A Memoir of Small-Town Childhood, Evening Stories, and the Unexplained
Part 1
By Bill Butcher
Lazy Days and the Ritchie Grain Elevator
It all started in that summer of 1988. It was a fairly normal summer—days and nights spent fishing, camping, and hanging out as we did back then. But that was, unbeknownst to us all, about to change.
For years growing up, all us kids in Ritchie, Illinois would spend our days running here and there, getting pops from the grain elevator to make multi-soda suicides, or off on the banks of Forked Creek or the Kankakee River with nothing but a coffee can of nightcrawlers, a fishing pole, and all the adventure we could muster. Those were the lazy days of summer. Life was good.
The Legend of the ‘Suicide Drink’
But before I get too far ahead in my story, I should explain our adventures to the Ritchie grain elevator and the great suicide drink. We would gather on our bikes, some of us being chaperoned and riding double. The days were hot, so as thirst would take over, we would make our way up the hill and down the gravel road. It was a pretty mundane ride for the most part, but at about the halfway point—and right about the time exhaustion was setting in—our balance was taxed from pedaling the extra passenger, and we would have to take a short break.
This was to allow our energy and breath to return and to make any rider adjustments, for the next quarter mile was going to be a mad dash to the safety of the ole elevator and pop machine. But to get there, we had to pedal like mad and try like heck to outrun the old farm dog that made it his mission to guard this corner, especially against any bicycle-riding intruders. So, a few more deep breaths and some more adjustments, and off we went pedaling for all we had. It was Lance Armstrong in motion, of sorts… we were pedaling, at least.
Right on time, there he came barking and growling, a real wolf in dog’s clothing. He snapped and snapped as he tried to bring any one of us down. But right as Herm was about in the jaws of death, a miracle happened. For right as his jaws were coming down, he misjudged the ditch, and whoop, down he went, sliding and stumbling headfirst, landing on his head tangled in weeds. He missed! Herm was laughing and pedaling, not sure which was faster.
There, safely at the pop machine—one of a few joys and a temporary reprieve from the summer heat—we would all buy a different pop. A whole 35 cents bought you a cold 12-ounce relief of pure sugar joy. So, after our selections, to avoid the now fully agitated guardian of the corner, we decided to head back on ole Route 102. Having survived another day, “till tomorrow,” we thought, as we sat on Herm’s front steps taking one of Aunt Marg’s—Herm and Moe’s mom—pitchers. We dumped each can of pop in, stirred it, then filled our cups. Counting three, all at once we chugged them to the bottom. Not sure how this concoction got its name, but between the sugar and the heat, when it hit, your stomach would ache like dying. But boy, was it good going down, and the adventure to get it was even more amazing.
Evening Rituals at Uncle Hermie’s Chair
So, after our suicide drink and our stomachs settled, we would hit the ball field we called the Big Yard… for it truly was a big yard. After a good game of ball, Herm and Moe’s dad, my uncle, would get home from work. He was like a dad to everyone, and we would all hang out after dinner between some Atari games. We would gather around Uncle Hermie’s old brown chair. Everybody back then sort of had their own chair or spot, but Uncle Hermie’s chair was personalized by years of leaning to one side as he would enjoy a good Marlboro Light after dinner. This ritual left a permanent lean to the ole brown fabric chair, that cushion proverbially sunk on his right, or smoking, side. He would unfold his newspaper as Good Times played in the background.
We knew once the cigarette was done, it would be followed soon after by another. He’d give a slight smile, his eyes would light up, and he’d start with, “This show reminds me of back when I was younger.” That was our cue to take our spots and quiet down, for the real entertainment was about to begin. Some households would have Paul Harvey playing after dinner, some relaxing music, others their favorite TV show, some the nightly news; but for us, nothing was truer entertainment than the story Uncle Hermie was about to tell. You know, some people have stories, some tell stories, but none could recite their youth in a story and make it come to life where you could see him reliving it in his eyes, his expressions, and every word. There we would hang as the words unfolded, a story so vivid and real it was as though we were there with him. And we sort of were in those moments.
“We’ll see what you can do with little boys. How are you when they come a little bigger? I’ve had my hip broke, my back broke twice, and on my worst day, I could beat the living tar out of you.”— Uncle Hermie’s Western Quote
These stories would often be repeated over and over but never grew old. Each time it was like watching your favorite movie scene. Sure, you have watched it over and over and could repeat the dialogue verbatim like a recorder… they never got old. Even today, I watch those old movies. To test my theory: “We’ll see what you can do with little boys. How are you when they come a little bigger? I’ve had my hip broke, my back broke twice, and on my worst day, I could beat the living tar out of you.” See, I bet right now you’re recalling this ’70s classic Western.
The Encounter at Ritchie Hills
So there we were, and Hermie began his story. He slowly inhaled on his Marlboro, then exhaled and drifted back to the 1960s, where he and Margaret had returned from a movie date in Kankakee. They decided, as many kids did back then—maybe even quite possibly your parents or grandparents did as well, like you see in all the movie classics (because to say “old movie” makes me feel very antique, like I belong stowed away on a dusty shelf with the rest of the old antiques, only maybe I have a lot less value)—they went out in Uncle’s old Chevy to that local lovers’ lane: a make-out spot by night, a dirt bike haven by day, the Ritchie Hills, as they were commonly referred to by locals even today.
There they sat with the radio on low as music of the day played, the words and music interrupted by the slight static fuzz of those early-year car radio waves. I could see Uncle Herm, one arm around Margaret as she slid in close to him on that long bench vinyl seat, as large as most couches today. He fiddled with the radio, trying to get Del Shannon in a bit clearer. As “Runaway” began to fill the car, embracing the moment, Margaret was chewing her Juicy Fruit as they cranked the steel handle and slowly lowered the windows.
The night was dark and cool against the summer heat. The air was fresh and felt cool and good as it accompanied the song filling the car, joining it to the night—like Hermie and Margaret cuddling as one against the slight chill. As teens often did on these quiet nights, his arm was around her shoulder: warmth and comfort in the chill of the June night. They sat as Del Shannon walked along and wondered what went wrong… a prophecy for years future. They laughed and talked about friends and whatever young people talked about back then. Del Shannon ended, and another song, then another… in these moments, time seemed to move at a crawl. Life’s events seemed to fade like a setting sun, and in the moment—and those like this in a young one’s life—it feels like it’s just the two of you alone in a drift, only broken by the waves of AM as the next song begins, then fades to another. The comfort in just being in that moment… you wished the moment could be paused right there.
A bit of static, as Uncle bombs another smoke… the moon was full and bright, and the back window ledge had a slight glow to it as the moon rose a touch higher into the night.
An Eerie Silence and Eyes in the Dark
The static became a little more pronounced, and Herm fiddled with the knob a bit closer towards the dim AM number, closer to the 9 on the dial. The numbers were faint in the greenish glow, then the vocals of Mick, as he “Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” broke through and overtook the static.
As the Stones picked up tempo, Margaret started smelling a strange odor, like a faint rotten garbage smell, and had a strange sensation of being watched. Then the smell began to grow heavier, and Herm smelled it too. He turned Mick down to zero and began listening and looking. It was then they both heard what sounded like heavy footfalls and the distinct snap of a fallen branch, followed by stillness. Odd, Herm thought, for even the hum of grasshoppers and song of the nightly frogs were still. An unsettling, eerie silence now crept over the still car, like walking into a church on a Friday—it was still.
The smell hung in the air, heavy and thick like burning tires… it stung the nostrils. Trying not to take in too heavy of breaths, they both looked around, both scanning and listening, trying to pick up, like the AM radio, any signal as to what and where whatever was watching them was located. Left, right, back, and forth, the shadows in the woods were dark.
Silence as they sat, Margaret scooting closer, Herm trying to be brave as his heart was pounding harder and harder. He took out a cigarette from the pack rolled tightly in the white short sleeve of his T-shirt. He lit it, and as he inhaled nervously, they heard the heavy steps begin again, taking what sounded like large strides closer and closer towards the chrome bumper of the Chevy, which now seemed to be just a few giant steps away. He exhaled as the yellow-white of the moon rising behind them now set the hood aglow, and with it, two large reddish-orange glowing, unblinking eyes—intense, wide eyes.
The odd thing was they appeared to be fairly tall, sitting there perched on top of a large shadowed shape approximately seven feet from the ground. It was massive. Herm quickly fumbled the key, turning it to start. The motor cranked and cranked as fear grew like a puddle in a large storm. Then, as hope was being replaced by despair… roooom, the Chevy fired up.
The owner of the large orangish-red eyes staring at them was unmoving. He just stood on the edges of the trees near where the present-day fire pit area is, or the entrance to the dirt biking trails. Its eyes seemed the size of small baseballs, illuminated by the Chevy headlights as Uncle Herm put the old car in reverse. It appeared as a large, dark, stocky shadow with no neck and those huge eyes. The car, gravel and dirt spraying, now changed directions and pointed south down Leasure Road towards the old bridge crossing Forked Creek, then crossing 102 and safety.
The Legend Lives On
“I’m not sure what we saw that night, but I’ve never forgotten it. I suppose it could have been a large deer and the shadows made it more mysterious, but what it was, you have to judge.”— Uncle Hermie
He bombed another cigarette and leaned to his right in the preformed cushion in the old brown chair. Smoke drifted up as a grin formed on his sun-hardened face. A long exhale of cigarette smoke floated above his head as he said, “I’m not sure what we saw that night, but I’ve never forgotten it. I suppose it could have been a large deer and the shadows made it more mysterious, but what it was, you have to judge.”
Years later, after his experience, there were a lot more sightings, some right there in the Ritchie area and all across America. Movies came out about it… it went by many names: Bigfoot, Skunk Ape, Ohio Grassman, Dogman, Sasquatch, Boggy Creek Monster, Mo-Mo. Lots of names, all describing a similar experience. Uncle was sure his was in the group. He even told us about a local farmer combining corn, and as he was cutting towards Forked Creek, he was startled when a large, dark, reddish-brown figure taller than the corn leapt up from within the cornfield and headed rather quickly out the end of the cornfield. It seemed to disappear along the banks of Forked Creek. The farmer couldn’t tell where it vanished to. He was shocked, even telling Uncle the story. He said it couldn’t have been the light playing tricks on his eyes, as it was at dusk, but he was adamant and sure of what he saw. Over the years, Uncle would hear several similar encounters. We sat there looking at each other, hanging on his every word… what did he see that night?
