Mr. S wanted to fly so he tried. Weekends and evenings with PCV pipe, lawn mower engines and a dream. His home-made planes never flew him but, in his dreams, Mr. S really soared.
Mrs. K was a teacher who rarely smiled. She’d stay married to Mr. K for a while. Then next year on the chalkboard, she’d write Mrs. O. Yet, following another summer break, she was Mrs. K again. Last class I had her, she was once again with Mr. O.
Grandpa P made rock people with pebbles and glue. He made bird houses like mansions and built carpeted dog houses. He scribbled boxing matches in tablets and carved walking canes studded with polished rocks. He grew corn in the city that grew taller than he, but few things were metaphysically as tall as Grandpa P.
Cousin Lucy, she liked to drive a bus. Every morning she took school children into town. She’d been born Getzel. She changed her name to Gennell when married but she got the name Lucy from the bright red of her Lucille Ball hair. Cousin Lucy was a second cousin driving a second-hand school bus.
These are a few people from my childhood. A few names and faces in the mix. A few people down the street or from over yonder. A few people who linger there still on the street and in memory, though some have been gone for far too long.
Aqualung got his name from a Jethro Tull song. He pushed a grocery cart of junk all day through. No one really knew his beginnings but people dreamed for him a vivid past while he passed by like a shabby prince of stardust and grime.
Now Grandma P had a feud with her brother. They didn’t talk for nearly 30 years. Fate placed them on the same hospital floor separated only by a door. They kept that door of opportunity closed though, by stubborn pride and thick hide, and when the moment passed so had her brother.
Eddie was the youngest of four wild brothers. Poor old Eddie he never stood a chance. He wasn’t his brothers’ keeper but he kept their reputations all the same. A teacher would ask, on the first day of class, if he was related to the brothers she’d had in years past. He’d nod his head and the teacher’d shake her head. And Eddie stayed in trouble no matter what he did from that moment on.
Mr. L thought he was Santa Claus. The bells he heard didn’t jingle, they rang. He worked with my Dad at the phone company. Mr. L wore red clothing winter and summer, red shirts, red jackets, red hats, red pants. He kept his hair and beard long and white. He was quite a sight. Mr. L believed he was Santa though he was skinny as can be.
These are a few people from my childhood. A few names and faces in the mix. A few people down the street or from over yonder. A few people who linger there still on the street and in memory, though some have been gone for far too long.
Faye ran a store along a curve, just down the hill and through a door. Faye was as friendly as a sun ray while her husband, Al, was the complete opposite. He had a nose like W.C. Fields, and he sat in a lawn chair in the store’s corner. He’d make you scrub the empty pop bottles before he’d hand over a nickel. Then Faye would sneak an extra jawbreaker into your candy bag with a wink.
Now, Mr. J was a collector of cars. Vehicles rusted from antiques into junk along his fields and hillside. He’d let the grass and weeds grow up around them. Burning debris one day a stray ember found the dripped oil of Mr. J’s collection. The hillside blazed. Neighbors came with shovels to fight the fire and the fire was finally put out. It didn’t make him tow off all his junked cars. He just added an old fire truck which still rusts there to this day.
Mr. G was the father of a buddy. Mr. G was older than most of the other dads. He’d fought in World War II. Wearing a cowboy hat and smoking a cigar, he sold quality meats by day and told stories all the way. Though our ages were in single digits, he’d call us “men” and we’d respond with a big “Yessir, right away, sir.”
Miss Halley was a nurse with no children, except for every child in the neighborhood who saw her smile. She loved kids and cats and liked to feed both cookies. Her cat was Siamese and she had a red and green kimono. Giant fans with painted scenes of ancient Japan hung on her walls. A ceramic dragon of black and red stretched across her mantle. She seemed as exotic as she did kind.
These are a few people from my childhood. A few names and faces in the mix. A few people down the street or from over yonder. A few people who linger there still on the street and in memory. Though some have been gone for far too long. I still feel the effects of their lives on mine.
Dean Poling is executive editor of The Valdosta Daily Times and editor of The Tifton Gazette.