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Fights with the Johnsons, now there was a psychological mind-bust. This guy was just plain stubborn. As a grandson and living there a neighbor year-round, I was the enemy. He was not going to talk to me. It was all by looks and gestures, running into him most, down by the trash burners. Sternest man in my history, but at some point, I found out it was all an act. Underneath there, he was a real nice guy, and at some point a glimmer of flashing gold-light escaping, a squint in the armor. Fronts - that's what it was - fronts everywhere. Is there anybody real in there ? And he went to work every morning on the train to Chicago, and came home every evening, and I don't even know what he did. He had the best place on the island, vast expanse of lawn, a corner piece of property, with a duck-blind on the jut-out end, only his dining room fronted the swamp across the south bay. He didn't like the idea that my grandfather had his parlticular parking place, and no one else was suppose to park there. Further complicating it was the fact that my grandfather owned the parking lot across the channel from the island. So Gunner Johnson, that's what they called him, his first name being Gunnar, just had to park in my grandfather's spot, even though he was getting the park for free.
Seemed there was more than one property line fight and something about someone's yard-fence encroached on my grandfather's lot. I remember I acted the complete fool, taking grandfather's side, just retorting verbatim, and not even understanding what I was so all-fired emphatic about. Toy soldier. Then there was the matter of the road to town and where did it and the parking lot border and who owned it what.
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