Rascals and Rogues column writer Ralph Horner continues his chronicles growing up in Cleveland neighborhoods in his newest series, Rumbles on E. 49th.

Growing up on East 49th Street in the 1950s,“the old neighborhood,” could be rough for a kid. In fact, according to a report on juvenile delinquency in the Jan. 8, 1955 Saturday Evening Post, crime and disorder committed by teenagers increased by a 45% between 1950 and 1955. Horner recalls what life on the streets of Goodrich-Kirtland Park was like back then.

This is the second of two stories on urban combat that happened to me when I was about eight years old. The second I was about 10. They are fairly innocent stories, in the big picture, but they are my first experiences in hand-to-hand warfare and attempting to defend oneself. The rest are like a smorgasbord of inner-city combat.

When I was 10 years old, I was in love with a dark-haired girl whose name was Charlotte Clark and she was a beauty.

Her hair was curly, and it was a rich dark brown. She had a light complexion, and her skin was an alabaster white, and clear and lovely. We lived in the same apartment building on Whittier Avenue. She was more than beautiful, she was stunning. I had the unbelievable good fortune of having her like me.

Lana Turner as Milady and Gene Kelly as D’Artagnan in The Three Musketeers (1948)I had just seen “The Three Musketeers,” starring Gene Kelly and Lana Turner at the Lexington Theatre on East 55th Street. In my mind, I was D’Artagnan, and she was my Constance Bonacieux.

I would have been honored to duel to the death for her and I had that opportunity once. Well, not to the death but to at least a severe butt whipping.

I was deeply in love with Charlotte Clark. So was every other boy who lived within a one-mile radius of 5609 Whittier—especially Jimmy Treat, who became a problem for me. Charlotte Clark was an older woman. She was 12 years old and was truly beautiful. Even adults who didn’t know her would comment on how beautiful she was upon seeing her for the first time.

We both lived at 5609. I lived on the first-floor front, right-hand side, apartment two. She lived in the back, second floor—or in Heaven and descended on a golden cloud.

Judging by her beauty that descension had to be true. I knew she liked me because whenever I burned garbage in the basement incinerator, by some coincidence she would show up with her family’s garbage. How romantic!

I always wondered how she knew I was in the basement burning garbage. I thought maybe she had a guardian angel that provided her with all the information that she needed because she was near an angel herself (a whisper from on high: “Pssst, Charlotte, he is in the basement”).

Over the burning garbage she would talk to me about school and other things that seemed to me to be the most important things I ever heard. She went to Catholic school. Catholic school! Wow! Geez, she was way out of my class!

She talked about how she liked to go to Skateland on East 89th Street and Euclid Avenue on Saturday Morning. “Ask her if you could take her next Saturday, dumbass,” I thought to myself, but I couldn’t get the words out. I would just stumble over my tongue-tied self say stupid things like, “I like burning garbage, do you like burning garbage?”

How could you say such a stupid thing? That really impressed her didn’t it, dumbass! In spite of the fact that I tripped all over myself, I couldn’t help but sense that she did like me.

The problem with Jimmy Treat happened when he cornered me on the back steps of Saint James Church next door to the apartment building. The neighborhood kids liked to play in the church yard because it had a commodity that was rare on Whittier Avenue—grass.

He had heard from some other kids that I liked Charlotte Clark and he told me to leave her alone because she was his girlfriend. I thought to myself, “You and Charlotte Clark? Give me a break. She wouldn’t like an ugly, stupid pear-shaped boy like you. She is way too good for a dork like you.”

Although he was named Treat, he was far from that in the looks department. Dork though he was, he was a good four inches taller and 25 pounds heavier than me. As I was standing there listening to his tirade, I had a brilliant idea about how to get him out of my face. He was a little chubby and his stomach looked soft and I thought that if I punched him very hard in the stomach he would walk away in pain, leave me alone, and Charlotte Clark would be mine.

I was standing one step down from him and I thought I would be in good alignment to deliver a fatal blow to his bread basket. Before I punched him, I thought, “This is so cool—two warriors fighting over the favors of a damsel.”

At that point I hauled off and let him have it. Bad idea, bad plan. It backfired. All the punch did was infuriate him and he slapped me silly. My ears are still ringing.

It all worked out though because when Charlotte Clark found out that he cleaned my clock, she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He won the fight but I won the damsel. But alas, my first true love moved away about a month later and I never saw her again.

Note to Charlotte Clark; I know that it has been a long time since we parted, but if you happen to read this, call me! I’m in the phone book!