Memory Lane

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
It was just two pennies and a nickel. But even in 1958 when I first stood on this spot seven cents would no longer buy a soda pop. Today it would barely cover the tax on the purchase of a bottle of water. But when I looked down and discovered the two pennies and a nickel on the asphalt parking lot of the Magnolia Ridge Condominiums, I was standing very near the spot where the mighty oak tree grew so many years ago that served as the lofty perch for my tree house. Change had come to these piney woods of East Texas. Buildings, asphalt and fences adorned the landscape that once was the playground of a young boy filled with imagination, hopes and dreams. My dreams eventually carried me far from home and away from these peaceful woods of summer.

Reaching down, I picked up the two pennies and a nickel. They were scratched and marred from being run over by the wheels of vehicles coming and going on peoples' journey through life. But like the scratches on those coins, I have had my share of nicks and scratches as I have traveled in search of my dreams. My hope is that in that process I haven't left painful scratches on the memories of those I have met.

As I enjoyed the thoughts of many wonderful times spent in that grand old oak tree, I continued my walk down memory lane.  The summer of 1958 came to a close and having graduated from Valley View Elementary, I was off to a new school. My brother Bill was a year ahead of me in school and he had been walking to Forest Park Junior High for a year. When you grow up with an older brother there are lots of things that you don't have to figure out on your own. I don't know if that is a blessing or not. On the road to school was a home with a red door. Bill told me that the red door meant a prostitute lived there. I watched every day to see if I could see what a prostitute looked like but there was never anyone out in the yard when I passed by.

In 1964, the night of my high school graduation, Charles Hineman, Eddy Gilmore and I headed for Galveston, Texas for a few days of R&R on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Late that night as we passed through downtown Houston, Texas, Charles pointed to two women standing near the curb and said, "Now there are a couple of real prostitutes." When Charles made that comment about the prostitutes I though once more of what was said about the woman who lived in the house with the red door on our way to school. As I walk by that home these many years later the door is still painted red. I wonder how old that prostitute must be today. What I really wonder is how long does a label stick even if there is no basis of truth in it.

Walking on down memory lane I noticed the large concrete culverts that carried the storm water away form the surrounding development of homes and school. During those junior high days I played in those culverts for hours on end. That was where my friends thought it was time for me to have my first smoke. They didn't realize I had already had my first and last smoke. It was when I was in the fourth grade. I hadn't told anyone about my smoking and I wouldn't tell anyone unless I found that special dream girl who would melt my heart.  When that happened I knew I would spill my guts, share all of me, secretly feeling glad that someone on this earth knew me completely, warts and all.

Leaving the memory of the culverts, I walked onto the school grounds. The first building I came to was where I took a drafting class. In that drafting class the teacher made me learn to print all over again. He wasn't satisfied with just regular printing but all the words had to be in neat precise block letters. I spent years practicing my cursive penmanship and now my teacher said that wasn't good enough for those drafting assignments. Mother said that was when I began to loose my flowing penmanship that she always complimented me on. Mother had to find something to brag on me about. There was my older brother Bill with his piano accomplishments, teachers saying he should be in voice lessons and he was already sitting first chair trombonist in the band even though he was only an eighth grader.

I don't remember him crowing like a young rooster about his talents. He didn't have to. Mother was crowing enough for him. If you grew up with an older brother, I'm sure you heard the words, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" Well, we are each different and my parents finally figured that out. I don't remember resenting them for their comments. I often wondered why I wasn't more like my older brother also. The big problem was that I liked being me.

I peered into many other classrooms and memories flooded back, too many to share with you today. But looking west of the school at the forest of pine trees that gave our school the name, Forest Park Junior High, I remembered the pinecone fights that erupted with little provocation. Those pinecone wars were not conducted with fluffy open pedal brown pinecones that have dropped their seeds. They were hard green torpedoes with sharp spikes all over them. There was never an argument whether or not you scored a hit. The victim would have blood oozing from each of those needle pricks. The pinecone wars of Forest Park raged at lunch break all through my junior high days.

We bragged and displayed our war wounds until we returned to afternoon classes. There would be no more talk of what went on at lunch time. To be caught hurdling those hard green missiles at another student was grounds for a trip to the principal's office for a brief but painful encounter with his behavioral modification program. The principal's name has slipped my mind but I still remember what his paddle looked like.

My best friend Nick and I always tried to be on the same side as we divided up before the pinecone war games began. At least that was the way it was until Nick blew off two of his fingers making home made fireworks. Cherry bombs weren't powerful enough for Nick. Going to school one morning, I stopped by Nick's home to walk the rest of the way to school with him. Nick's mother greeted me at the door and asked if I heard the sirens the previous evening. Nick wouldn't return to the pinecone wars for the rest of that year. I stayed behind with him for several weeks but eventually I was drawn back to the games down in the woods and Nick busied himself with other interests as his hand continued to heal. Soon we weren't walking home from school together anymore. Nick had been the only friend who stood by me and helped fight the boys trying to force me to take a puff on a cigarette down in the storm sewer culverts. Where was I when he needed a friend?

But this is a walk down memory lane; a walk that includes reflections of the good choices and the not so good. I made some of both. If it were possible, I would open my chest and reveal my heart but you might not like all you see. So I'll just provide glimpses of me here and there in hopes that if there are any tears they are from laughter not boredom or sadness. Even my poor choices taught me much about life. I'm not proud of all my choices but I'm thankful I learned lessons from a good share of them.