SCHOOL DAYS, OF THE ELEMENTARY VARIETY

 As baby-boomers, we grew up surrounded by other families with children our age. For instance, at one time within a one block radius of the house in which I grew up in Tupelo, there were 18 school-age boys. And a bunch of girls too, but we didn’t play with them much, yet. Now I must admit that those numbers were a little skewed because our next-door neighbors, the Milams, had eight of those 18 boys, but one gets the idea.

We moved into that little house on Chester Street, the first and only home my parents ever owned, the August before I entered the fourth grade. The day we moved in, Jimmy Green and Johnny Milam were our first visitors. By that weird, inexplicable kid radar, they somehow knew that there was a new boy in the neighborhood who was their age. Unfortunately, I was recovering from my tonsillectomy and could not play that day, but within a few days I was out and about with my new friends.

Jimmy lived just up the street in the largest house in the neighborhood. His father was an Ob-Gyn, and his mother came “from money.” Johnny lived right next door to us, the third of ten children, the first eight of which were boys. The Milams also had two girls, Joan and Marie.

For the first time in my life, I was surrounded with playmates of or near my own age: Johnny’s brothers, Tommy, Milton, Allen, Robert, Mike, Bill, and Max; Scotty Whatley down the street and one year older; Andy Lee and Scotty Talent, both also one year older, just up the street; Bob Burleson, our age, right around the corner from Scotty Talent; and Clark Adams, our age, and his younger brother John on the next block.

We, like so many American boys, then and now, were sports fans. One of the major differences between then and now is that there was no ESPN, no 24-7 sports coverage. Rather there was one baseball game on each week, on Saturday afternoon, The Game of the Week on CBS with Dizzy Dean and Peewee Reese announcing. We were big fans of Dizzy because not only was he a legendary pitcher of whom we had heard countless stories about from our fathers, uncles, and grandfathers, but he was a Mississippian to boot. Whenever Dad fired up the grill, you can be sure he used Ole Diz Charcoal Briquets.

The only exception to that weekly game was the World Series which in those days was played in the afternoon. This meant that during our elementary school years, as soon as the 3:00 o’clock bell rang, we all dashed to the kid’s home nearest the school or to Cecil Waters’ Service Station to watch the final innings of the game.

By the time we entered junior high, small Japanese transistor radios were becoming popular, and this proved a boon for World Series fans. Every class seemed to have at least one boy with a transistor radio and the little bitty earplug that connected to the radio with a thin white wire.

With the radio secreted in a pocket, this paragon of daring would snake the wire up through his shirt and out through the neck. Seating the tiny earplug in place, he would listen to the tinny voice of the broadcaster at low volume and pass along the score which swept across the room in whispers and finger signs.

If the teacher got suspicious or happened to walk down his row, the malefactor would nonchalantly put his elbow on his desk and rest his neck on the palm of his hand effectively hiding the tiny wire. Thus, we were current on the score when the 3:00 o’clock bell rang, and we could dash across the street to Cecil Waters’.

Cecil’s Pure filling station was on Gloster Street right across the street from the Milam Junior High. Now bear in mind, this was no filling station/convenience store, no 7-11 or Minute Mart or QuickTrip.  No, this was a service station where attendants pumped your gas, checked your oil and water levels and the air pressure in your tires, and cleaned your windshield. Racks of tires were rolled out of the service bays every day. Racks of oil cans stood between the pumps. You could get a lube job or a brake job or have your carburetor adjusted or a flat tire patched, all while you waited.

No, in those days, the most you might expect was a coin-operated drink machine outside and occasionally packs of peanut butter-and-crackers, locally referred to as Nabs, for sale inside. But Cecil, acute businessman that he was and aware of the opportunities for commerce supplied by a junior high school right across the street, offered amenities beyond the norm.

 Inside was a counter with a cash register; a freezer loaded with Fudgsicles, Popsicles, and Nifty bars (vanilla ice cream on a stick coated with chocolate); a cooler filled with ice cold Coca-Cola, or Co-Cola as we called it; and the aforementioned Nabs. You could even buy a locally made and wrapped sandwich, chicken salad or pimento cheese on white bread, for instance. Although it was strictly forbidden, students would often forego the school cafeteria and slip across the street for lunch at Cecil’s.

But what really set Cecil’s apart, most significantly to us sports fans, was a wonderful little black-and-white TV located on a shelf high above the counter. This little TV meant that during the World Series, in addition to regular customers and the paper boys picking up the Memphis Press-Scimitar for afternoon delivery, Cecil was blessed with a horde of schoolboys, cheek to jowl with grease monkeys and patrons, buying Cokes and ice cream bars and vying for standing-room-only spots to watch the game. It was chaotic and xciting, and no subscriber in town received his afternoon paper, The Memphis Press-Scimitar, until after the last out of the last inning.

Most of us kids rooted for the Yankees in the American League. Heck this was the era of Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and Tony Kubek. Our loyalties in the National League definitely lay with the St. Louis Cardinals of Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Curt Flood, and Ken Boyer. Plus, they had Tim McCarver from Memphis, practically a homeboy to us, behind the plate. In those days, the Cardinal Radio Network blanketed the Mid-South, so we could at least listen to every game.

But nothing beat seeing the games on TV at Cecil’s. We learned a lot about winning and losing and heartbreak watching those games, and in the presence of so many grown men, some of whom may have had a financial stake in the game, we soon acquired a whole new vocabulary which we were admonished not to share with our parents or teachers.

The other profound difference between these days and those, sports-wise, was that in those days until one entered junior high, the only organized sport was Little League Baseball. No flag football, no youth basketball, and heaven forbid, no soccer. We did not even know what soccer was in 1962.

We spent our days outside playing pick-up games of baseball, football, and basketball, depending on the season, usually in Mr. Pennington’s enormous empty lot behind the Milam’s yard. And this is where that freedom came in: We had no adult supervision. We were on our own. We chose our own teams and laid out our fields, sidelines, and bases. We gave the younger kids extra strikes and had the older guys bat off-handed. We settled all rules challenges among ourselves, often with shouting and gesturing, only occasionally resorting to pushing or shoving.

The value of this was enormous. Although we had no idea at the time, we were learning to negotiate and work things out for ourselves at a very early age without having adults mediate for us.

We walked to and from school together, often even going home for lunch, and played until dark, kid dark, that is, which is much later than adult dark.

In the summer, the only time we were in the house was to eat or sleep. Otherwise, we were mowing yards or delivering the newspaper or playing ball or swimming in the city pool which was just down the street by Joyner Elementary School. As we got a little older, we drifted on past the pool to the Rockwell Youth Center for ping pong, billiards, or just to hang out.  

Johnny and I became especially close friends. After the fourth grade, Johnny even coaxed me into going out for Little League Baseball. Johnny, already an established player, was selected by the perennial powerhouse team sponsored by Blue Bell, a local blue jean manufacturer. I was selected by Purnell’s Pride, a local chicken processor.

One of our biggest concerns during those lazy summer days of practice was whether our ballcaps would have PP or just P on them. Obviously as 10-year-old boys, we were mortified at the thought of PP on our caps, and Johnny was already digging me about it. But a week before our first game, our caps arrived, yellow wool with a single navy-blue P stitched on the front. Whew! Were we relieved!

I have uncorrectable 20/200 vision in my right eye. The neural pathway between eye and brain never properly developed. I cannot even read the E on the top line of the eyechart. Now I am not a particularly gifted athlete, but my lack of reliable depth perception certainly did not help me tracking down fly balls or connecting my bat with a pitched baseball. To my father’s everlasting credit, he threw thousands of fly balls and grounders in our backyard, and I got better much better at fielding, but I was never much of a hitter. Essentially, I was nobody’s idea of a star on the baseball diamond.

But I still loved the game.

In addition to school and Little League, Johnny and I were also in Cub Scouts and eventually Boy Scouts together. Mr. Tom Milam, Johnny’s father was our Webelos Leader and taught us the Scout Law, Promise, Handshake, and other rudimentary things we had to learn before joining Troop 3, which we did the year we turned eleven. The troop was chartered by the First Presbyterian Church where Mr. Milam was a member.

Mrs. Milam was a Roman Catholic which meant that as per church doctrine, the children were raised Catholic. She and the children attended St. James Catholic Church on Highway 45 north of town, but when it came time for Boy Scouts, we headed over to First Pres. Our Scoutmaster was Mr. Miles Garber, and Mr. Brooks Walker was one of the assistants. Both of them lived within a block of our house, although in opposite directions.

        My mother took a stint as Den Mother, and a Mrs. Lawhon, I believe her name was, did too. As a Webelos Scout, I served Mrs. Marianne Caldwell’s den as Den Chief. In those days Cub Scout dens met right after school, and yes, we wore our Cub Scout uniforms to school and walked or pedaled our bicycles to Den meetings and then home.

Johnny’s oldest brother, Tommy, was also in the troop and went with us when Johnny and I went to our first summer camp at Camp Yocona. Summer camp was a treat. We got to sleep in tents all week and cook our own food. Nobody made us bathe although we swam in the lake every day. Johnny and I became especially fond of canoeing.

On Sunday night, the first night of camp, Troop 3 joined all the other troops in camp down at the large natural amphitheater by the lake for the opening campfire replete with skits, songs, and Indian dancing. Johnny and I were transfixed by the soaring flames, leaping Indian braves in full regalia, and pounding drums.

Now as every Scout knows, the Trading Post opens as soon as the opening campfire is over. Johnny and I joined the seething throng on the way to the TP. I was determined to get myself an Indian moccasin kit but was disappointed that night. The crowd was too dense, and the TP closed before I could get to the counter.

By this time, we couldn’t find another soul from Troop 3 anywhere around the trading Post and began the long trudge back to camp, just the two of us with only a rudimentary idea of how to get back to our campsite. About all we knew was that our site was the furthest one from the Trading Post, all the way on the far side of the lake.

We floundered around in the dark without the benefit of the flashlight, a mistake we never made again. Eventually we spied the flicker of a campfire and the glow of Coleman lanterns on the other side of a hollow from the trail we were on. We called over and sure enough it was Troop 3. Eschewing the trail, Johnny and I plunged into the hollow and struggled through the undergrowth and back to the safety of our troop’s campsite and only slightly scratched up.

        Later that week I went back to the TP and got that moccasin kit. I made my first pair of Indian moccasins that very night and wore them all summer long until I wore the soles out of them.

Each campsite was furnished with a set of showers, in those days, communal showers, which provided essentially no privacy. The older boys would stroll to the showers in flip-flops with their towels over their shoulders with a casual air of regal swagger, rather pleased to show off the changes being wrought in their bodies. I don’t believe either Johnny or I took a shower the entire week. We figured as long as we were swimming in the lake every day, that was all the bathing we needed.

Next to the showers was the latrine, wooden seats with wooden lids over a deep pit, a communal outhouse if you will. I must have been a real eye-opener for city boys, but my mother’s parents had had an outhouse when they lived on the farm, so I was familiar. Nevertheless, like every first year Scout we had to shine our flashlights into the latrine, pinch our noses, and go, “Whewwww!”

We had all been warned about ticks that summer, and sure enough, as we were pulling on our swimming trunks before heading to the waterfront, Johnny noticed that I had a tick on the back of my left shoulder. We both knew the treatment from our Scout Handbook. First, you slide a knifeblade under the tick and lift up easily to see if is firmly attached. If it is, then you strike a match, then blow it out and place the still hot matchhead against the tick’s body. At which point, the tick will back out.

Having no matches, we dashed off to find Mr. Garber. Now, I must explain that Mr. Garber had a form of palsy which caused slight tremors, most noticeably in his hands.

“Let’s take a look there, Greg,” Mr. Garber said and reached into his pocket. He withdrew an official Boy Scout pocketknife and folded out the cutting blade. “Gotta be sure that tick’s dug in there first,” he added.

I craned to look over my shoulder at the dread tick and the sharp, shiny blade in Mr. Garber’s trembling hand as it approached my tender, young flesh. I tried in vain to match the erratic movement of the blade.

“Be real still now,” Mr. Garber whispered and slid the blade under the tick’s body.

A quick glance assured me that Johnny found the entire episode entertaining.

I knew that if you tried to pull a tick out by the body, its head would usually break off and remain in your body. Then it had to be dug out with a knife or some such. Now, as I felt Mr. Garber’s slight tug, I was sure that he was about to do just that.

But no. Satisfied, he removed the knife without yanking the tick’s body apart or cutting me. “Yep, he’s in there,” Mr. Garber said. “Be right back,” He added and headed for his tent. He returned with a box of wooden kitchen matches.

Removing one, he struck it on the box and when the flair died down, blew it out. Then holding my shoulder with one hand, he guided the red-hot glowing tip toward the tick. Again, I peered over my shoulder and tried to move my shoulder in coordination with that matchhead, convinced that I was about to be burned and scarred for life.

But again, Mr. Garber whispered, “Be still now,” and unerringly touched that match to the tick. The tick immediately backed out. Mr. Garber grabbed it and crushed it.

“That’s that,” he said, rubbing my shoulder. “You two, get on down to the waterfront now.”

“Thank you,” I called back as we ran back to our tent for our towels. Then it was off to the lake and another day of fun at summer camp.

Johnny and I returned from Scout camp a little thinner and a little browner from both the sun and the grime, and happy. The summer wound down and we began preparing to return to school. Milam Junior High loomed on the horizon. Johnny and I had been in different classes in the fourth grade. He had Mrs. Bryson while I had Miss Eubanks until she had taken over for our principal Miss Mary who had become ill. Mrs. Luckett took over our class at that point. In the fifth grade we were both in Miss Smith’s class.

We had walked back and forth to school every day and home for lunch on most days for two years, had played together constantly, had shared a tent for a week at summer camp. We could only imagine what life would be like this fall at Milam Junior High. Only we would ever know, for life took an unexpected turn. Mr. Milam took a job with Ragland Potter, a grocery wholesaler in Nashville, Tennessee, and just like that, as summer wound down, my best friend and his brothers, my playmates, were packing up to move.