This is an excerpt from "Listen to your father: The life adventure of Jerry Robinson" our Publisher Emeritus who was born on April 6, 1920. He passed in 2014 

By Jerry Robinson

You could call him Rusty, Puzzles, Augusta, Gus or even Little Spud Turkey Balls, but never Pus.

When he was a teenager he took on three guys. They were driving by in a car and yelled something at a bunch of us hanging out under an arc light on the corner. Russell yelled back and they piled out, looking for trouble. He whipped all three.

Nobody dared touch me. Carl Clogston knocked me down and tore my pants in a touch football game. Russell pounded him into the cement, then straddled him and dripped his own bloody nose over Carl's prostrate form. I thought it was great.

Russell could do anything: make kites out of newspaper, bows and arrows from willow branches and shingles, sailboats out of cedar fence posts and go-buses out of old skate wheels. Or boomerangs, fishing poles and go-carts. He could play marbles and toss bottle caps in the major leagues, swim, make rude noises with his hand under his armpit and sing like Bing. He taught himself to play the piano and became an excellent song writer. One of my persistent fantasies was him being discovered for his great singing voice as we walked along on our way to a fishing hole.

Sunday afternoons we often went to the movies. The old Rose Theater on Lombard Street was only a mile from our house -- if you wanted to walk through the Vancouver Avenue woods. We didn't mind the woods during the daylight even though every kid knew they were a hideout for robbers, axe murderers and assorted bad guys who came up from the railroad tracks.

During the week we'd pile wood or mow lawns, make ten cents and go watch a Tom Mix movie. Sometimes when we didn't have any money we'd hang around the ticket booth till Mrs. MacMillan let us in.

By the time we got out it was usually dark and there was no way we were going back through the woods. In fact, to avoid danger, we had to go all the way up to Portland Boulevard and then back down Vancouver Avenue. Trouble was, we still had to travel along the edge of the forest for a mile when it was pitch black. So we devised a clever scheme to deceive any guy with funny ideas who might be lurking near the edge of the road. For that whole mile we'd gallop side by side making occasional horse sounds. It worked beautifully. We were never bothered.

About three blocks from our house there was a steep viaduct over the railroad tracks. We spent countless hours there. This was our soapbox racer hill. Every kid who had any kind of wheeled wagon used it. Russ had the fastest cart in the neighborhood. It had steel wheels--they made an awful clatter--and a real steering assembly. He got it for 10 cents and an old carbide lamp from some rookie trader.

We went every place in that baby, most of the time with me pushing, Russell steering. Every night we pushed it down to the Humane Society on Columbia Boulevard. The manager was a man named Daniels and his son Claire was a schoolmate. They had a cow and each night Russell and I would go down and pick up a quart of milk. One night we got hit by a car but it just bent a wheel. We didn't get hurt.