“The neighborhood kids would come knocking on our door and ask if Dad could come outside and play.”
Back in the 1970s, all of Tomahawk Court wanted to be outside playing if Mr. Kainrath was playing outside. The concrete circle on top of the street’s hill always turned into a battleground for war. Boys and girls with plastic guns, grenades and swords ready to fight off the enemy, whoever it may be. Hiding behind bushes and mailboxes, it was time to go to combat. The call for these tiny soldiers was now and Rudy was their designated captain.
Walkie-talkie in his aging hand, Rudy Kainrath strategically stationed himself inside of his home, staying planted at the window on the second floor. He could view it all: his men, the enemy and the lay of the land. Attacks and counterattacks were made by their imaginary nemesis. His troop was fighting tirelessly for their captain. Through his walkie-talkie, Rudy would warn his troops of any overhead strikes, oncoming rushes or sneak surprises over his small regime.
Hours upon hours were spent fighting a lofty battle. Sweat bucketing from the neighborhood kids as their opponent persisted. Once the sky turned blood orange and the sun started to fall asleep, the battle squad would return back to camp, the Kainrath front yard, to plan their next move. There were never any casualties, only a few minor injuries, maybe a lost arm in battle, nothing Rudy couldn’t fix in the Kainrath Hospital.
Rudy inherently lived an active lifestyle. Playing with his children and cleaning the house spotless were a few of his top priorities.
“You call that dusting?” He glared as his finger swiftly dragged across the top of the dresser, picking up a layer of grey fuzz.
“You cleaned that toilet? Look at that.” He nagged disapprovingly looking at his boys and then back at the stuck-up toilet seat.
“You see that? Your dog smudged the window with his nose. Go clean that off.” He pointed, throwing a Scott towel and some Windex towards his kids.
Rudy was anxious. Always moving around, always analyzing what can be done around the house to make it easier for his wife. He liked order and cleanliness, but he also had five sons so, could you blame him?
He stood a modest 5 feet,10.5 inches. At the shy age of 20, he met his future forever, Geraldine Liedtke, Gerry for short. They married a rapid two years later when he was 22 and she was 16. They celebrated their union with a humble wedding of just family. She was like his beautiful fantastic dream, but so very real. They had their first-born child a year later, a son, whom they named Michael. Following him, came Bruce, Bryan, Randy and Todd. Their lively house was filled with too many ridiculous boy fights involving loogies and stupid pranks. There always was a subtle hint of body odor and Gerry’s amazing cooking lingering.
Rudy had a giant soft spot for his wife. She was a humble woman who asked for nothing. Every once in a while, to her surprise, her smitten husband picked up that scarf she once saw in the window. Sometimes it was a necklace, sometimes it was her favorite snack, sometimes it was just a simple back rub after a long day. He did anything for her to keep the loving smile on her face. One simple and longing gaze from his wife and his anxieties and worries would dissolve. Rudy loved that about her. He wanted her to be happy and feel taken care of.
Just as much as he loved her, he loved his car. Every day, rain or shine, snow or hail, it would be him and all five boys with old rags in the garage tirelessly wiping down his Pontiac until it was sparkling. Rudy’s car was the sixth son. Just like the rest of his boys, it never got away without a little bit of roughing up.
His fourth son turned 16 and what would have been an exciting day of learning how to drive, turned into a “You’re never leaving the damn house again!” rage.
Randy had driven into the house.
On a hot September day, there before him, his prized possession, his treasure, his life earnings and physical labor, his maroon, Pontiac Grand Lemans, peered through the wall of his home. Rudy’s eyes poured with fury and heat. His face was completely red and the blood vessel on his forehead was about to burst. His fourth eldest son shoved the driver’s door open, sprinted with fear to the street, in the opposite direction of the crumbled drywall.
The chase to grab his son and smack him over the head looked like a familiar game of tag. The commotion drew attention to the hunter and the chased from the neighborhood kids.
“Mr. Kainrath is playing tag!”
He was not.
