It got to Pershing’s turn.
“What’s your name, son?
“Pershing Rohrer."
“What? Pokey Moore?"
Pershing repeated his name and after a few more questions I had my turn.
Then each of us was given a form on which our parents were to attest that they could
not pay the stipulated fee and requested a free membership be granted their son. Back
home we heard:
“Good God, you kids! You’ve disgraced the Rohrer name, begging like that!"
(Oh, ignominy!) “Don’t ever let me catch you doing a thing like that again! Did they
ask you to give your name?"
“Well, sort of. But I’m not sure he really got it right. He thought it was Pokey
Moore,’" said Pershing.
“Pokey Moore? Pokey Moore? Heavenly Father!"
Then came an outburst of hysterical adult laughter, perhaps negating whatever
punishment was being considered. But Pershing and I knew that our forms were
destined for the trash.
Around 1929 my exciting playworld was jolted by Pershing’s departure with
his parents for Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. When he came back in 1931, he lived
elsewhere. We attended different schools, lived in different worlds. But we saw each
other occasionally and were never out of touch for long.
(Life was not all play - we did go to school. But that will be the subject of the
next chapter.)
31
