"The Eye of Thor" ch5 "Life of a Boy"

Chapter five

“The life of a boy”

 

            My potty chair was made of wood with light blue paint and flowers with a cast iron enamel plated pot with a curved handle. It was white spotted with black and slid under the seat which of course was an open hole. My grandma Murry had given it to my mother to take home on the plane, but first she pulled me over and had a talk with me about it. It seems the potty was first owned by my uncle Ed, and I was told with a story lined with pride on how he learned to use it. Grandma could tell a yarn. I remember the first BM as Dad would say I made. It was a small little dark brown football with a softball next to it. Mom was happy. It’s funny what sticks out in memories.

            I spent a lot of time in Jacquie Park, this is where I learned to throw next to the baseball diamond our range the field and you had to stand under the sap pine, “That was the line.” All little boys spend time learning how to throw, for we all throw like girls when we’re young. I learned to whip my arm sideways until I could throw further and further. We threw out into the field and ran out to retrieve our rocks. We ran back and forth for at least once or twice every day when it was time to go home as the lights awakened. Philip Ryan would often be with me in from the age five until nine, Philip to describe him in a few words were goofy extraordinaire which made for an interesting person over all. He was one year a head of me in school. He had gray eyes that had flecks, a round head with a traditional Catholic boy swoop over of dark brown hair, his checks were freckled and full of mirth and a happy smile full of teeth unless he was making his serious face. A face not to be contended with as he determined in mind and body drove forward. A face of course that could leave me laughing so hard I could not stand. He was short for his age and just a little squatter than I but no less lean. You could not get Philip really mad, and he could never strike a person, never. I caught the boys Brain and Mike dragging Philip up and down the field giving him a super atomic wedgie cause he had long johns on and I joined in. We got them over his head. Boy he was mad. He chased us but soon went home, but he was still mad. I tried to josh him when the other boys started calling him names but he wouldn’t stop going home. The football game was over before it began.

            Takoma Avenue was the stop sign with a crisscrossed Albany Avenue with long rows of bushes that we kids had made many holes through for easier access at the top of the park near the sand box that all the cats used and the small swings that are still in the same place. Back then they were made of wood and for the first summer we lived there an access over the rail road tracks to Washington D.C. was still allowing traffic into our little area. I say that because soon the Metro and it’s double rows of razor fences and a lone foot bridge that took years to finish literally cut Takoma park in middle half the city lay within Washington D.C. limits and the other the beginning of Montgomery County suburbia. They did it on purpose white suburbia on one side black D.C. on the other. I pointed this out to someone here that railroad tracks and highways set off sectors of people creating different neighborhoods. Later the wood would be replaced with a nylon seat or toddler swings made with molded plastic. As kids it was our civic duty to know the in and outs of every piece of play equipment and to test their bounds. It was our park now because our rivals were on the other side of the tracks as kids we did not know this, of course. The park was ours a handful of kids lined the park or were within one block of Jacquie Park and ours, well at least 10 months a year the summer was different. Kids were bussed in from everywhere in the morning and a recreation staff on till 4pm everyday. Until then the park was ours. The park was divided into two sections the field and play area which included the pavilion and still is set up the same way now. Back then there was a huge slide made of stainless steel with a sand pit at the bottom for the kid who braved it.

It was a big boy slide, no doubts about it, and we became professionals one spring preparing the slide to perfection. Philip and I would first go dig into the steel drum trash cans that sat in between to posts and dig out some waxed cups to tear into flat pieces, if there was enough we could just ride the cups down the slide our little buts planted in the middle with our legs up feet pointed in the general direction of forward and down. Over and over we could do this increasing in speed every time, or we could go the deluxe method. We would jump the slide and began one of us from the top the other to the bottom and we would first clean the slide, and then start rubbing down the slide with the waxed paper cups till the whole slide was coated then we buffed it. We took some real dry sand and tossed some down the slide as we buffed the slide to a smooth polish with our butts. Now let me tell you about this slide when they say they don’t make them anymore kids like us are to blame. The slide was twenty or so steps made of steel with a design to the top. It was about 25 ft tall as tall as or just a little taller than the full size adjacent swings and its rails, handles crested another two feet in the air.  The pad was small and required using the handles to sit down or later the cross beam as a swing propelling our small frames down the chute like mini human torpedoes. The steel chute was a sturdy sheet of stainless with one join half way down, by that time we could be moving, and the bump was a minimum. The best wear was tight shorts running shoes and a tea shirt the best ride came literally from the seat of your pants. Philip, I, and a few other boys had been in on the initial idea of juicing up the slide were practiced and seasoned for the speed and landing. What was good at it? Well at the age of eight I weighed 60lbs so with a good swing and keeping knees and elbows tucked I could fly down the slide at speeds equaling a full sprint the first few steps were in the sand box but your third or fourth “better” clear the sand box boarder, then full speed towards the field with arms and legs flailing in an attempt to stop from speeds that were faster than physically possible for the child in the thrills of his ride. We could go so fast only one foot was needed inside the sand box the chute having propelled us 6-8 feet, bounce one and run like a squirrel that has had the misfortune off falling out of a tree. We weren’t falling that far but in our defense squirrels are better equipped than we were.     

“No matter what you must avoid the rail and run full speed when you land.” We would call up to some over zealous kid who wanted to ride full speed just like us, and never fail one out of two of these daring fellows got hurt, wiped out, hit the sand rail, or just face plant into the sand. That kid didn’t get up right away and was dazed for a little and had to sit on the side rail and watch until he was okay. Sort of he had snot, sand and, and blood smeared around his nose but he had a big smile on his face for being so brave to try what we “The expert kids” were doing. He was maybe 6 ½.  Mike and Brian showed up and being my constant bullies were sure they could ride the slide. Brian went first he had more of that crazy white boy in him than Mike. He launched himself with a rebel whoop and zoom he was flying like a turtle twisting and turning on his back somehow keeping his feet underneath him his wild long jet black hair a blur tossing about his head in contrast to his alabaster white skin some how got his chucks underneath him and took off when he hit the sand box. He made it slowing down in the grass. Mike had to do it if Brian did it. Mike was bigger all over not fat just little chunky and big framed and not at all wiry like Brian. So his decent was met with a slower accent and take off from the top. I would like to pause for a second as to tell you about this slide it was fast, finely polished, slippery and just down right dangerous for the inexperienced and people of any weight over a hundred pounds. We didn’t know that we were just kids. We had no idea about gravity and incline planes, physicists and such. What we saw was a sudden increase in speed in the fast zone Mike was out of control early on, he attempted to right himself but the gravity thing nailed him down to the slide like some one put a weight on him, the edges of the slide were 5 inches high to keep the rider safe. Mikes feet were dancing in the air when he left the end of the slide and he was horizontal to the ground going sideways towards the corner boards which were harder to miss. He didn’t. He had managed to right himself somewhat when flying in the air but that first foot down tells the story. Mike went down hard, slam belly and chest first with his hands out, slide for a second, and rolled once hard sort of like a flip and a final flop.  Dirt, gravel, grass stains, and skinned hands, elbows, cheek, and bump to the head. He had to sit down a while. I saw the big kids totally bit and then they took it for the day sort of. Those boys who I pointed to were “cool” and could get in line with the big kids. I remember mothers running to the side of there overly brave 10 year old, our age who had found part of the railing with his foot then the ground with his nose. She was yelling things like “Why do you have to have it so fast?” “You boys are being dangerous” “Look at him.” She shrieked, and marched him off to the car. He was crying. I think he broke his nose.    Parents in the park started watching the slide putting restrictions on which kids could ride it. Philip and I were the fastest of the middle sized kids 55-75 lbs. We could zoom down that sucker like it was nothing, and that what this “old man” (average adult) though when he wandered into the park. He sorted of jumped off the side half way down, straight chickened out on the speed. He left the park beaten by professional sliders, the veterans of wax and speed with a noticeable limp and dazed countenance. Of course the other boys are often watching and a mid “Ooohs’ and “Ahhhs during a spectacular wreck. This guy did something we never saw and tried to get off mid slide and bit it hard. A “tong” could be herd as part of him hard hit one of the steel poles holding up the mid portion of the slide.

  I would get all the kids into it. My gyrations, animated activity, and excitement would be contagious and boys would be scrambling for wax paper cups in the two garbage cans next to the picnic tables, feet up in the air, trash flying, and the scramble to create the fast ride. We got in trouble when the recreation staff showed at summer. They were adults and wore shirts with Staff on one side and Takoma Park Recreation. At first they were amazed by the local kids of the park who gathered together to achieve a common goal. We worked the slide to perfection. Kids were flying in the air everywhere and a line had formed at the base of the slide. All the kids wanted to try it, and they did. Zoom, Zoom kids are coming down so fast the other kids at the bottom who had done a but-slide in the sand or mini wrecked could not get out of the way fast enough. What we had never for seen had happened, a pile up of small legs and arms with little wails and umps for a pile up, is a pile up, and in the 70’s we appreciated that and took full advantage. Kids were stacked and twisted into a laughing from the top, screaming from the bottom pile which had to be carefully undone for these stacks could get 10 to as much as 20 little kid bodies intertwined in a mass of elbows, knees, and heads popping forth. The staff intervened and began applying rules. A staff member posted himself at the bottom and regulated turns on the slide. Still the slide was fast for some too fast. It was a little fellow who changed the slide rules. He took off like a pro from the top with a powerful swing, and he positioned his but in the perfect position to maintain the least friction as he hurtled down the slide, but instead of sliding off the end he put his foot down right on the end of the slide, friction. He went off the end of the slide with a side ways spinning cartwheel which surely was not planned, his body stiff in its flight awaiting the dreaded landing. Every kid knows what this is like. The stunning impact that knocks your wind out, leaves the whole world shaking, and is often accompanied by big head to ending up in an ear curdling scream. Yeah that’s it. This little kid hit hard, and we knew he was hurt. His spinning sideways allowed his head to find its way to down to smack his head on the border of the sandbox with was a sturdy 2” x 12” board of hard wood. The thud could be herd from fifty feet away the scream following it could be herd first stunning the park with sound then echoing around the trees sending every available adult into motion full speed to the emendator of such a horrid noise. It is the sound every parent knows, the sound of a child being seriously injured. They didn’t let us speed the slide up anymore, at least when they could. Philip and I would still speed it up at night or on dry week ends, but for the park staff the ride was over. Still the idea spread. Kids in different parks were getting the idea from the kids shipped in to Jacquie Park from surrounding areas. Stories of slide accidents increased kids were breaking arms and flying off the spin around ones halfway up, except the “Rocket Ship” slide on University Blvd., but that’s for another story.

An Afro-American man showed up in the park one day his name was Cecil. He wore a Red Sox uniform and cap covering his silvering hair. He brought a bag full of baseballs, gloves bats, and softballs. He got all us kids attention by his amazing ability to throw behind his back really high and far. He would take a baseball, point at a tall tree, and would toss into the air with his left catching it with his right and throw that ball right over the tree behind his back. He would then turn to all of us for he had our attention, and say, “I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records for throwing a baseball the highest behind my back.” This book was a popular book and sold at all the school book fairs. All us kids would respond with “Oooo’s” and “Ahhhh’s”. He got us into batting some days and others he just played some catch with so many kids who wanted to throw like him. I was one of them. Kids were all over the field throwing his baseballs behind there backs. Then he would call us all in and we would put all the gear back. It was him and his appearance in the park that started the community softball games. How? The kids and him and the parents who came to the park on Sundays, at first it was just a Sunday afternoon where the families of the neighborhoods came and BBQ and picnicked. Cecil would show and the kids and parents would be amazed by not just his skills but his ability to communicate with the children. Cecil got together the first game just by saying “Shall we have a game of softball?” and dumped the game gear out of his big canvases bag. Everybody who was there that day including myself grabbed some gear. There weren’t many of us playing at first but soon more and more people came till there wasn’t enough equipment. I remember an older gentleman who had large brown knuckled hands and a brown hat with suspenders who played the whole game in the outfield with no glove. We used what we had that first day.

 The next week we brought our own equipment. Fathers all week long prompted by their sons and the feeling of some of their lost youth dug through attics, garages, and closets looking for old beaten leather gloves, and a few bats of every size to bring to the park. Something began to happen, something big as week after week the neighborhood gathered in the park. Not just the softball game but what it fostered was a community gathering fun and with fun comes familiarity. The parents began talking about all sorts of issues our little park became a place of social awakening, and most important anyone could play. You had to know the rules to play. No throwing bats, no sliding in the field on base, (people were getting knocked down we weren’t pros), and anything down the hill that lined the back field in the air was a double because: 1. It took forever to get the ball back, 2. Sometimes it went into the street. 3. A balls few went into the storm drain. 4. And just way too many home runs.

 I was still little when this started and the kids were the main attraction with the adults joining in. Andre who wound up being the pitcher for our team, he liked to pitch. He would stand not in the pitcher box, but half way up to the batter over home plate. The game was for the kids and he made sure everybody could get a good shot at getting a hit. He had been chosen among all the children to be pitcher and the fact that he was one of the few Afro-American kids in the neighborhood made it special. He was able to connect with all the kids and keep a feeling of being competitive. Not like a parent who would always lob a throw in, but more a fellow player looking for the out. Andre was 12, a gangly youth who had a big smile in contrast to his dark skin and was well liked by all the parents. He was a social ice breaker in the making. I still remember the man who came to bat on this particular Sunday. He was burly man, lots of reddish hair, everywhere, and he stepped to the plate like he meant business. I had seen him on the plate before and he played like he was out to prove something of his athletic ability. Today was no different and he stepped to the plate. The pitch was up and powerful line drive aimed low to be a grounder that would have headed down the hill. It didn’t make it far. It hit Andre, in the balls. He went down and was up in just a second running all around the park, screaming holding himself. The kind of scream that sends chills down your spine. The adults were in full swing after him and finally got him down on the ground by the small swing set. Somebody called an ambulance and another went down to his house to get his mom. What I saw besides the biggest groin shot in my life was a whole neighborhood leap forward together in time of crisis, not their crisis but one of their own in their neighborhood, a black youth. We would continue to meet in the park every Sunday to play softball, but a new rule had been added. ALL pitches had to be done from the pitching box. The murmurs of what had occurred prompted more parents to come to the park to watch their kids play and just in case. It was about three weeks before Andre came back to the park on Sunday. I had seen him a few days before and he was walking okay, and seemed in good cheer. As he entered the softball field a great applause erupted mixed with cheers and everybody stopped playing and ran forth to greet him. A crowd of at least thirty people surrounded him with back pats all around and “Hello’s” mixed with “How are you feeling?” He went to take his position as pitcher again, and tried to stand in the same spot. Everybody was like “No!” We backed him up to the pitcher mound and the game resumed. Andre became a household name. The park elevated to the next level. Crisis brings people together and that’s what happened in our park. Over the years the Sunday softball games would become a true affair with the grill going and all the women getting together to provide snacks and food for all who came. The true power of this social gathering was the neighborhood becoming solidified and lead them to become a force to make a better community in Takoma Park Maryland.

In the very first two years I was in the park an old steel merry go round lay by the place where the new short slide lay. It wobbled terribly and would have sand in the ball bearings of it base. One day we crawled on our bellies under the huge wheel with straws in our mouths, and blew, and blew, and blew all the sand out. It went pretty fast then but again kids were flying off at strange angels and bouncing along the ground, or even worse getting caught up on the side and dragging along this happened to me once, just once. I got huge brush burns on my body and arms, “AAHAAHAHHA” all the way home. I guess I was seven. It happened to others. I would spend hours in the middle watching the trees going around until either Ryan or Curt would come out to play. I had knocked on both their doors, knocked on the lady’s door who gave away gram crackers to the kids, and dog biscuits. Sometimes Twinkles, my dog didn’t get the biscuit. I would drag my finger or a stick around and around in the sand being an under ground rail road or great blasting machine, mostly I just watched patterns in the sand. Around and around digging a new furrow in the sand, really a kid can be entertained for hours if he is officially at play even alone in the park. I was often alone. Again as with the slide we got the Merry-go-round going to fast. One day a little boy brought to the park did more than just skin his knees and elbows. He broke his arm getting caught underneath and ground around in circles till the Merry-go-round stopped. I wasn’t there that day, and within a few weeks the Merry-go-round was taken out of the park.

I was often the first out during the summer. Both parents had headed off to work and I was out the door soon afterward my little legs pumping me down a couple houses, past the Winters and their yapping Chihuahua’s that couldn’t get over the 8” boards set by the kitchen with the pines and over shadowing the bushes and oaks lining Takoma avenue, past Andrea’s house with the great bowl pine that shot into the sky. This was a very old tree with limbs all the way up and down that were thick and deeply shaded covered in sap in a ladder all the way up with twists and turns. You could climb all the way up into the sky from this tree, and we would make trips to the top all the time. Of course we climbed every possible tree in our yards and the park but this one was special because Andrea would climb it with you. Her mom was always on the back deck or in the house. We would have to yell in we were going to climb the tree. I think it was for two reasons her mom wanted to know which monkeys were in the tree today and when to put her top on for if you climbed high enough you could see the enclosed 2^nd floor back deck where her mom often sunbathed. Andrea wouldn’t climb to the top it was us boys who were full of adventure. Up that high 50+ ft the wind would blow and the top of the tree would always sway a little. After awhile the sensation drove most of us back down. Every once and then I would sneak around the corner of the tall wooden fence and climb the giant pine by myself and just sit at the top watching the world from a point of view no one else was viewing. Early on I was experimenting with different actions, and trying to be as I was portrayed and a little more, an adventurer. Most of the time was spent below the great pine playing and talking doing the things kids do when together, games and talking or truth or dare, and house of course, for the girls, and often ate lunch in its low bows or just underneath. Mom was always fighting pitch and anything else I could grime myself up with, but the pitch got everywhere my first climb up as I stopped to finger it and grabbed to make my hands sticky for climbing. I got it in my hair that time a couple brushes and a big wad in the back. Mom used peanut butter to get it out. We used the great pine for a shelter which worked great on a rainy day for the rain never penetrated the thick bows of the great pine, but not in storms we got in trouble for getting under the great pine that day and were quickly ushered out and into the house. Lightning back in those days still hit the ground around the park and local trees and houses when a storm blew in. I was on my way to the park wasn’t I?

I skittered past the elderly couple’s house painted dark green with olive shutters and a long porch. I had chance to stop in to meet these people on occasion doing odd jobs or just eating cookies. They were an older couple whose children were off having their own kids. The house was always so quiet, except when I visited then things would be of questions and pride in their young friend. I ran past their bushes and crossed the street by Jared’s house on the corner. Quick now among the azalea bushes that were in rows leading diagonally into the back of the park. We tended to play Frisbee at this end or play among the bushes, pushing our carts, red wagons, and bikes down the little hill along Buffalo Avenue hill. Some days all the local kids were out Curt and Cindy, Philip, Brian and Mike, Jared, his sister Amber and brother Fritz, with more kids from down the block. Those days the pressure was off me, those days, I could play with everyone else like everyone else, well sort of. We played kick ball in that corner of the park. The summer of 76’ it was all about kickball. The runway and home lay just at the opening of the Azalea bushes the open field the open field of play. Everyday we gathered about until there was enough to play, during which we practiced kicking the ball, played ball tag, or just goofed off until the game started. Summer was just one long play and that was just the games of the park.

The games changed in the triangle at the base of Albany Avenue where it split and intersected Baltimore Avenue. The triangle was wooded and has a small grass area and barren dirt area under the trees. The girls would use the higher grassy ground to watch the boys and their antics and to do girl stuff and at this age I have no interest in the least bit what a girl was doing. Boy to the core. The boys gathered under the tree and in Baltimore Avenue and compared bikes. I saw the very first mage wheels back in the 70’s made of bright yellow and then red as the fad kicked in. Some of the kids still had bikes with banana seats. It was always fun to ride on the back with your legs swinging in the air and hanging on with your hands to the little curved back bar or even some had full laid back seats. One summer all the kids were getting into skate boards, and the elder boys always first with the best new bikes or toys were sporting their new boards. This one boy had a new soft nylon white with these cool blue spots, and was doing tricks on the curb. I was leaning on the oak by the road and watching with the yearning a boy has when he sees a new way to play. I wanted a board.

I got it for my birthday I think. My mom had woes. I should have. Back in those days a basic Toys-R-us skate board was built to corner barely, made of hard plastic in a sharp pointed tip with trucks that grinded and bucked if any hard surface was approached, and forget big cracks in the cement. Mine was blue. I first of course was real carful which helped me just crash in a moderate way few banged elbows and what not. I recall riding it for hours in a basement with a friend where the tiles were so smooth I could begin to learn how to turn it with my weight not just my ankles. We zoomed back and forth enjoying the freedom of playing and gaining skill our little feet all over the board testing our legs and balance. There were three hills that the boys talked about riding down. Buffalo Ave right where Jordan’s house was had a short mini steep hill that if need be a scared little boy could abort at the top and recover him self in a run. I aborted many times, my feet pounding the pavement as I got off arms swinging wildly over my head as I kept my balance. The skate board would go flying out from under my feet bouncing and flying down the street bouncing into a curb. One afternoon all the boys were riding down the hill and my running down the hill again was just no going to cut it this time. I rode it out.

It was a sunny cool afternoon about three weeks later when I looked down the hill from the top of Baltimore Ave. where it leaves Takoma Ave. My skate board lay under my right foot waiting the ride the hill that all the boys had been talking about. I had seen one boy, the one who was few years older than me with the cool board ride this hill, flying down like a bird arms outstretched his shirt flying the wind, his hair whipping wildly. All the kids could fly were jumping and running with him as he made it to the bottom of yelling and whooping his success. It was a golden moment in time frozen in my mind, a superman dream where I to could fly. I had a lot of these fantasies as a kid; the last second save of some pretty girl, or bravely going forth on some quest, and that is where we find me today, “Superman”. I got my nerve up and launch my self down the hill. My feet holding on to the board with my toes grasping like the talons of an eagle. The speed began to increase as the board and I hurtled down the hill, and the vibration started. At first it was tolerable until about 2/3 down the hill. The board began to shake violently. I was afraid it would throw me, so I stepped off to run to a stop. Well it seems, I had long passed my ability to run as fast as I was going. I took one step that was all I got. There is a noise that a child makes when they are hurt really bad, a howl, and an ear wrenching scream. This is what drove the lone African American man to come out of his house and find me on the asphalt, kicking and screaming. Nobody else came and he lived in the back of one of the lots. He came and picked me up and carried me home. I had goose eggs on both elbows, both knees and a big one right in the middle of my forehead. I was in bad shape. My father thanked him deeply and made a friend of him. I told you that story to tell you this one.

Philip Ryan would come over to my house for sleep over’s, and we would goof off all night. It was on one of these occasions that I slipped into kind of trance and began telling a story a premonition of an accident I would have. I said, “I will be going down Albany and we had switched bikes. I will wreck and a yellow Camero will stop and a Lady with a brown dress and long hair will get out of the passenger side.” I saw all this in my head vivid and clear like I was there, yet a strange white glow lay around the fringes of my vision. As all things of this nature as soon as they pass they are forgotten, until. We had been riding bikes all summer, and one day Ryan and I switched bikes and were riding down Albany. I was riding down Albany when the 5 speed jumped from under me and I went down, hitting my head. I was dazed pretty bad when I looked up. The yellow Camero was just coming to a stop coming the same way I saw in my vision. The lady got out of the driver’s seat which I thought was weird; she was supposed to get out of the other side. She was dressed in the very same clothes I had described, and came to my side to see if I was okay. About this time Philip had turned his bike around, Albany is a down hill slope, so he had to turn around to get back to me. He was in full freak out, waving his arms in the air, jumping up and down repeating the same phrase over and over, “You predicted this!” his face awash with color and incredulousness for he could not believe what he had been witness to, but had to it, had happened just the way I predicted, well except that the angle I saw things from in my premonition. I always wondered about that when I had occasion to think of it. Things like this that happen seem to fleet from the mind when focus is else where, quick like a mouse, and a flash somewhere in the dark. I have noticed the phenomena with adults who will witness something and suddenly memories return for a few people and as soon as the stories are told they are gone again in the flicker of a moth’s wing.

   The fall it was different. The leaves changed around the park of mostly Oaks littering the ground, and the big sap pine dropped its bed of needles near the log cabin and all around the picnic table. We kids used to roll that picnic table all around the park leaving it in the most unusual places. That’s how we got on top of the little cement building the first time. We rolled the picnic table by the water pebble covered cement water fountain up the hill. It took the four of us to move the table straining our little frames to lift it turn by turn till we had rolled it up the hill and wedged it on the side of the building at an angle there-bye using the picnic table as a make shift ladder; we ascended to the top of the cement building for the first time on a sunny Friday afternoon. The small cement pad that served as the sturdy roof of the brick structure became our mountain top to survey the whole park spread just a few feet and the down due to the slope. We could see everything and seemed just for a minute to be the regents, lords of the park for a day.

Philip, Mike, Brian, and Aaron and I played football at the other end of the park. We used our jackets as out of bounds, and the trees at the north end as one goal, the other our jackets. The quiet prejudice that was always portrayed towards me was upheld in the game. One I was never allowed to be Quarterback, two Brain and Mike were always on the opposite side with Aaron as permanent Quarterback. That left me and Philip always as a team which was cool; he was my friend a true friend who never judged me.

Games would be a little wild with pitch backs being 1/3 of the game for me and Philip to score. You see Aaron would throw good passes and most to Philip, he was the quiet one who was sure he was superior to me, he never said so. Prejudice passed down from fathers to their sons still made a heavy impact during the mid 70’s, but things were changing and it often was done by the kids. Kids don’t have any preconceptions and they just want to make friends, different friends of another race became the beginnings of change in “Suburbia”, but I still had a few years to wait. “One Mississippi two Mississippi…. Five!” the rush was on. The pass few and Philip turned at the last second to catch it. Brian hit him low. Brain was fast. I was fast to and right behind Philip the pitching began. We would pitch the ball several times before finally getting tackled. We were sweaty boys running up and down the field with serious football intent.

I remember the all the mulberry trees which my father loved in a pie, which my mom would put together. We would search far and wide for different flavors, Jared’s little sister and I, clambering up all the local trees avoiding the dry or overly wet searching for the sweet tangy combo that made the best berry. We were hanging in the trees all day as kids should, eating berries as fast as we picked them Mom said “Don’t eat them all.” calling after us with a smile on here face. We would spend more time sitting in the tree’s, climbing, picking and being kids looking down from our canopy of light. Often never seen by other persons, or we would yell down on chance they wanted to do what we were doing, some would climb and pick, others just talk and be gone, kids and mulberries kind of go together in our little neck of Suburbia.

I remember laying the ground watching clouds go buy and the tall grass with its flowering tops that were almost tickly to the touch, the grass grew in the un-mowed fields, it was here I watched the huge flat or tall clouds that would fill the landscape of the blue sky, so many for so far long flat clouds on gray days and beautiful sky scraping, up, up, up, a thunderhead that towered into the sky, and how the wind with one final push after building for a short time brought the final gust of the rain that is how it was back then in the 70’s in Takoma Park. The sky was still alive everyday, the snows came, and we had a few white Christmas’s summers were cooler not so humid, the wild life still a hand reach away, or just a few flowers. This is before the fire storms in the sky, of lightning that would seem to interlace the very clouds with stitch and spool determined to bind them one last time, before the sky turned orange, yellow, steel, a haze of heat. I would say Dad, “Did you ever notice it only rains on Sunday” “The light rain anymore.” Because then the huge thunderstorms had come, but that was later.

I remember what the trash can smelled, dark musty, rot mixed with so much sugar, and ashes when we dove for some tool or other, and the way old soda and beer can tabs used to peel off leaving a sharp tear shaped piece, made of steel before aluminum cans hit the market, and every year more and more people choked on them, the whole of the canning industry had its own death toll from these tabs. It took someone in the eighties to figure the safer version today. It was always a little wet at the bottom and maybe sticky with all sorts of refuse, mostly we just wanted wax cups, a can or other necessary implement for the idea of the day. I was always coming up with crazy games with Philip, and all the kids I met at the park while up side down in the garbage. You see kids got this thing of gravitating towards the best show, or what could be the most fun in public, being up side down in trash with your buddy behind you asking questions while he holds your legs ranks right up there. Boys would be like what you doing with great interest often peering over the side, and girls would stand further back, I can imagine a mental picture in their head with pigpen and his cloud of dirt, and ask with an incredulous tone in their voice, and raise the same question.

I remember social patterns, and social gradients far beyond others around me, for I was always looking in, and out of my bubble and my memory and unusual intuitive abilities gave me a mental template. The way it works is I remember one thing like the cake when I was three my mom has made an orange cake. Memory turns on and I am at the table looking not just down at the cake as a little boy, now later a big kid of 8 going on 9. I can see the green glossy writing and mom moms two piece light colorful oriental designs on blue backdrop outfit sheik and light, with the candles burning and shining in her eyes, which was just as cool, I’m three right little, and she put the cake down and a few friends my D.C. friends this was when we lived on 14 st, so many more where black back then. I remember the way they treated me, the women it was with a special little respect. I herd one say, “Youes live in da big house.” as she leaned, over me a large Afro-American woman elder woman and touched my head, she had on a pretty blue and mini white poke-a-dot dress, with a sachet and a pretty hair pin in frilled with white and blue, and no teeth. I had never seen any one with no teeth before, transfixed to the spot is what you get there. I had been invited to partying an Afro-American house and I first made respects to the ladies of the families gathered. It was different than my parties where kids were just dropped off. This was a big party and a certain social requiem from play was to under go such prodding and scrutiny. He looked at me hard and said ‘This one here, boy got troubles, but he in the big house.” “He look smart to. “Hmm mm” she said matter of fact. I always was confused by this and felt like people who I didn’t know were seeing something that I for certain hadn’t seen there, and even adding to her decree the whole room would chime in with ladies in a splendor of out fits, all Afro-American save one or two. I even looked around at the several ladies filling the room to gain some idea of what they were saying as heads nodded. We live in an apartment building. I had no idea it was because my parents were white. “Da big house” ran questionably through my mind. I was returned to my mom who always politely took the fuss but more, the teachings of her mother and her strong beliefs and heart she took no special pride in this, I was her son, and when it came to getting alone with people my Mom was a natural she had no reservations about being who she was, and speak her mind answering quickly in the women’s group opinion whether she was friend or foe. It was always better to be my mom’s friend, and winning charm and natural acclimation to any social setting put in high regards the familiarity they showed her.  My mom would chime, because the music had started playing and the kids were all out and say, “John go show them your dance.” while she pointed towards the other kids. I would shy up. Mom had me dressed in brown leather chucks, you have to go back in time to see them they are extinct now. The pants may still be seen in retirement homes on very heavy men in Miami Beach for they had checkers, log straight to the bottom and across on gray with a red line her and there polyester slacks with a huge waist band, and a white shirt with these whatever things running down it, you get it by now, I looked like a mini light skinned “Shaft”. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t move, and finally with some prompting I would get up and do my dance. At this point, I would like to say, I had never seen anyone dance other than television, my parents played classical when they ever used the stereo, and I seen Elvis shake his leg. That was the one for me. I got up and just put my leg in the air and just started shaking that thing like there was no tomorrow, and all the ladies would start laugh and clapping, and I just kept shaking that leg till the song stopped. At that point my duty done, I returned to Mom before being “Shewed” into the crowd of kids.

I remember the way the sand in the grass in the top on the hill at Jacquie Park never grew even in summer because it was the top of the hill, and you went gently down hill into the park with its’ Oaks canopy where all the play equipment lay, and then the field opened up, it was green and lush, lowered from Takoma by a small hill, and then it dropped again, the side we played football in was just a grassy lot rowed with bushes to once side of the field proper holding the baseball diamond and backstop made of the everyday criss-cross rusty galvanized metal lattice that is easy to get toes and hands in and we climbed that to the top often to look up at the sky it took some energy and your hands and toes would be sore. We would try when the community soft ball games started, but quickly the adults got the kids off there, parents will be parents, and by then there were many there. Why the kids, but I told you that story. The hill dropped natural into a field that was always tended by a big fat man in overalls arms large with tattoos his beard got longer each year, and slowly grayer for I would see him everywhere for many years once I was every where, who would bring his huge mover into the field and cut it, once or twice to keep the grass alive but not to tall, enough little storms, and rain. We had lived in parks because they were built where grass was, and we tended it. Long before the grass farms, and sod parks quick manufactured put together communities, we lived in a more next door to nature life even though we were the step into the District of Columbia in whole a huge city center.

I remember every word my Great grand mother Katherine Ernst said to me. I want to interject this now for it puts bearing to where I was going, not that I had any idea, at that time and until just recently it bares strong words for this time, and the one Great Grandma spoke about. We being a list of possibilities us to be chosen in the gold and brown striped station wagon that carried the Fisher family Aunt Irean my dad’s sister, Uncle Jim my cousins Becky, Mary, Mark, and I. The station wagon was one of those grand editions with an extra seat that flipped up in back so if the back window was open you could see out and were just a few inches above the front riders, also it was the 70’s so seat belts were a kind of, turbulent weather and all, like the blinking lights on the fasten seat belt signs on an airplane for I would get a mental imagine of this any time some one would say fasten your seat ever since I could remember on planes I would stare at the flashing lights as a child amazed when the captain talked for as usual Mom or Dad  could sometimes get me to visit the captain and the cockpit of the air plane, so I would feel a personal connection eyes to the lights and sometimes with wings pined to my chest. The road was a long drive just about two hours or so back to the “Ernst Farm’ still what remained passed down for generations.

We piled out of the car and headed out to the back yard. Great Grandma Katherine Ernst had a huge garden which required grandchildren and great grandchildren to keep the many rows of vegetables, planted and tended, weeded and hoed, and finally picked. I was on my knees, and it was a big garden: you see it was a big task and Great grandma led it. It was unspoken we should work as long, or longer than she did. We did. It was green bean day, and we must of picked for hours harvesting all forms of vegs, but mostly green beans. The earth was soft and well shaded for the beans had grown little mini canapés with there leaves, and getting under them to pick was well suited for a young boy. Picking green beans is pretty simple and I could get my finger moving pretty quick, Mark would be in one row; I another, and Mary another, so naturally we raced in spurts. There were a lot of rows. The sun began it’s slow decent in the sky and we all washed out side. We were finally able to play and mini goof until dinner. It was before dinner Great grandma called us to the house. Mark, Mary and I after Aunt Irean went and spoke to her; for it was a choice of hers who would be in her area. I say area, for her living area, front living room past the kitchen were you could look down on the very field we just had been picking in was nestled deeper in the house. You know when your at the movies and they use that real old type faded black and white just a touch of bright back light. That was what her room looked like as the sun spilled across the red carpet, but first it had to get through all the photos. Each one of her fourteen children, all their descendants into four generations the newest and brightest color Polaroid picks in new frames lay, spread amongst the old black and white wrapper in ornate silver, porcelain,  or glass fully engulfed the room, along side was a picture of the president with a real happy birthday signature for turning one hundred years old.

Great grandma sat in an old blue chair which was in contrast to the pinkish red ornate wall paper were it not for the white lace over lays that covered its back and sides. She had a still about her all the time, and never a wasted movement. She was tall under six feet by a few inches with long strong arms, and wide hips under her mild flowered dress, and slip. Her hair was long and tied behind her head, and her face was long oval with a soft  nose and mouth with eyes just of a gray sort, with a far away look all the time, all the time whether she was saying hello as we entered the room and paid our respects, wearing her spectacles, or telling a story. This was my first time since I was real small that I had meet her, and my first time ever at the farm house. She looked at me watching as I looked at all the pictures and really old things not daring to disturb any thing, for it lay sacred like an alter. She motioned us to seat. We did and I blurted out, “Is that really the president’s signature?” as I pointed to the picture sitting next to her. She sat and smiled back, like a treasure was about to be found and then regaining more poseur mixed with humility. “Yes,”

“And that one to?” I quick as a button pointed to John Wayne. She replied in nod, then leaning forward she rattled through a list of names, some presidents, or some other famous persons of such and such. I being a kid had no idea who some of the big names she spilled out as memories seeming just a hand reach away came back to her. I think she had a memory like mine and it spanned a century, well almost. I said, “How far back can you remember/” We really weren’t supposed to ask questions, and my natural curiosity to know things took a hold of me and I was out of control. Mark and Mary we still sitting on the couch but I had been up at the end of great grandma finger as she pointed to each name. Marry and Mark had seen this room several times, and had herd some of great grandma’s stories. I had not.

She leaned back in her chair, and began. “I can go back. She started, “I lived through two world wars, and the turn of the century. I seen so many presidents and have been able to vote for a bunch of them after we won the right to vote” “ I remember most of all back then even as a young girl. The war had been over for almost”, She paused and looked at us as our faces got a look of confusion. “The Civil War didn’t just finish we had reconstruction to do everything was a mess, and the work was still going. Boy everybody was working, the mothers all gathered to feed the men, for new roads, bridges, buildings, farming, everything needed doing. Those fat cats, they took a lot right from the beginning so it took ten to twenty years to really get anything going, so we all had to work, everybody, but we did it together. We all worked together we gathered on some nights and had great dances, all the musicians, would bring their instruments, and we would have a time. But the next day we were all working again. It wasn’t for yourself we worked, we worked for everybody, and everybody had a job, and everybody new each other, we all shared the work on all the farms, as the men did their part. We had to share and receive helping each other we had communities, well a whole country that still needed rebuilding. It took those first ten or so years for folks to start getting along again, and at first everyone waited for the government to make the difference right here at home.” She paused and looked out the window again, “At least that’s what my mom told me, not complaining about the work but just telling her daughter why everybody decided to start working together, and why. It was out of necessity. We had to do our part.” ‘Things as I remember didn’t start really getting get up and running, schools, universities, the whole system again until after the turn of the century, then the industrial revolution started, and again everybody had jobs, people started moving to the cities. Yep things took a while, then a World War took men away again, in stead of our men dying at home our men went off fighting across the sea. She stood up and pressed down her dress, and said, “Well let’s all go we got some more work to do before dinner.” Some things you never forget, and like how good the green beans were after we picked them and had them for dinner.

I remember being so hungry in the park and we would go to the “graham cracker lady” for graham crackers and Twinkles would get a bone unless I was real hungry then he would get half and half for me or another time when I wanting some gum like the other kids I picked up a piece of gum of the sandy ground that still had that bubble gum flavor. I chewed and spit for hours until all the sand was gone and I could blow bubbles for the rest of the day, the sticky kind before the quick draw “Hubba Bubba” no stick and “Bubblishish” had there television war. My mom wondered where I got the gum?

All in all I had a magical youth with a very loving family a huge loving family. It was my place in this family that gave way to the pressures of racism and prejudice when we jumped the plane and flew to Minnesota and up state New York. Vacations were every year, and I would increase my time every year. It was in these places my heart would grow, and the life of a boy would find heart that granite cornerstone of strength or anonymity found surrounded and lost in love myself so freed could played out to its fullest that I could not find at home as the years played out, I didn’t know I was, well black., but that is for another time long in the future in a place far from here in so many ways.

I remember the night I had a dream about the superman episode where the Martians were climbing around with a glowing ball. I was so scared because Superman was sick, and I yelled “No!” in my dream twisting my head on my pillow that was the only two episode old black and white series Superman, and during the twisting and me being brought out of my now nightmare my eye lid turned inside out which I thought was the coolest thing ever because I boy in class could flip his eyelid and that was awesome for that day at class every lid flip he was the center of attention. The third grade had its moments and this was one of mine. The next day I could flip my left right eye lid and I became the secondary center of attention that day. Another was when I counted 72 farts on my chair desk set up. The kind where there is just a seat and desk in a frame. The other boys  goaded me into smelling it and we all went “ewww’ me included as I mocked dying from the over whelming booty funk concentrated on my chair. I still remember what I had for dinner that made me become the king of farts for no one else came close to my number of farts in the twenty’s was the highest. I had Mom’s meat loaf with catsup, mashed potatoes and green beans with oil and vinegar.

I was always on the out side an anomaly, lost in inner thoughts always dreaming of being the hero, to be seen for the first time the cool kid, so they could and most of all to be white, to not be me, with brown big curly hair in a bush left me in wanting in a deep way, in a quiet form, that no-one except myself could understand. I looked out and wonder why so often, I could not understand social discord as a child. I was social discord, the very focus of it, its judgment, it’s scorn and fear, it’s broken prejudices, neighborhoods, race identity that all that well that was  just to much for me. I just knew where I stood, I wanted all that white was, not who I was, one definitely confused kid.

I remember the day in the third grade when a helicopter came and landed on the high field behind Takoma Elementary School. Things were way different back then, the building made of red brick laid in the lower area directly behind the Kindergarten where it now stands. It was a long red brick building with three floors with a drive for the cars and parking. The lower court was a boxed in fence area, often run the boxed in area was the “Gym” teacher who was this burly guy who would kick the ball real high all day and watch the kids race after it and race after it we did. Boy he could get us going because he be hooting and hollering, and we be chasing his balls, no-one really, caught one they were to high coming it too fast and would just smack a kid silly any ways, again kids just want to play even if it is a missile. Boy he could get those little red balls flying way up in the boxed in area that was on the back side, but look I could spend all day about the old school and staff the play ground, the way the fence always fell down the hill because it was in the crest so there were ways under and through, long time ago, but we were talking about a helicopter landing on the top field where the new school is now.

We paraded up the stairs the principle and other officials in tow all a splendor for the event we were all 1^st 2^nd and 3^rd grade classes, everybody, we climbed a sort of set of old gray cement stairs all in a long line behind the baseball diamond cage back then, in this snake like fashion we surrounded the entire field and the principle stepped out with a Bull horn, waving his hand to signal his teaches to quiet the mini voices that whispered back and forth like the un-mowed green grass surrounding the field. His voice rarely herd except for the loud speaker, cracked across the field with a sharp report against the trees. “We have a special guest. Everybody stay back in your lines and hold hands with your buddy.” He announced with excitement, his glasses reflecting in the sun, and we all stood in a hushed moment looking at the road or maybe expecting some exciting athletic display. The air began to shudder, and a thunder attacked the hills on each side, and the filed turned into ground zero for this chaos, it was a helicopter, and was coming straight at us. The helicopter was sleek and white with yellow and blue accents, loud, so very loud, ears were being cupped every where, the lines began to break forgetting our last command in the audible onslaught. Then the real wind began, my buddies at this time lost their ground and backed towards a gathering ring about the teacher, the ranks moral broken and the fear setting in as the grass flattened.   

            I stood in awe. The helicopter like a great white yellow blue flecked dragon fly was atop us the field, the very ground and trees shuddering in the torrent of its wings, black blur above and around moving faster than the eye could focus, the ground was hit by wind and the grass lay flat in homage to the attacker above. I stood rooted arms held strong, legs planted leaning into the wind; I suddenly a lone figure as the lines broke each child jumping into the teachers grasp, my hand buddy long gone, stolid in the wind and sand blasting, I stood, in awe. A great readiness, amazement I looked on as the helicopter in one last whoosh of air, which sent torrents of dust, grass, and teachers grapping for their hats with one arm and holding the huddled masses around them, yet all that was in the back round for me I looked on watching everything I could the pilot with his head set behind the glass wind shield the 2^nd rotor on the back became apparent as a the dragon turned away I saw the grass twist under the second rotor now in full view, then gently like landing on a reed it was down. The dragon kept breathing, the wings kept going, a rhythm of motion and sound I watched perplexed as the blades slowly began to stop, the sound to, by woofs’ and whines. A strange back wards, forwards display, several times as the rotors stopped cutting the air, their black blades begin to draw lines against the tree line and finally before the blades even came to a stop I looked down and there was the pilot getting out while the blades were still moving, he was an older man, had lines and a mustache, baseball cap with a few pins that glinted the light, and just a way of calm about him. He was master of his flying dragon, the sky, and the future we soon might be a part of. It was just a show, a visit, a reality many wouldn’t face, and hold their ground, not like him, or I, one day.

As fast as he came he was gone, and so was the torrent, the awe, the play in the skies like a dragon, it became something else soon, but for now a little longer I would live the life as a boy. I would run the streets of Takoma Park Maryland with Philip, Mike, and Brian. I would dig in the neighbors’ back yards catching 72 salamanders under every rock, and put them all in my own pool, soon half were dead. We let the rest go. I would live weeks on end in Jacquie Park, go to school watch all the shows, and ask for all the toys. Santa still had magic, and holidays were adventures. I would still visit Grandma Lucille, and feel her hugs, smell her perfume, and sweet  musty smell that was just like the old grand house in  Rochester New York mixed with Grandma powered head rubbing love from her hands which I in secret loved but always shied off, and see extended family on the Murry, O’ Shea side once or twice a year; I would still spend my summers in going to the beach in the big Washington D.C. Suburbia weekend runs to Ocean City Maryland, or Rehoboth Beach in Delaware or Minnesota to Grandma and Grandpa Ernst, on the farm with Uncle George, Aunt Rose Ernst playing with Bobbie up at sunrise tired, worked like a city boy, and happy everyday, at Aunt Cathy Huberty’s with Michael riding Buttercup and Ginger , or the Fisher’s with Mark and Mary just plain being BIG goofs, or Uncle Chuck and Pat Ernst’s listing Uncle Chuck jam brass in the parade visiting the Mississippi river spill over and throwing a big rock over the spill with Michael. The house where I first herd the “Rolling Stones” as.. I get ahead of my self. A storm was headed for my life on that would rush and bear as much energy as that sky dragon, the helicopter with little warning the next rush would drawl me further from the “normal” or shall we toward my path but, for now a few more adventures, as a boy.

 

Thor

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