I was only five-years old back then, when this occurrence took place: the 'brick,' situation; my brother Mike, was seven, the antagonist not sure who it is or was, but Steve the owner's son was about seven at the time, and Jill was nine, the owner's daughter. Jill used to come into my bedroom: about dusk, I was on the top bunk, so she had a hard time reaching me, but she did: poking the pin in me, she was my anatomist if anything (and her mother would tell her to stop, but she didn't until I told my mother and it somewhat halted); her mother owned the foster-farm in North St. Paul, Minnesota, and she was a jealous daughter, for her mother's attention:

Janet, whom I called Aunt Janet, took a liking to me. We'd stay there four nights out of the week, and would go with my mother, who worked at Swifts Meat Packing Plant, go home with her on the weekends to her apartment, where she was staying, and at the times, at our grandfather's house, which eventually we'd move to, after the aunts and uncles moved out of course. It was a Russian extended family situation at my grandfather's house, in St. Paul, Minnesota, on Arch Street (109).

During those days, at the foster-farm called: "Kiddy-Korner," we'd help build a big swimming pool in the back of the farm house; she owned about four acres of land, and she had some thirteen-children to care for during the day and there were about four of us during the nights; she [meaning: Janet] was forever fighting with the authorities over the right to have us stay overnight, so it seemed.

But as I was about to say, Janet decided to make a swimming pool in the back, way backyard, by the fence, the cow meadow, adjacent to her property. In those days it was not easy, you didn't just call in the pool man. But you did call in a bulldozer to level the land out, and then got one of those big tractors with a scoop on it to dig out a big hole, which she did, in the shape of the old cast-iron bathtubs. It must have been several feet deep: perhaps either or so, the water and the sides another foot or two, above the water, for it went over my head (the sides) a number of feet. But the water had a gradation, or gradual increasing steepness to it, which got deeper as you went forward; thus, as you went further into it, the deeper it became: north to south.

Well, during this process of building the pool, I couldn't do much, but I helped carry a brick or two, at a time: laying them down on the extending tiles. Let me explain: after the hole was dug, they put some kind of rocks in it, around it, and other things, and then tar if I recall right: then pout more tar over the tiles: roof tiles, or so I remember them to be. The pool was perhaps fifteen feet wide, eight feet deep, and thirty feet long. Under the tiles was that black tar again, and I'd put a brick on the tiles sticking out like weeds, that seemed to bend around the dirt, and tar under it, but stuck up somewhat nonetheless. At any rate, the brick would hold it down, so it would not get ripped off or apart, and one rip led of course to another, and bigger ones, and then you'd have to find where the hole was and tar it back up again, and so forth and so on: so it could become significant, should you not use preventive measures.

Well, during the building process, Mike, Jill, and Steve were up their playing around by the pool, trying to help, and so were the other kids: a few of the workers, likewise, and myself. When I looked up this one early afternoon, when I looked up, up I saw everyone was staring-and Janet saying: "Who did it, who threw that brick!~?" And tears came from my eyes; I saw my brother drop to his knees, his hands over his eyes and head: blood coming from his scalp. No one said a word (I'm not sure I knew what to do but cry), but the memory would stick into the mind, as well as Mike's head. Well, we all survived though those far off days, but it was a sad few days after that.

Dedicated to Mike Siluk [My brother]