Growing up on Grant Street, the neighbors across the street from us were the Boskavitches. All these years later, all I remember about them is:
- they were Serbian immigrants
- at the time they seemed to be the oldest people on earth (though I imagine they were in their 60s)
- their only child, Peter, lived in France
- their little dog, Butch was just plain mean
And...
- they really disliked us kids.
I know, every kid tends to think the neighbors don't like him, but in this case it's actually true. Once, they insisted that we had broken their plate glass window by chucking crab apples at it. Now granted, that is something my brothers would've done, but this time our alibis were air-tight. They only halfheartedly accepted the fact that we were in Canada when it happened. My brother Mike always had a good arm, but not that good.
So with this backdrop, let the story unfold.
It was Valentine's night, circa 1971 or 72. And exhibiting traits of the future PR professional I would become, I suggested I give a Valentine's card to Mr. and Mrs. Boskavitch.
You know what makes delivering a Valentine's card even more enjoyable - at least according to my older brothers, Dan and John? If you tape a string to the card - snatching it just before the unsuspecting sucker went to pluck the card from their porch.
Now in my defense, I was young and very impressionable. If my older teenage and pre-teen brothers thought it was a cool idea, I was in! Which raises the question why my sister Sandra, the one with the commonsense, didn't talk us out of it.
So off we marched into the darkness and across the street. John and Dan positioned themselves behind the bushes on either side of the porch. Sandra and I placed the card on the welcome mat, rang the bell, and ran across the street to hide behind the tree in our parkway.
Mrs. Boskavitch opened the door.
She looked around, and then quickly closed the door. What the...
Sandra and I ran across the street again, rang the bell, and took off to the safety of our hiding place.
Again, Mrs. Boskavitch, opened the door, looked around and shut it without retrieving the heartfelt Valentine.
Clearly, as they hatched this plan, it never dawned on my brothers that an old Serbian couple might not have a clue about Valentine's Day.
So one last time Sandra and I marched across the street determinedly. But now she told me if they didn't pick the card up this time, we'd have to leave it on the porch for them to retrieve with the morning paper.
But this time, something different happened. When Sandra and I leaped onto the porch and rang the door, we heard Mrs. Boskavitch's shrill command, "GET THE GUN, GEORGE!"
And he did.
Sandra flew over the lawn and across the street, clenching my hand so tightly I lost all feeling in my arm. I'm not sure if I even touched the ground or if I dangled in the air behind her as she ran - betting that an old man couldn't hit two moving targets - until we reached the relative safety offered by our old sycamore tree.
Dan, risking his life, jumped out and very carefully said, "It's us, Mr. Boskavitch, the Katis kids. DON'T SHOOT!" John meekly appeared from his hiding place, his hands up in surrender.
I don't know how Dan did it, but he quietly told Mr. Boskavitch I had wanted to give them a Valentine's card, and handed it over...string and all.
Mr. Boskavitch snatched the card and stormed back into the house. When Dan and John reached the perceived safety of our front yard, we let out a collective sigh of thanksgiving for just being alive, and quietly returned to the real safety of house.
Honestly, I don't remember how we told our parents what had happened, nor when or if they ever spoke to the Boskavitches about the incident. What I do know is that for the weeks immediately following, and over the 40 years since that night, the words, "Get the gun, George," still crack them up!
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