More Glimpses

Glimpses

(written by Harley Castleberry)

I've Been Around the Block
(A Time or Two)  

Aren’t digital cameras GREAT?  I have close to fifty years worth of 35mm slides, and the last time I viewed some of them, the colors were beginning to fade. I panicked!  Reality quickly caught up with me when I realized that this was only a fringe problem for me.  At this point in life, I had done my part in recording family history.  Now it would be the responsibilities of my boys to worry (or not) about the future condition of this documentation.

The concept behind digital cameras goes w-a-y back.  Mankind has always been equipped with a memory that records segments of each individual’s life.  For example…

One day, almost 45 years ago, our eldest son was beginning to master the craft of walking.  We were visiting at my parents’ home on this particular day.  This is where I had grown up. My parents moved there before I was age two.  It was a nice day and I decided to take my son by the hand, and walk around the block on which I grew up.  I’m sure he remembers none of this adventure, but I’m not likely to forget it.  As we started down the sidewalk I recognized the spot where some of the original concrete had been replaced.  For years, a section or two had remained cracked and mashed into the earth, at an alley entrance, due to the excess weight of a city dump truck.  Six wheel dump trucks were marvels to young boys, and among other things, they were used for trash pickup long before a conventional garbage truck was envisioned.  As we passed the property next door, my memory was refreshed as I gazed at a portion of that sidewalk and was reminded that the surface finish was different than most – and roller skates produced a different sound when crossing it. 

Our walk was slow and rather laborious for my son’s two short, semi-skilled legs, and I maintained a safety factor by continuing to hold a little hand.  The sidewalk in front of the next residence had some uneven sections due to portions having been pushed up by tree roots from days gone by.  Anyone traversing this walk at night had better know where the hazards were or it would be easy to trip.  I recalled learning the hard way that the small wheels on a sidewalk scooter would not roll over a couple of joints.  As children, we quickly learned to pull off the sidewalk onto the dirt and bypass the problems.  That bit of information had also been recorded in my memory, and not called up for review in many decades, but it was still there, in sharp detail.  At the edge of the adjoining property, there used to be a large magnolia tree (more like a bush) that produced branches from just above ground level.  It would have been a great hiding place but there was no cavity among the branches to allow such activity.  Besides, the ground around the trunk was covered with the big stiff, dead leaves and there were always spider webs in the lower portion.  Still, imagination allowed for the visualization of a great hiding place.  As we rounded the corner, I noted that the big brick column was still standing, near the curb.  Before I was born, there used to be a street light mounted on top.  The column was about two feet square, stood about seven or seven and one-half feet tall, and the brick matched the house on the corner.  There was not another like this in the entire town.  I was probably in junior high school before I could manage to climb to the top and enjoy the surrounding view.  The satisfaction of that was just one of the many benefits of growing up.  Reaching the summit of a mountain wouldn’t have offered more personal satisfaction at the time.

The next residence was owned by one of the town’s wealthier citizens.  In addition to owning that corner house, and his residence, he also owned the town’s only hotel.  He drove a black two-door’40 model Ford sedan.  He was an older fellow, and a widower.  In time he married an attractive, gray haired lady and the event ignited the town’s rumor mill.  She was a sophisticated, nice lady and I knew her casually after I grew up.  She outlived her husband.  I can recall in the summer, when they might have the front door open, a chandelier could be seen.  It was not huge, but it was just something unusual to see in our little town.  I always surmised that the interior of the house must be luxurious.  Many, many years later, for a brief period of time, I was charged with management of that property, and a couple of rental properties that were also in the estate.  Much to my surprise, when I first entered that residence, it still contained the furnishings and personal items of the deceased residents.  There was nothing fancy about any of it.  It appeared that the couple lived about like everyone else in the community and by then, it needed interior repair work.  It was rather sad to experience reality erasing a portion of my childhood imagination.

Slowly, hand in hand, we made our way across access to an alley and found ourselves at the rear edge of the First Baptist Church property.  When I was a child, there was a frame building at that location.  That is where my first memory of attending Sunday school was formed.  I don’t know how old I was – maybe three, but I remember my teacher, Mrs. Butler, and a low table that contained a sand box.  Several toys were contained therein.  I vividly remember my clothes also containing sand after a classmate took a little tin shovel and deposited sand down my collar.  Love thy neighbor!

After reaching the corner of the block, and turning back north, I recalled the original church building.  It was a large frame structure with a stucco exterior.  Stucco was quite common in those days.  The building sat on a high foundation and the front door was accessed by climbing several steps up to the porch.  There was no basement, so I guess it was built as close to Heaven as was financially feasible.  Oh, I spent many weeks in there on Sunday mornings.  Mohair suits were the thing for kids in those days; wool, with little hair-like strands sticking out.  Men’s suits were also made of wool, but of a finer texture and “shaved” to a smooth, comfortable feel.  “Sit still!” my mother would whisper.  She might as well have dusted me with itching powder and then admonished me to be still.  If the sanctuary became a little too warm, a bit of perspiration combined with the stickery wool, was almost like Chinese water torture, or being staked out in an ant bed.  As if that were not enough to virtually make the clock stand still, the pastor had a voice that should have been given to a physically larger man.  There were times when he was making a point, that thunder rocked the building, and I frequently thought that I could detect the odor of hot brimstone!  I didn’t have to wear the torture suits on Sunday nights, so time passed about 50% faster.  I was blessed with more than one Mohair suit while growing up, before boys’ styles changed. 

The building is long gone.  A new edifice took its place.  Beth and I were married in the new building.  I didn’t wear a Mohair suit.  I wore an equally uncomfortable tuxedo.  In the ensuing years, that uncomfortable feeling diminished – somewhat.

Ah, the next building was the funeral home.  It is a two story structure with a flat roof and had a second floor screened-in porch, overlooking the street.  It may seem strange, but I spent a fair amount of time in the funeral home.  One of my classmates was the son of the mortician and their residence was on the second floor.  The whole place was fascinating!  A couple of times I accompanied Webber into the preparation room where he, on an occasion or two, retrieved a large chrome syringe.  Of course we didn’t understand its intended use, but it was many, many times better than any water pistol either of us owned.  You could wet down a stray dog from thirty feet away!  It was great.  I don’t know how Webber’s dad could sense that the instrument was missing, but it seemed that we never got to really field test its full capabilities.  Suddenly, he would appear in the alley, our domain, and he sounded agitated.  Invariably, only moments after surrendering this marvelous weapon, Webber would feel the full force of his dad’s agitation.  Further play for the remainder of the day was cancelled!  Almost instantly, I could remember something that I needed to do at home.  I was always glad that I was not involved in all that confusion.
 
One day when Webber and I were in junior high, we experienced a milestone in history.  Webber’s sister, Glenna, was then in college and she and some of her friends drove up in front of the funeral home.  Webber and I were engaged in some important activity in the front yard when they arrived.  This probably would have been a ‘non-event” had the girls not been eating something from a colorful bag.  Immediately and instinctively, Webber moved in on the kill.  His sister wouldn’t share the bounty.  Considerable brother-sister conversation ensued (actually, it was more like one-sided begging).  Finally, Webber’s persistence paid off and he and I were both rewarded with “one small piece.”  It was heavenly!  Never had I tasted anything like it.  The treasurer closed the door to the vault and it was all over.  I asked what the name of the product was and instantly I burned the name in my mind.  It was several months later that I finally found that tasty treat in a local grocery store.  Nectar of the gods – in a bag!  I still vividly remember the name -     
“Fritos.”  And, it was right about here on the sidewalk, where I first tasted a Frito chip.        

Just north of the funeral home was a one story, flat roofed, stucco, commercial building.  It had a lawn in front and the entrance was flanked by two large plate glass windows.  The place was always hospital clean.  This was the office of Pioneer Natural Gas Company.  Inside, they had considerably more floor space than needed.  Behind that expanse sat a couple of desks, occupied by two female clerks.  Directly behind their working area was a wall that separated one or two private offices, and doorway leading into the rear of the building.  The overall neatness and the unused floor space in the customer area presented a different atmosphere than that found in any other commercial building in town.  I can’t better describe the ambiance, but to this day I can still feel it.

Tucked away on the corner was a typical, for the day, service station.  It was separated from the gas company property by a vacant lot.  Another vacant lot joined it on the side street.  When I was a kid, the station was still equipped with hand operated gas pumps.  They had large cylindrical glass containers on the top of the pump stands and each contained a metal, internal measuring “stick,” marked off in gallons, totaling up to 20.  On occasion, I might stop by and pump gas up into the glass reservoir on one or more of the pumps.  It never occurred to me that the owner might not appreciate my free labor, but I was never called down.  Everyone in town knew everyone else, and everyone knew who my dad was.

Right after WWII, someone put in a used car lot on the two vacant lots previously described.  Where they got them, I have no idea but they brought in several 1920’s and ‘30’s big sedans.  Many had wooden spoke wheels and huge headlights.  These were not wrecks, but probably had been stored on blocks by their various owners during the war because of gas and tire shortages.  None of the cars were locked and there was never a car lot office or attendant.  I guess there was a phone number on the signs for contact purposes.  To enhance our driving skills, we often went down and took one of those big babies on a static drive.  The interiors were intact and would be worth a fortune for collectors in today’s market.  The cars are long gone, but I can still see them in my mind.

After turning the corner at the service station and passing that side-street vacant lot, we cross the alley and passed an old, two story frame building.  I don’t know what the original use of the building was.  Maybe a hotel – maybe a boarding house.  Sitting back behind the house, near the alley, was a long, low sheet metal building with a shed roof, sloping to the rear.  There were a number of garages there, with wooden doors and at least one small living quarters.  Before my time, this had been a “tourist court;” a fore runner of the motel.  The living space was occupied, and someone used the garage areas for storage.  The old two story house was sometimes occupied and over the years, two of my classmates lived there.  This would not have been luxury living.  I remember a toilet that had been built on the back of the house, and having an outside entrance.  It had an old commode that may have been removed from the Ark, after it landed. (Maybe, Noah threw it overboard.)  By the day’s standards, it was an industrial contraption, and had a riveted cylindrical tank that sat vertically above, and back of the bowl.  The bowl held no water.  When the seat was pressed down, a drain flapper opened and water ran through this riveted contraption continuously, into the bowl and making a horrible noise which continued until the seat was again raised.  Scared the heck out of me!  Something about that whole thing was not right!

We were over three-quarters of the way around the block, and my mind was still pulling out memory snap shots.  We made our way up the sidewalk alongside the house of my parents’ longtime neighbor.  It was there, right after WWII that I helped their son, an ex-Marine, install a central sprinkler system one summer.  I don’t recall any money changing hands, but it gave me something different to do and I had always liked and admired him.  The first time that I remember (trying to) steering a car, I was sitting in his lap.  What a thrill.  1940 Ford Coupe, off-white.  I still would love to have that car.  Anyway, the sprinkler system was installed with ½” black pipe and didn’t last but a few years.  Being that close after the end of the war, it might not have been possible to have purchased galvanized pipe.  Or, maybe the price was prohibitive.  Also, accidentally buried out there in that yard lies my dad’s borrowed Stilson pipe wrench.  I don’t think my dad ever quite got over the loss of that wrench.

Harley