrackers to throw at him in the event this occurred.

We had waited about thirty minutes, visually sweeping the beach for any sign of suspicious persons, and we were getting discouraged. The only people who came by were a couple of old ladies looking for shells and a little boy and his mother, who walked around our castle admiring it for what seemed like ten minutes. He tried to get into it several times but she managed to pull him back. Frederick tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "Hey, what if the kid falls in face first?" This thought caused an epidemic of gigglitis to the point that the mother looked up towards our dune. Perhaps sensing that something was not quite right here, she dragged her complaining child away from the castle and continued down the beach.

"Look," David said. "It's Al Weissman." Sure enough, it was Al Weissman, our neighbor, who lived across the street from my grandmother's beach house. He was about 14 years old. He was a very mean guy. He once shot me in the chest with his BB gun. It had only left a little red mark, but it had stung like Hell. He also shot birds and cats and dogs with the gun. My mother had always told me to stay away from him—that he was a "very bad boy." We had forgotten about him because he had been out of town, but if anybody deserved to fall into that hole, it was Al Weissman. Al had probably committed some sort of sinister act against every kid and helpless animal on the island. In fact, he was apparently up to no good right now, since he was carrying his well-known weapon of woe, his well-oiled Daisy Pump Action.

He began walking along the gully, firing his BB gun into it repeatedly, then stopping to see if his kills—minnows and crabs—would float to the top. Would he be too preoccupied with his slaughter-waging to notice the castle? It seemed as though he might, as he continued to concentrate on the gully. Then, suddenly, the unexpected—which gradually becomes the expected, as one ventures into adulthood—happened. "It's that dog again!" David had screamed. It was the huge mastiff, who had re-arrived on the scene, as we were scrutinizing Awful Al's behavior. He was sniffing around the castle, obviously attracted by the scent emanating from the trap. Oh God, he was going to all into the trap and ruin everything. "He's not only gonna fall in the hole, he's gonna eat the contents," Frederick said, reminding us unnecessarily of our canine friends' indiscriminate eating habits. Nearly gagging on this thought, we all realized that our great scheme was to soon be an unforgettable debacle.

Suddenly, perhaps tiring of the exacting sport challenge of minnow-shooting, Al turned his attention landward in search of bigger and less mobile targets. Immediately sighting the mastiff, who was still sniffing around the castle's outer wall, he fired from the hip, stinging the dog in the left buttock and sending him yelping down the beach. Then, Al began walking toward the castle, firing as he approached. Pieces of the castellated wall were nicked off. The marsh stick-based bridge blew up. The marsh stick flagpole snapped in half.

"Wow," muttered David. Although we hated Al, we had to admit it looked pretty cool. We also figured Al would grow tired of destroying our castle bit by bit, and would eventually stomp it to smithereens. We smiled knowingly, as he carefully placed his gun down. He was prepared to deliver the big crusher, the two-footed castle smasher. The coup de stomp. We tensed, drooling concomitantly with anticipation. Al, all at once, bent down and picked up a brick. Sandy beat his head into the sand in painful frustration. How could we have been so negligent? We should have policed the area for throwable objects. Being occasional, but not chronic, castle-crushers ourselves, how could we have overlooked this possibility? Now, Al would simply stand there and pelt it with bricks and flotsam until it became an amorphous clump of sand.

"Wait!" I spoke hopefully. "Look!" Al had stopped picking up bricks and seemed to be just standing there, starting at the castle. Suddenly, he was running toward it and then jumping high over it with bare feet together, emitting an inhuman, blood-curdling yell, which sounded amazingly similar to those I had read in my volumes of war comics: "Earrg!"

It was a perfect jump. He came down squarely in the center of the main castle building, which was squarely on top of the trap. Immediately, there was another scream, but this one more spontaneous, original and wordy: "Goddamn!" What the SH--!" Al had disappeared up to his thighs in the hole. He quickly pulled himself out and looked frantically at his feet. From our vantage point, we could see that his feet were covered with our special concoction. He began to brush at them wildly with his hands, then brought one of them up close to his face. "Jesus!" he screamed, as he started rubbing his hands and feet wildly in the sand. Next, he got to his feet briefly, before falling down on all fours and barfing his venomous insides into the sand.

By this time, we, of course, had lost all control, rolling over and over in the sand and laughing to the point of severe stomach cramps. David showed his usual secondary manifestation of hearty laughter, a large wet circle around the crotch of his pants. We screamed, laughing and rejoicing at the same time. If only the mastiff could have been there to get his laugh.

Dress Down for Success

January, 2000
Dress Down For Success
By Bob Coskrey

Dress Down Day. Most progressive-minded companies observe it, from small ones to huge conglomerates. Studies have proven it’s good for morale, not to mention production. But there are those paleolithically fixated businesses who, for their own peculiar reasons, prefer not to allow this practice, the one for which I work, for example.

So instead of having groups of employees who feel relaxed, comfortable, and at ease, and who work hard, you have a disgruntled mob of surly, frustrated malcontents who sit around pouting and complaining to each other, and resultantly, getting even less work done.

Complain no longer, Workers of the World! There are ways you can satisfy your dress down desires without your atavistic employer ever knowing about it, and he’ll benefit from your increased productivity without ever knowing why. He may insist that you wear a tie and a jacket, but he won’t know that under your neatly pressed slacks or subdued Ralph Lauren skirt that you’re completely bare-assed. SURE, YOU GOT IT, JUST DON’T WEAR any underwear this Friday. How’s the going to know, unless you’re a guy, of course, under very erotically stimulating circumstances. In other words, if you’re the human resource assistant at “Hooters,” you may not want to try this, unless you take the extra precaution of wearing an athletic supporter—or maybe using duct tape. (Just be sure to remove the latter with a quick, short stroke.)

If you’re, understandably, a little timid, simply wear bikini or thong underwear first, then, perhaps, just try painting underpants on, before making the big transformation.

I have already tried it and my production—and that’s all—is up 22%.

Females, of course, have an advantage—at least, a couple of them. They can attend work bra-less, as well as pantsless, and of course, I know that some of you are already doing this. Women trampoline and pogo stick demonstrators may not want to pursue this avenue.
But let’s not stop with this idea. I have multifold others I am anxious to share with you on how we can improve the workplace simply by daring to do things a little differently.

First, from underwearless or bra-less Fridays we follow a natural progression to topless or pantless Fridays. If everyone is in agreement, what better way to bring aboyamity in employer-employee relations, though you might want to consider some weight and age restriction.

No doubt, you’re already misperceiving a lascivious theme here, so let me quickly dispel your unwarranted suspicions with my next suggestion.
Toothless Tuesdays: All our “indentured” senior employees get to leave their drinking glass encased chopper at home while they relax at work, spicing up the office with impromptu imitations of Gabby Hayes, Moms Mably, various hockey players, and a new interpretation of Gumby.

A lot of pent-up tension will be released with the introduction of Tactless Thursday, when you will be allowed to infuse the environment with all sorts of rude, impertinent, inappropriate remarks, to your spleen’s content, the one stipulation being that those who act this way normally will only be permitted to interject genteel gems of jocularity and joy.

Clueless Mondays: These are destined to become enormously popular among the lower echelon employees, as the whole idea will be to let upper and mid-level management perform the jobs of the lesser salaried peons. Since it is anticipated that many businesses will resultantly be shut down for a day due to the blatant incompetence of its “new” employees, management will probably not permit this even to happen more than once.

The possibilities are limited only by the English language. How about Witless Wednesdays, on which only those who have willingly watched a “Dukes of Hazard” rerun (and boasted about it), consider “USA Today” their newsprint Bible, but need a dictionary to decipher it, or who found the 1992 Gore-Quayle debate an extraordinary example of oratorical swordplay heightened by the challenge of trying to understand the rapier-like repartee and the hip yet esoteric literary references, get to come in.

Classless Wednesdays, on which only those who when they dine out, are so driven to use a toothpick, even before they leave the table, that they ask to borrow your ball-point pen or are constantly spitting out La Brea Tar Pit consistency wads of searing tobacco (only you find out they don’t chew tobacco) will be invited to work. These days will, by necessity, be followed by Thoroughly Sanitizing Thursdays, during wh the entire workplace is cleaned and inspected by DHEC.

Although some of my models may be slightly exaggerated, my not-to-be-overlooked point to you bosses is that the Dress Down Day is a very minute concession to your faithful employees, as in my situation, for instance, in which it simply means that I won’t wear a tie. Big deal, you might say, but to most workers, the practice is actually a symbol that the “Big Kahuna,” “The Man,” “Mr. Charlie,” “The Suits,” “The Massah,” is aware that they’re human and not some sort of policy-programmed android. And just in case an erstwhile point is forgotten, they’ll actually perform their jobs better.

So, while of course not a threat, is we the laboring, downtrodden masses don’t start getting their Dress Down Days, it’s not entirely outside the realm of reality that some of the previously referred to less sanity based days of observation may come into being.

For example, since it’s been over a year now since we’ve had a dress down day at my job, tomorrow I’m taking it upon myself to initiate, unilaterally, unfortunately, “Dress Your Private Parts As A Puppet Monday.” Drastic? Perhaps, but in order to affect change, you first have to gain someone’s attention. What’s that you say? Medical attention. Well, okay, but it’s a start.

Bad Day at Bennett School

Early September 1946. My first day of public school. I was 6 years old, a gnarled veteran of 2 years of kindergarten at Miss Mcinnes’ and Ms. Steinberg’s, however, at these Crayola-permeated edifices of lower learning, I had benefitted from the comfort and protection of my adoring Aunt Gert, who had taken on teaching jobs at both institutions solely for those somewhat misguided purposes. Little Bobby Coskrey felt anxious and estranged in those alien atmospheres, having to lie down on wafer-thin rugs for naps next to all varieties of unwashed ruffians. He would much rather stay at home, play with his vast armies of toy soldiers, or indulge in some of his secret games such as water-ballooning unsuspecting passerby from the second-floor porch, or napalming ants and roaches with his homemade Black Flag flamethrower.

But the days of unfettered coddling, pampering, and special treatment were long gone now. I was in public school, Bennett Elementary, where the College of Charleston cafeteria is now located.

On this inaugural day, my mother walked me to 2 ¼ blocks from our house, down George Street, past the old blind black man selling pencils and brooms near the corner of King: “Pleeeze help the blind,” he would spout in a basso profundo voice, whenever he heard footsteps, scaring me the first time I saw him, since I had never seen a blind person before, and I didn’t understand his dark glasses and trance-like demeanor.

As usual, my mother snatched a handful of pencils and a couple of brooms without paying and ran down the street derisively screaming, “Gotcha’ again, old man,” dragging me behind her. (Oh, calm down, I’m only kidding—just wanted to see if you’re paying attention.)

We stopped, as we occasionally did, and my mother bought a couple of pencils, and gave them to me, saying, “Here, you can use these in school today, but for God’s sake, don’t run around with them, you’ll poke out your eye, or maybe both, in this case.” The resonant, “Thank you, Ma’am, God bless you” rang in my ears, as we scurried away.

As we reached the corner of St. Philip and George, a female crossing guard, Miss Hart, blew her whistle, held up her hands in the pose of some sort of superhero ready to push back the cars, and, with a smile, motioned for us to cross. Amazingly, all the vehicles obeyed her magic whistle, as we marched confidently toward the school. At the time, I recall thinking that she had actually been put there solely for me, until, appalled, I noticed other children getting the same service.

Bennett Elementary was a grey, concrete building with a foreboding aura. We entered through an iron gateway onto a dusty playground surrounded by trees. There were mothers with children all over the place, along with groups of bigger kids without parental escorts. Some of the younger children appeared to be being dragged by their mothers, a sight which suddenly made me feel a bit anxious, but we continued to walk briskly through one of the building’s arches, then on to a quadrangle area which led to a long, semi-dark hallway, where my mother, thankfully still holding on to my hand, said to me, “We just need to find Miss Kornahren’s class, room 1-a, now, Bobby.”

Fortunately, or perhaps otherwise, depending on your perspective, we found it within 30 seconds of her declaration, and stride into Miss Kornahren’s classroom. My mother shook hands with her and introduced me. Apparently, they knew each other, as did all Charlestonians of German descent, I was eventually to learn.

All teachers in those days, for you younger readers, came in two physical forms: 1) Thin, middle-aged females, with their hair pulled back so severely, they had Elsa Lanchester “Bride of Frankenstein” expressions, or 2) older and overweight with hairnet-encased white hair. Most were spinsters, quite a few of whom, in retrospect, would have been vanguard rider for “Dykes on Bikes” in another time. And all were addressed as “Miss,” regardless of their marital status.

Miss Kornahrens was friendly and had a nice smile. She took my hand gently and led me to a desk in the middle of the room: “You sit right here, Bobby.” I was a little miffed at not being placed in the front row, where Aunt Gert had always positioned me, until I eventually learned she was, in fact, doing me a favor.

I sat down amidst the commotion of other children and mothers going through the same ritual. I looked around at all the pictures covering the walls, obviously drawn and colored by other kids. I thought to myself, “Boy, those are really bad; if that’s all ti takes to get through this, I’ll be out of here in no time.”

All at once, my burgeoning confidence was demolished by a terrifying statement from mo mother: “Well, Bobby, I’m going now. You be a good boy, and I’ll pick you up around 2:30 right here in the classroom.”

Suddenly, I realized I was being left along for the first time in my life with a bunch of complete strangers.

“Where’s Gert?” I asked her, my eyes starting to fill.

Mother, taking hold of my hand (I noticed her eyes were brimming also): “Gert’s not going to be here, Bobby.”

Me, pathetically: “You—you mean they wouldn’t let her work here? Can’t Dada (my grandmother and family matriarch, with whom we all lived) make them?”

Mother: “No, Bobby, Gert and I can’t be with you while you’re in school, but Miss Kornahrens will be here and she’s a very nice lady who will take care of you. See all those other little children? They’re here to learn things, too, and they don’t have a Gert or a Mommy with them either, but they’ve got Miss Kornahrens, and all of you are going to have a good time together learning about all kinds of interesting things.”

To me, this explanation had the same spurious sound of Dr. Deas (or family physician) telling me that my first shot “will only hurt a little bit” before he plunged his one-foot-long “needle of doom” so deep into my smallish arm, I expected to come out the other side. I didn’t like the way things were shaping up at all.

My mother slowly released my arm and walked out of the room, stopping to wave goodbye at the doorway, a performance callously repeated by all the rest of the “Stepford Moms,” as they, one by one, deserted their innocent offspring.

I somehow managed to control myself during my first Mom and Gertless state, especially after I noticed that no one else in the room was having a hissy fit except a little girl.

The rest of the day, as I recall it, was a conglomeration of “Alice and Jerry” stories (the reading textbook), coloring and drawing, and playing on the jungle gym at recess. I met another boy, Richard, who had toy soldiers like mine. I was pleased, but at the same time, totally surprised, since up till then, I thought I was the only one who had them. This proved to be the first of many shocking revelations over the next few years that would show me that I was not special after all. And I met another boy, named Paul, who along with me, was the only other knicker-wearing boy in the school, a situation that was to later case me, and perhaps him, psychological trauma.

Although I was still in a state of semi-shock, I placated my nerves with soothing thoughts of my mother or Gert appearing at the classroom door at exactly 2:30, like an omnipotent angel of deliverance, here to whisk me out of the flaming bowels of Didactic Devildom.

2:30 arrived and there was no Mom. I was worried…yet.
She probably went to Kresse to buy me some soldiers as a reward for being a good boy and was delayed by crowds or a mistake-prone clerk.
2:45: No Mom. I began to get nervous. There were only two other kids left, along with Miss Kornahrens.
3:00: I’m nearing the breaking point. It’s just me and Miss Kornahrens who consolingly says that she knows my mother must be on her way. I figure she must have been kidnapped by Barbary pirates or killed bu a bus. Otherwise, she’d be here.
3:10: Miss Kornahrens tells me she is going to the office to call my home.
3:13: No Mom and no Miss Kornahrens either. I take immediate action. I run out of the classroom, down the semi-dark hallways, through the quadrangle, and out to the dust-laden playground. I go to the corner of the fence and peer pitifully down George Street. No Mom or Gert in sight. I see the old blind man a block away and the thought runs through my feverish mind that I’ll literally “cry my eyes out” and end up like him, all alone on another corner selling my toy soldiers.

I suffer a lachrymal explosion. I’m sobbing loudly. Tears are soaking my short-sleeve shirt and dripping onto my tweeduroy knickers. This is surely the end of my brief but happy existence.

All at once, a man in a khaki outfit, like one of my soldiers coming to life, and now lifesize, gently grabs my shoulders. It turns out to be Mr. Hart, the school janitor, and unofficial athletic director, conducting activities like softball and kickball at recess. In a gruff but kindly voice, he tells me not to cry. Miss Hart, the crossing guard, who is also his wife, comes over, and for the time being, I regain some measure of composure by pretending they are both fellow soldiers there to aid me after I’ve just suffered a near-mortal wound during the Battle of Bennett School Playground.

Just as I catch the Harts exchanging “What in the Hell are we gonna do with this screamin’ brat” glances, I look up beyond Mr. Hart’s watch, with his big hand on the 25 and its little hand on the 3, to see the beatific face of my mother.

For reasons that only a psychiatrist could fathom, I do not recall to this day why my late mother did not show up on time at this most important occasion. I’m sure she must have told me, and maybe I simply blocked the answer out of my mind.

Nevertheless, as a student at the College of Charleston many years later, I would break out into a cold sweat whenever I walked or rode by what used to be the old Bennett School campus, and even now, every year, on the first day of public school, I put on a pair of knickers and take a school janitor and crossing guard out to lunch. Most of them are very understanding, once I relate the story to them, but they always seem to leave very quickly once lunch is over.

If Dada were here, I bet they would stay.