This is My Town!

Are we rolling down hill
Like a snowball headed for Hell?
With no kind of chance
For the Flag or the Liberty Bell
-Merle Haggard

Now that the election is over and we have a new President, how's that working out for you? No, I don't mean did your candidate win or lose, but things in general. Lost a few friends? Made a few enemies? Realizing that stupidity runs rampant in today's America? Amazed that people can no longer have an intelligent discussion or conversation? What happened to America? Our America? Where people treated each other with respect.? Where people might argue during the day, but sat side by side on Friday night cheering on the hometown football team? 

The things that were supposed to make life better, well, they haven't. Cell phones weren't so bad, but smart phones? We don't talk to the person sitting or standing next to us. Our noses are buried in electronics. The Internet? Well, you can look up anything on the Internet. The problem is, can you believe what you find? You can't trust the media. In their rush "to be first," they've forgotten about being accurate. Or right. Or honest. Or that they are supposed to report news, not make it up.And you'll be hard pressed to find any "news" source online that is accurate or truthful. 

I know what some of you are thinking. "This is Trump's America!" Well, it didn't start last November, and it didn't start January 20th. It's been coming for a while. We are becoming a "nation divided" because we can't agree on what's best for our country. Suddenly it's okay to disrespect the flag. To loot and burn businesses because we don't like something. People today aren't protesting because of a deep seated feeling and passion. They are protesting because it gets them on the news. Or maybe, in a lot of cases, it' gets them a paycheck. Paid protesters. Yes, I love the Internet. And electronics. But I'm not sure we are getting what we bargained for. 

Today's Ramblings is a repeat. A re-run. I've not been back to my hometown since 1999. And I miss it. It was a good place. Comfortable. And I know that the picture I hold so dear in my mind is not what my hometown when I left. After all, they say you can never go home again. Maybe not, But I can remember. Was your hometown like this?

We lived on the corner. 4 way stop signs. And to this day, I could take a map of the neighborhood and tell you who lived in which house, no matter which direction or street you picked. Our neighborhood was filled with teachers. Mr. McDowell, the science teacher lived down the street, right near Mrs. Kathleen Brown, the librarian (or was it typing teacher?). Mrs. Smitherman (sp?) lived on the other end of our block. She was one of my teachers. Mr. Peak (no idea what he taught) lived at the end of the block and around the corner. He had a garden that often produced tomatoes, cucumbers and squash that found it’s way to our table. On the street behind us, Coach Gilbreath. Directly behind us, Mr. & Mrs. Charlie Robinson, both working at the MPISD. Mr. Hargrove, who wasn’t a teacher, had a shop on the back of his house. I remember dad taking the lawn mower blade over for a sharpening, and from time to time, he helped me with the chain on my bike.  

We went to Annie Sims school. It was grades 1-6 my first year or two, but with integration and the addition of the “black” school buildings, it was “downsized” to grades 1-4. We mostly walked to and from, and with good weather, rode our bikes. No parent followed us in a car, it’s just how it was. There were generally other kids ahead of us and some behind us. I guess we lived in a pretty “young” neighborhood.Lots of kids. We were what eventually would be called “latch key” kids. At the end of the school day, we came home to an empty house. We had our own key and were responsible for keeping up with it. We had to bring home our assignments, no going back to school later because the school locked up pretty quick.  

Getting home meant taking care of business., We’d grab a snack, and then time for homework. If we were lucky, mom would have Hershey bars for us. The didn’t come in slick packages like they do now, they came in a clear plastic bag that, when new, was “tied close” with a slip of tape that sealed it up. I always tried to sneak an extra. Until mom or dad got home, we weren’t allowed to have other kids over. We weren’t allowed to play outside, either. We had our jobs to do, and we did them. And we pretty much never broke those rules. I guess some of the other kids had stay at home moms. We didn’t. Mom and dad had certain expectations, and we met them. Mostly. 

It wasn’t a fancy neighborhood. But it was a good one. You could walk or ride your bike to your friend’s house. Or if you were just venturing out, you’d recognize a house with a few bikes in the yard and find your friends there. It was a small town, so your folks knew their folks. There was a certain trust. You knew your friends from school or church. Not from some “chat room”. And when necessary, mom and dad could pick up a phone book and call someone. Everybody was in the phone book. And people didn’t move around much. It was still a time when folks got a job and stuck to it. Lone Star Steel employed so many. As did the “refinery”. American Petrofina in those days. Men took jobs and worked them until they retired.  

And summertime? Oh, summertime. Until my sister was older, we had a babysitter. Even though dad was a principal, he worked summers. I remember mom had “purchased” a nice wooden coffee table with S&H Green Stamps. Real wood. Heavy. Round. She was so proud of that table. Understand, school folks, then like now, weren’t getting rich. Then it was a respectable job, but it paid as much in blessings and satisfaction as it did in dollars. We had a young babysitter (no idea her name) who probably spent as much time watching one of our 3 t.v. channels as she did watching us. Mom came home from work one day and she had her feet up on that table, and she was wearing sandals with metals clasps. Yeah, she wasn’t coming back. Mom was, and still is, proud of that table. 

Summertime was when you went outside when you got up and came back in at night when mom called. Pick up football games, basketball, there was always something to do. The school had a couple of “basketball courts”. Not full size, but there was a semblance of asphalt to define the space. One day we went to the school and the Buford kids were there playing. Mr. Buford had an insurance agency. They lived uphill from us in, what seemed to me at the time, a mansion. There were a LOT of Bufords, and they were good people. Another Southern expression (Yeah, the Bufords? They're good people). But they were playing, and when they would go to the other end of the “court”, I would run out and try to make a basket. I was pretty young and having a hard time getting the ball up to the hoop. They stopped what they were doing and helped me. They may not remember it, but I’ll never forget it. It’s a small town memory.  

Summertime was also when we played baseball at Edwards Field or at the Little League field at Dellwood Park. And we had Coach Sam Parker. Coach Parker ran the “Park Recreation” program during the summer. Depending on your age, you would go the the park either 2 or 3 days a week. We played baseball, capture the flag and other games. Perfect attendance during the week got you into the swimming pool for free on Saturday morning. Good times. They eventually named the football field after Coach Parker. Yeah, he was good people, too.  

We grew up drinking out of the water hose, never wore bicycle helmets, never used a seat belt. We played football where the clothes line was an end zone and the street was the other end zone. We played “shoot ‘em up” with sticks or broom handles and plastic guns. A real treat was having a Daisy BB gun or Crossman pellet gun. And you carried your Boy Scout pocket knife everywhere, school included. Nobody carried a backpack, and big disputes were decided with a quick fight or wrestling match, and then you both forgot what happened and life went on. We didn’t hang out at the mall. Well, we didn’t have a mall. We did have downtown with stores around the courthouse. And we had Gibsons. Think small Wal Mart. There was a drive-in movie on the south end of town, a Dairy Queen on the north end of town, and our movie theater, downtown about a block from the Courthouse square, had one screen. Our “7-11” on our end of town was East Side Grocery on 1st Street. Small white building where you could go in and get a gallon of milk, sliced bologna (sliced while you waited. You couldn't get a pre-made sandwich, but you could get all of the fixin's), a comic book and a water pistol or cap gun. They had the carousels with paperback books, comics and cheap toys. We had a Safeway. A Piggly Wiggly. And Brookshires (pronounced Brooksures). And high school kids would bag your groceries and carry them out to the car for you.  

We didn’t spend our days sitting in front of a computer. We didn’t have video games. We didn’t have smart phones or iPads. And when friends got together, we talked. Listened to music. Played games. Sounds boring? We interacted with people in front of us who were our friends, not imaginary and living in another part of the country or world. We had life and it was right in front of us. 

And life was good. It was simple. And while we didn’t have everything, we had what we needed. And we didn’t miss or covet what we didn’t have. Well, other than that motorcycle that never showed up. We knew our neighbors and we all shared life. Kids baseball games. High school football. The County Fair. Family reunions down in Dellwood Park. We respected our elders, our teachers, our law enforcement officers and mostly we all got along. And when tragedy struck, the whole town mourned. The local paper arrived courtesy of someone on a bicycle throwing it out on the driveway. Bob Willson had the Borden's milk truck. The mailman walked from house to house, stuffing the mailbox with the day’s delivery in a mailbox that was right next to the front door. And we looked forward to “getting the mail”. Yes, it was a small town. 

Sounds hokey. Like an old black and white movie. Life imitating art. But that old black and white movie? That’s art imitating life. You might say I’m living in the past. But I believe we need more of grandma and grandpa passing down these stories. Family history. Things that shape a family. This was our life, and yes, it was good. I miss it. I’m sorry my kids missed it. What I learned and how we lived is forever ingrained in me. It is part of who I am, and shapes and makes me what I am today. This was my life. Maybe you could tell me about yours. This was my hometown.