The Boy with Soft Hands

When I was growing up in Rock Island, Huey (not his real name) was one of my brother Kenny's friends.  Short, brown-skinned, a rarity among the pale Swedes and Germans of Rock Island, chubby, with black hair and soft black eyes, soft all over.  I especially remember his square soft hands with stubby fingers.

This story has been moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

Grandpa Prater's Banjo

This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.

It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade;  I just turned 12.  We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana.  Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.

Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II.  Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.

There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town.  We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.

Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina.  He doesn't do well.  "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." 

"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"

Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo.  

We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard.  There's still no car in the driveway.

We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor (country folk don't lock their doors).

I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted.  There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right.  

The kitchen is familiar, too.  I've been there many times.  But there's something sinister about the plate of half-eaten toast and jar of Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out.  Or was kidnapped.

I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom.  

First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor.  Then a big oak door.

More after the break

The Sausage Sighting Prank at the Funeral Home

I was saddened to hear that Larson's Funeral Home in Rock Island is closing.

It may seem strange to get nostalgic over a funeral home, but the gigantic blue-stone structure in downtown Rock Island was an important part of my childhood.

1. It sent out advertising calendars to everyone in town every year, perhaps as a momento mori.  I checked the date hundreds of times on a red-emblazoned calendar from Larson's Funeral Home.

2. It was the site of a major sausage fondling.

In the fall of 1972, when I was in seventh grade, my friend Craig's older brother had a job at Larson's Funeral Home.

Jim was sixteen years old, tall and lean, with sharp features, a thick neck, and hard wiry biceps (I never actually saw him naked).

All he had to do was stay in the office overnight to answer the telephone, take down the information about someone who just died, and call the mortician to arrange a pickup.

Most nights, no one called, so Jim just camped out in the office: there was a television and a couch where he could sleep.  Down the hall there was a kitchen, with lots of leftover hors d'oevres in the refrigerator.

No one said Jim couldn't have friends over.  On more than one occasion, he had just enough time to shoo everyone out and dispose of the pizza boxes and beer cans before the mortician arrived with a pickup.

Seventh graders were all in awe of the boy who had a brother who worked with dead bodies!  Was it gross?  Was it creepy?

Could we see one of the dead bodies?

We asked, but Jim refused:  "I could get into a lot of trouble."

"Come on -- you let your friends visit all the time."

"Yeah, my friends.  Grownups, dig?  I could get into a lot of trouble letting little kids run wild in the funeral home.  What if you knocked over a funeral urn, and scattered some poor guy's ashes all over?"

That only made us more anxious to go.

Finally, one Friday morning around Halloween, Jim gave in.  "We just had a new pickup last night," he told Craig.  "That boy who died in the car accident down in Coal Valley.  He's still in the embalming room. You guys come over tonight around 10:00 pm, and I'll give you a tour."


10:00 pm?  We had to be in bed by 10:00! This would take a little strategizing:

1. Brett, the cute dark-haired boy I danced with at the canteen, invited Craig, Bill, and me over for a spur-of-the -moment sleepover.

2. At 9:00 pm, Brett's older brother and his friend offered to take us all out to Happy Joe's for pizza.  They said "We might be back a little late."

3. At 10:00 pm we parked on a side street and, talking and laughing to cover up our nervousness, walked up to the front door of Larson's Funeral Home.

Jim let us in, told us to wipe our feet, and showed us around.

The lounges, the music room, the library, the coffin room.

Jim demonstrated why Barnabas Collins, the vampire on Dark Shadows, was never filmed getting out of his coffin.  There's no way to do it without looking ridiculous.

That was interesting, but we wanted to see the dead body!

The small chapel, the large chapel, the kitchen, the office.

What about the dead body?

"Ok, I saved the scariest part for last," Jim said loudly, stopping in front of a tan metal door.  "I just want to make sure you're prepared.  Sometimes the eyes are still open, and they follow you around the room.  And do you know what rigor mortis is?"

We shook our heads.

"You know why they call corpses stiffs?  Because their bodies stiffen up.  Everything stiffens, even, you know, down below."

"No way!" I exclaimed.  "Not the dick!"

Jim nodded solemnly.  "Everywhere.  It's pretty gross.  I won't make fun of you if you decide to stay behind."

Are you kidding?

He opened the door and led us into the embalming room.  It looked like a doctor's office, all white cabinets, rubber gloves, and gleaming steel implements, but on the examination table lay a naked teenage boy.

Blond curly hair.  A cute round face, a red mark on his forehead.  Eyes closed.  Smooth hairless chest, pale arms and legs.  Beautiful, thick Bratwurst.  Fully aroused.

I  couldn't take my eyes off it.

"You can go up and touch him if you want," Jim suggested.

The others hung back, hesitating, but I moved forward to the table.  Jim looked surprised when, instead of touching his hand or face, I gently wrapped my fingers around his penis.

It was warm!

At that moment Corpse Boy opened his eyes.

I jerked myhand away.

He sat up and yelled "Uggh!"

We all screamed and ran from the room, out into the small chapel, and into the foyer.   Brett got to the front door first.  It was locked.

Jim and his friends were laughing.  "We got you good!"  he exclaimed.  "Meet my Cousin Boris, from Transylvania."

Corpse Boy emerged, pulling on a pair of jeans.  He was still partially aroused.   "I vant to suck your blood!" he said in a Dracula accent.


I was pretty sure that it was all a prank before I grabbed Corpse Boy's penis.  But not entirely sure.

Years later, I ran into Jim at the Mall.  He asked "Have you felt up any corpses lately?"

I get nostalgic thinking about Larson's Funeral Home.

77 Signs that You're a Fairy

 

In my junior high, the worst possible fate was to be a "fairy."  Not a boy who was interested in boys -- we didn't have the slightest inkling that same-sex desire existed, anywhere in the world.  A boy who suppressed his natural masculine instincts and  pretended that he was a girl.

We didn't know why fairies pretended to be girls. Malice, stupidity, sheer perversity?  But they were in deadly peril.  Most obviously, every boy's sole reason for living was to get girls, and girls only liked real men.

But there was another, more sinister peril that the older boys whispered about: if you pretended to be a girl long enough, you might actually turn into a girl, or rather a swish, a nightmarish he-she creature.

Fairies had to be convinced to stop it! and act like boys again, by any means necessary.  Friends tried gentle persuasion; enemies, catcalls and jeers; mean boys, public humiliation, and if that didn't work, pummeling in the schoolyard.

Teachers rarely intervened.  After all, it was for the fairy's own good.  He had to be convinced to stop it! and act like a boy again.

There were dozens of signs that you were a fairy, or in danger of becoming one.  Here are the top 77:

Clothes

1. A shirt with a little loop in back (called a fruit loop)

2. An undershirt.
3. A green shirt.
4. A turtleneck sweater.
5. "High water" pants that revealed your socks.
6. Pants with buttons instead of a zipper.
7. Glasses
8. A bow tie.
9. Buttoning the top button of your shirt.
10. Jewelry, especially rings.
11. Being excessively neat.

Language and Deportment

12. Wiggling hips

13.  Hand gestures.
14. Wrist movements

15. An enthusiastic voice (it must be angry or a monotone).
16. Using too many adjectives.
17. Using correct grammar.

Before and After School

18. Talking to/ walking with girls.

19. Carrying books home with you.
20. Carrying a violin case home with you.

21. Refusing to fight when challenged.
22. Fighting ineptly.
23. Crying for any reason.

24. Telling a teacher or parent about bullying.

In Class

25. Carrying a pencil case.
26. Sitting in the front row.
27. Volunteering the answer to a teacher's question.

28. Not referring to the teacher by her last name only ("Mrs. DeSmet" instead of just "DeSmet")

29. Taking French (a fairy language) instead of Spanish.

30. Using a protractor.
31. Having neat homework assignments.
32. Getting good grades on purpose (saying "I studied hard", for instance)
33. Worrying about/asking about grades.

Gym/Sports
34. Not going out for a sport.
35. Pretending to be ignorant of the results of last night's game.
36. Pretending to be ignorant of a player's statistics.
37. Calling gym "p.e. class"
38. Not being able to play a sport adequately.
39. Being selected last for a team.
40. Wearing a towel around your waist on the way to the showers.
41. Having insufficient muscles.
42. Having an insufficient penis.
43. Having insufficient pubic hair.










Leisure/Extracurricular Activities
44. Belonging to an academic organization (Spanish Club or Chemistry Club)
45. Participating in student government.
46. Playing in the band or orchestra.
47. Performing in student plays or musicals.
48. Studying dance.
49. Studying art.
50. Going to libraries, museums, art galleries, or concerts.
51. Not going bowling.
52. Watching The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, or any variety show.
53. Not watching Adam-12. 
54. Listening to David Cassidy, the Captain and Tennile, or Elton John.
55. Not listening to The Eagles.
56. Reading teen magazines.
57. Not knowing about cars.
58. Not knowing about guns.
59. Disliking hunting, fishing, and camping.
60. Having never been on an airplane.
61. Having to be home before dark.
62. Calling your parents to tell them your whereabouts.
63. Hanging out with girls.


Lunch/Food

64. Sitting with girls in the cafeteria.

65. Carrying a lunch box instead of a paper bag.

66. Eating grapes.
67. Eating jello.
68. Drinking chocolate milk.
69. Using a napkin instead of your sleeve.
70. Depositing apple cores in the trash instead of on the ground.
71. Eating in an excessively neat fashion.
72. Knowing how to cook.

Dating/Sex
73. Being a virgin.
74. Having sex with fewer than five girls per week.
75. Being attracted to athletic girls.
76. Dating a girl who is overweight or wears glasses.
77. Walking hand-in-hand with a girl.

Bonus (for Rock Island only)
78. Coming in through the back entrance of the school (past the girls' locker room).
79. Going to Little Caesar's (a pizza place next to a hair salon).

See also: Slow Dancing with Boys

Penis Sighting at a Chinese Restaurant

Rock Island, May 1974

When I was growing up in Rock Island in the 1960s and 1970s, there were no Chinese restaurants  in town.  I knew only a little about Chinese food:

1. On a 1967 episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Andy and his sidekick Barney go to a Chinese restaurant.  Andy orders a steak, a baked potato, and green beans, but Barney is so stupid that he actually orders from the menu, and receives platesful of disgusting horrors.

2. My mother's cookbook, Meals with a Foreign Flair, offered a Chinese meal: chow mein, cucumber salad, asparagus, and fortune cookies.

3. Chinese food was cooked and served by Chinese men.  I had never met anyone of Chinese ancestry before, except for the mysterious boy that Bill and I played with a long time ago.

I hadn't even seen many guys of Chinese ancestry!  But doubtless they were amazingly attractive.


With tree-trunk penises!

When I was in eighth grade at Washington Junior High, a Chinese restaurant, the Mandarin Kitchen, opened in the Quad Cities.

I was anxious to go, but it was across the river in Davenport, Iowa. I wasn't allowed to cross the river by myself.  Besides, no buses went over, and it was too far to walk.

My parents wouldn't take me:

"It's too expensive," Dad said.

"And you wouldn't like it," Mom added.  "I had Chinese food once, in Long Beach.  It was awful!  What's wrong with Harris Pizza?"

 Then I thought of my birthday excursion!

My birthday is in November, when everything fun is closed, so every May I got a "birthday trip": I could invite two or three friends to go anywhere I wanted in the Quad Cities.  We went to Mother Goose Land (it's not as lame as it sounds), the Niabi Zoo, the Putnam Museum, the "Little Bit O' Heaven" at Palmer College.  Why not go out to lunch at the Mandarin Kitchen?

I invited Dan and Darry, my boyfriend and my best friend, plus my brother by default (but he didn't want to go) and Peter, the only Asian guy at Washington Junior High.  He was of Japanese ancestry, not Chinese, but I thought he might give us an air of authenticity, so we wouldn't look like tourists.

On a Saturday in May, shortly before the streaking incident, Dad drove us across the Centennial Bridge and into Davenport.  We turned down River Drive and drove through a rather seedy neighborhood, past shabby office buildings, taverns, tattoo parlors, and the Col Ballroom where sinners went dancing, until finally we reached the Mandarin Kitchen.

It was next to a dirty bookstore!

There was a neon cocktail-glass in the window.  They served booze!  Nazarenes weren't allowed to go into places that had alcohol.

"Do you want to go to Harris Pizza instead?" Dad asked.

I screwed up my courage.  "No, this will be fine."

"Ok.  I'll be back in an hour."  He handed me $20 to pay, deposited us on the curb, and drove away.

I took a deep breath and led Darry, Dan, and Peter through the glass door.

It was dark inside after the bright light of a May afternoon.  Red sashes everywhere.  Waving ceramic cats.  Rows of small tables.  And a lady holding menus!

She led us to a table, where another lady brought us tea.

It was only ladies in the whole restaurant!

When she came back to take our orders, I asked "Are there any men working here?"

She looked at me quizzically.  "Men?  Sure.  They in the kitchen."  She pointed to a narrow window where the cooks could put plates of food for the waitresses to pick up.

Sighing with disappointment, I ordered almond chicken, fried rice, and potstickers.

It was good -- but I didn't come all the way to Davenport and use up my birthday trip to look at Chinese ladies!

I was going to the kitchen!

I got up, walked down a hall marked "bathroom," and saw a beige door marked "employees only."

 A silvery space with a lot of black and silver pots.  Hot, steamy. Two Chinese men.

My heart sank.  Neither was very attractive.

A short, dumpy guy with glasses was bent over a sizzling pot.  A tall, gawky, rather geeky-looking guy was chopping vegetables.

"You want apply for job?" he asked.

"No...um...."  Thinking fast, I said "The bathroom is out of toilet paper."

"What the matter?"  the short guy said.  "You don't like Chinese food, gives you the runs?"

They both laughed.

They were making fun of me!  I hung my head in embarrassment.

The tall guy said "Ok, I show you toilet paper, but keep out of kitchen!  State law!"

He put his arm around my shoulders and ushered me to the door.  I felt the heat from his arm and chest, smelled the onion from his hands.  Cute or not, the proximity of his body was exciting.

He led me to a supply closet, grabbed a roll of toilet paper from a shelf, and then pushed me into the bathroom.

It had a toilet and a urinal.  There was a roll of toilet paper sitting on the tank.

The tall guy picked it up, grinning at me.  "You didn't see?"

"I guess not," I said, even more embarrassed.

He shrugged and sat the rolls down on the urinal.  "While I'm here, I go too.  You mind?"

"Um...no."  Suddenly I was interested -- maybe I could get a sausage sighting!

Slowly I dropped my pants and sat on the toilet.  The tall guy unzipped -- but he was facing away from me.

"Hey, I still need the toilet paper!" I said.

He laughed.  "I'm silly.  Here..."  He turned around.  I saw his cock -- not tree-trunk sized, but a good four inches soft, uncut.

He tossed a roll of toilet paper.  It landed too far for me to scoop up.

"That's ok, I get it."  He walked over, got the toilet paper, handed it too me, and returned to the urinal -- his cock hanging down the whole time!  I sat there in awe until he finished and washed his hands.

"You shy, huh?  Well, I lock door on the way out."

The moment he left, I stood, washed my hands, and walked out into the main room again.

'What were you doing back there all that time?" Dan asked.

"Applying for a job," I said with a goofy smile on my face.

See also: The Hookup at the Sleepover.

A Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend

Rock Island, August 1975

When I was a kid, I was pretty aggressive.  In fifth grade, I was dating Bill and inviting cute guys to sleepovers; plus I gave a massage to a high school boy, strategized to see Randy the Golden Boy in his underwear and the Sanderson boys naked, fell asleep in a sailor's arms, and felt three wieners.

But during puberty, it was no longer a vague, amorphous wish to be close to him or see him naked.  I wanted more than that, to touch, taste, and fondle.  The desire was intense, immediate, and overtly erotic.

So I became shy and circumspect, especially around adults.

During the summer after ninth grade, we moved to a new house, only a few blocks away from our old house on 41st Street, but bigger, with a double yard where my parents could do their beloved outdoor entertaining.  They immediately became friendly with the neighbors.

The family next door had a teenage daughter, Julie, who was majoring in business at Augustana College.  We didn't socialize much -- I tried to avoid talking to girls as much as possible, since my parents interpreted the most trivial "hello" as evidence that I was smitten.

 And Julie, though all smiles around my parents, had no use for kids.  Every morning we left our houses at the same time; she swept past me without a word, scowling like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz.

You could almost hear "Da-da-da-da-da-daaa," the music that plays when the Witch comes on stage (it's called "Miss Gulch," composed by Herbert Stothart).

Ok, she wasn't that bad.  But I wouldn't have socialized with her at all except for her boyfriend Conrad.

He was an education major at Augustana, tall and slim, with a handsome square face and a bright smile.  Brown hair, a severe military haircut -- unusual in the shaggy-haired 1970s.   A little shy and quiet, always deferring to Julie.  But he always had a smile for me and my younger brother, and he always tried to engage us in conversation.

They went swimming several times a week, and Conrad picked her up wearing his swimsuit.  A smooth, tight chest, lightly tanned, an "innie" belly button, and an enormous bulge!  I was desperate to ask if I could come along, but of course they were too old for me to hang out with.

One Saturday in August 1975, about a week after I learned about oral sex in the church parking lot, Mom and Dad held a barbecue for their friends and neighbors.  There were about 30 people on five picnic tables in the side yard, eating hamburgers and hot dogs from paper plates, drinking sodas and lemonade from plastic cups.

The family next door was there, but not Julie.  Or Conrad.

Then, when we were about ready for dessert, they came rushing into the back yard, wearing swimsuits, carrying beach bags.  "Sorry -- we were at the pool and we lost track of time," Julie told Mom.

"No problem, there's lots of hot dogs left, and some potato salad and chips.  Go and change clothes, and come back."

  "Great, thanks.  We'll just pop next door and be right back."

Mom frowned, realizing that they would probably be changing in the same room, and see each other naked!  "It will save time if Conrad changes in our house," she said.  "Boomer, show him where the bathroom is, ok?"

"Um...sure, sure."  My heart started to beat faster, and I felt uncomfortably warm.  I was going to get a sausage sighting!  Maybe Conrad would even let me...

Trembling with anticipation, I led Conrad through the back door and into the kitchen, where one of our neighbors was cutting cake into squares, then through the hallway to the bathroom.  What excuse could I use to go in with him?

The bathroom door was shut.  I knocked.  "Occupied!" someone yelled.

"Um...that's ok, you can change in my room," I said, thinking fast.  "This way."

Back through the kitchen and up the stairs to my attic room.  I sat down on the bed.  Conrad put down his beach bag, turned his back to me, and dropped his swimsuit.

No!  I was too close!  I glanced around the room.  What could draw his interest?  "Hey...see the poster over my bed?  That's Mark Spitz.   He won 7 gold medals at the 1972 Olympics in Munich."

Conrad turned to look.  He stood in front of me, naked.  A gigantic cut Kielbasa, five inches from my face!

"Nice," he said with utter nonchalance.  "I didn't think you were into sports."

"I'm not.  I just like swimmers.  I mean I like swimming.  Or swimmers who are swimming, I mean."

Conrad stood there, immobile, a frown on his face, as if he was trying to figure out a hard math problem.

He's waiting for me! I thought.  Reach out and touch it!  Go down on him!  But I froze.  "Um...um...I took swimming lessons ever since I was a kid.  I have some Boy Scout training manuals, if you'd like to see them."

He was still standing there.  Waiting for me!  I stood and brushed past him, being careful to "accidentally" brush against his penis with my hand.  "Oops, sorry."  I walked, so shakily that I thought I would fall, to my dresser, opened the top drawer, and pretended to rummage around.

"Maybe later -- right now I'm really hungry."  I heard Conrad fumbling around in his beach bag.  Pulling up his pants.

"You ok, Boomer?"

I turned.  Conrad was buttoning up his shirt.

"Yeah," I said, managing a weak smile.  "I can't find my training manuals, is all."

"Let me know when you find them.  I'd be interested in seeing them."  He put his trunks into the beach bag, slid on his sandals, and walked past me to the stairway.  "Ready to go back downstairs?"

"Oh, I have a couple of things to do.  You go on."

"Ok.  Thanks for letting me change up here."  He touched my shoulder.  "I'll see you soon, ok?"

I stayed in my room for the rest of the afternoon.  When my brother came upstairs to see where I was, I told him I had a stomach ache.  Later Mom brought up some chicken soup and told me I shouldn't have eaten so many hot dogs.

When the fall semester started, I was in school all day, and rarely saw Julie -- or Conrad.  Around Christmastime, I asked about him, and Julie said that they broke up.

See also: I Learn About Oral Sex in the Church Parking Lot; Going to Bed with the Boy Next Door.

The Naked Man in the Haunted House

When I was growing up in Rock Island, the western edge of my world was Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and the eastern edge was Lasalle-Peru, about 90 miles away.  I knew Interstate 80 east to Chicago, of course, but we didn't stop at any of those farther towns.  We visited Lasalle-Peru quite often, for jump quizzes at the Nazarene Church and music contests at Lasalle High School, for orchestra concerts and drama club events at Illinois Valley Community College; and several times a year, usually on Saturdays in the summer, went to Starved Rock State Park.

It's named after a sandstone butte where the Illiniwek (after who Illinois is named) were besieged by the Ottawa and Potawatomie tribes until they starved to death.  The story is probably apocryphal, but there is archaeological evidence of human habitation since the Pleistocene Era.  There was a little museum, a trolley, and a lot of hiking trails down the canyon and to see the waterfalls.

On the way home, we drove into Lasalle for ice cream or hamburgers.  About a block from the Dairy Queen (now a gas station) was a  "haunted house," four stories, dark and spooky, with rotundas and staring windows and a light on in the tower.

My friends told rumors about the place:

At night you could see the image of an old man who hanged himself.

There were secret rooms where cultists performed human sacrifices.

And a tunnel that led directly to the cemetery next door.

One day in April 1973, when I was twelve years old, we came to LaSalle for an orchestra concert and stopped at the Dairy Queen afterwards.  It was about ten pm.  We wandered over to the haunted house, dark except for a porch light and a bright yellow light in a third floor window.

My friend dared me to walk up to the front door and knock.

"The porch light is on -- they're expecting you," he said.

Grinning to hide my fear, I approached the house.  But I only got a few feet.  Suddenly a figure appeared at that third floor window.  A young man, shirtless or maybe naked, with thick wavy hair, a broad face with a sharp chin, and a muscular torso.   He was glaring down at me.

A ghost!

We all ran back to the Dairy Queen.

I passed the house a few more times, but never at night, and I never saw another face in the window.

I didn't think anything of it for years.  Then, while researching my series on small-town beefcake for Boomer's Beefcake and Bonding, I thought it would be fun to do Lasalle-Peru.

And I discovered that the haunted house had a name.



It's the Hegler-Caron Mansion, built in 1876 by Edward C. Hegler, a chemist and engineer whose M&H Zinc Company was the biggest producer of zinc in the U.S.  He also founded Open Court Publishing for free and open discussion of Eastern Religions, especially Buddhism.

Daughter Marie (1861-1936), the first female graduate of the School of Mines in Frieburg, took over the family zinc business.  She married Paul Carus (1852-1919), the editor at Open Court Publishing and an author on religious matters, with 75 books (The Gospel of Buddha, published in 1894, introduced most Westerners to Buddhism). 

During the twentieth century, the family business expanded into the Carus Chemical Company, a major producer of potassium permanganate (a water purifier), and Open Court Publishing into philosophy and ethics (it does the pop culture and philosophy series: The Simpsons and Philosophy, Hannibal Lecter and Philosophy, The Walking Dead and Philosophy),  and into children's publishing (Marie's daughter-in-law Marianne runs a conglomerate of children's magazines named after insects: Cricket, Cicada, Muse, Ladybug, Babybug, Spider.)

Alwin (1901-2004), Marie's youngest son, lived in the house through his life.  He attended the University of Chicago, studied chemistry, and worked for the family company.  He also bought and developed farms across the state, and as far away as North Dakota.  His main leisure interests were astronomy (he traveled to view solar eclipses all over the world) and coin collecting.

At first the house was crowded with aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters, but by the 1930s it had emptied out, and Alwin was all alone -- although he entertained many distinguished guests, including Isaac Bashevis Singer, Carl Sandburg,  and Peter Mathiessen.  He worked out in the two-story home gymnasium, watched movies in the home theater, and wandered the rooms, remembering old times, thinking of the Buddhist precept of the impermeance of life.


In  1995 he moved into an apartment on the third floor and opened the Hegeler Carus Mansion as a museum  He died in 2004, just before his 103rd birthday.

Of course, I've been trying to figure out if Alwin was gay.

Evidence against: Open Court Publishing is not necessarily gay-friendly.  A 1984 article in their journal The Monist is about "Why Homosexuality is Abnormal."  Of course, he didn't write the article, but still....

And in the 1950s and 1960s, he supported the right-wing John Birch Society.

Evidence for:  no marriages, no women other than family members mentioned in his personal papers.

And who was the naked man at the window on that warm May evening in 1973?  Not Alwin -- he was over 70.  Maybe one of his nephews or grand-nephews -- but what would they be doing half-naked in Uncle Alwin's bedroom?

Maybe a boyfriend, or a pickup?