Holding up that looking glass to childhood I see a cast of characters that have, for better or for worse and in comedy and drama, shaped my life. Some are goodness magnified and some are like the small, fine print that serves as a cautionary tale in what not to do, how not to act and, most importantly, as warnings that you better behave because people's memories are long.
Our house was small and sat on a large lot smack dab in the middle of our street. Houston's warm just about year 'round and I seem to remember that the grass was always green, the azaleas bloomed in the spring, the pine trees were really tall and the row of maples along our back fence line had been brought in coffee cans all the way from a family reunion in Illinois and tended by my older brother until they grew almost as tall as the pines. The mimosa tree in the front yard was bent and crooked and a perfect place to hang upside down or sit and watch the neighborhood go by. When I look at old photos I gauge the years by the height of shrubs and whether or not the palm tree in the front yard is still standing.
From my perch on the limb of the mimosa tree I'd watch the two feuding families that lived across the street. It amazed me that they could live next door to each other for twenty something years and never speak. They'd unload groceries in driveways side by side and never even offer a nod of the head. Their children would pass on the street and never even cast a sideways glance. When one of the moms died and the coroner came to take her to the funeral home, they
still didn't speak.
Lesson One: holding a grudge for that long makes you look crazy.
It was a big city but my street felt like it had been plucked right out of the movies. Just like the movies, it was full of characters. When I was in elementary school one of my best friends lived catty corner from us with her two moms.. This was in the 1960s and I remember little talk about their same sex relationship and I never remember anyone not accepting them. They were just a part of the neighborhood. One of her moms would stroll over and look under the hood when my dad was trying to fix one thing or another. When the car battery was corroded she went and got a cold Coca Cola, poured it over the bad spots, and she and my dad stood there and watched the fizz eat away the gunk.
Lesson Two: Tolerance and acceptance is always a good thing.
I was also friends with a daughter from one of the feuding families. She was a nice girl with two wild ass older sisters and bad boy big brother. The carnival came to our neighborhood once a year and set up shop in the mall parking lot. The carnies always seemed kind of creepy to me but apparently one of the older sisters didn't seem to think so and she ended up knocked up. Her parents shuttered her in the house for nine months and her siblings were instructed to not let anyone enter. They slipped me in one hot afternoon while their parents were at work and there she was, sitting on the cool linoleum floor, barefoot and baby bellied, with her jeans unzipped and her tee shirt hiked up. My elementary school self tried not to stare. When the baby was born they told everyone he was adopted but I'd seen the truth. Plus, genes don't lie. Playing in their front yard one day I looked down and noticed that the little boy had the same webbed toes as his teenaged "sister."
Lesson Three: You may think you're hiding the truth but odds are someone knows your secret.
By the time I was in 8th grade one of my best friends was a bad influence whose father was a prominent physician in town. He was having an affair with the socialite daughter of a nationally known attorney. My friend's dad drank too much and her stepmother was a saint for putting up with him. When we weren't swiping her step mom's Salem cigarettes and climbing out her bedroom window to sit cross legged on the roof and practice our smoke rings we were crouched on the landing overlooking their living room and watching the two women fight over a man who didn't deserve either one of them.
Lesson Four: Females look ridiculous when they fight over a man...and many times women are better off alone.
When I was really small the old lady who lived next door was an alcoholic whose live in boyfriend ran the gas station just outside the neighborhood. They'd get liquored up at the bar next to the grocery store. We'd leave our garage entrance unlocked if my brother or sister were out late and one night the live in boyfriend stumbled into our house by mistake. My father, an amputee who was as agile on one
leg as some men were on two, sprang into defending the homestead mode and hopped into the den, rifle in hand. He threatened to shoot the intruder.
Lesson Five: I may not have heard my father say "I love you" but his actions spoke louder than words.
There was a mean dog named Rip that lived down the street. He was always on a chain. When we'd ride our bikes past his house he would leap and snarl, mouth foaming and teeth bared. Every now and then he'd break free and I vividly remember how he attacked a small white dog. He wouldn't release the limp little dog's bloody neck until a neighbor turned on a hose and leveled the nozzle right at Rip's eyes. That chain changed the course of Rip's life. It made him mad and mean.
Lesson Six: Living things shouldn't be chained.
I spent most of my teen years in trouble for various and assorted offenses. Habitually late for curfew? Yes. Dating boys my parents couldn't stand? Usually. Changing that F on my report card to a B? Uh huh. Claiming the cigarettes in my purse belonged to a friend? Guilty. No wonder my parents introduced me as their "problem child." Or, maybe I was the problem child because my parents always expected me to be the problem child.
Lesson Seven: I know parents usually do the best they can with the skills they have but they need to remember that children meet expectations-high or low. (Lesson Seven and a half: You can change your path.)
