A world without Walmart is hard to fathom. The retail giant's 3400 U.S. stores have done a lot of good for both the American and Chinese economies. But, "Wally World" has also put a lot of Mom & Pop businesses in their graves.
In a small community like Riverside, there was no such thing as Walmart during the 1960's-70's. But, Riverside did not need a Walmart. There were several small grocery stores, one drug store, a couple of barber shops, a dry cleaners, a filling station or two, and a funeral home. Folks in Riverside could shop, get their clothes and their hair groomed, buy cold medicine and band-aids, fill up their gas tank, and get "laid out right" at the end - all without leaving our little community.
There were three, really "classy" stores/businesses in Riverside. (By way of disclaimer, it is noted that ALL businesses in Riverside had their own element of "class," given that they were located in a such a classy community as ours.)
First, there was Gary's Grocery. Mr. C.J. Gary ran the typical, small-town grocery store. Dry goods, groceries, meats, fresh "Farmer's Market" fruits and vegetables, candy and soft drinks, and a host of other products lined the shelves. Mr. Gary delivered to selected, nearby households, and was always willing to take suggestions from his customers regarding new items to consider adding to his inventory. Going to Mr. Gary's store was always a treat for a young man. Mr. Gary was an interesting man, with lots of stories to tell. He also frequently gave candy to the children who were sent in by their mothers on purchasing errands.
The second classiest business in Riverside was Smallwood's Barber Shop. The three Smallwood brothers ran their business in a small building at the corner of Bolton Road and Paul Avenue. These brothers did two things in their shop. One of them, obviously, was cutting hair. The other was playing music. One brother played the banjo, another the fiddle, and another the guitar. If one dropped out to handle a customer, the other two kept right on picking.
The Smallwoods were not great barbers. They knew only one style of haircut - a white-sidewall, military, "high and tight." Anything other than this was uncharted territory. A customer could ask them for any style haircut under the sun. But, when the job was finished and the client climbed out of that barber chair, the final result was fashioned more to the Smallwood's preference than their customer's.
Just like the old story about a long-haired hippie who came into a crusty old barber's shop back in the 1980's.
This old barber wore a flat-top, played nothing but traditional country stations on his shop's radio, and disliked anything that was not politically conservative or Southern. The hippie bounded into his shop one day, plopped down and said, "Hey dude, I want a 'Billy Idol' haircut." Billy Idol was a rock star during the 1980's. William Michael Albert Broad (Idol's real name) was a tiny fellow, with short, snow-white hair. One of Idol's trademarks was his hair style. He wore it heavy with gel, and combed to stand straight up on his head.
The old barber was not familiar with Mr. Idol nor his coiffure. He said nothing in reply to the young, long-haired, man. Throwing a barber cloth around his neck, he spun the chair around so his young customer could not see the mirror. With clippers in hand, the old barber made about three swipes over the hippie's scalp, leaving him with a completely "buzzed" head. He quickly spun the young man back around so "she" could see "his" new look in the mirror. The young fellow shrieked in horror and shouted, "That's NOT how Billy Idol would get his hair cut!" The old barber shot back, "It would be if he came in here!"
If you went into Smallwood's for a haircut, you came out looking like they wanted you to. Very much as if you had just enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.
What the Smallwood's did do well was bluegrass - as well as deeply traditional country, and old, "down-home" gospel. Many folks frequented their humble shop - but mostly for the music rather than the haircuts.
The classiest business in Riverside did not sell groceries, drugs, gasoline, or haircuts.
They sold furniture.
Tidwell's Furniture Store was probably a little too classy for our community. Their store was a modest, free-standing building, which sat next to a gas station near the corner of Bolton Road and South Cobb Drive. The Tidwell family had been merchants in the Bolton/Riverside area for generations.
Their store was always clean, elegantly styled, and the only store in Riverside with air conditioning. Tidwell's did not sell junk. Their furniture was only the best quality, and very reasonably priced.
This writer remembers Tidwell's vividly for two reasons.
First, they accepted payments for utility bills. Both Georgia Power and Atlanta Gas Light had granted Tidwell's the right to collect monthly payment of electric and natural gas bills. This was a very smart business decision, as it brought potential customers into their store on a regular basis.
Mrs. Tidwell usually handled the payment process. She had a clipboard or payment book for each company. She recorded each payment carefully in the appropriate book or ledger, and with the neatest handwriting this young lad had ever seen. It was a pleasure to watch her neatly and unhurriedly make the payment entries on those pages. While doing so, she was always careful to ask how the family was doing, and talk about her family as well. She was a very gracious lady - never acting as if these bill payments were an annoyance to her. She seemed very glad to have the interaction with her neighbors.
The second reason for this writer's high regard for Tidwell's Furniture Store had to do with a present he received for his thirteenth birthday.
Whenever Mama went to Tidwell's, her son always asked to accompany her. In later years, when her health was failing, it was her son who went each month for her. While Mama and Mrs. Tidwell visited with one another, it was quite an adventure to roam around the store looking at their merchandise. Again, this is exactly what this savvy, business-minded, family had in mind.
Tidwell's not only sold high quality furniture, but they also carried a respectable array of color televisions and stereos. One particular unit caught this thirteen year old's eye on a Tidwell's visit in the Fall of 1968. It was a desktop style, AM/FM, stereo turntable and 8-track tape player combo.
At age thirteen, young boys begin yearning for two things - their own room, and a way to listen to, "their music." Earlier that year, Mama and Daddy had consented for their son to move his things into the tiny back bedroom of the family's small, Riverside home. It was time for he and his younger sister to stop sharing a room. With one prayer answered, all that was left was the acquisition of a stereo record/tape player.
One of the Tidwells came over that day and demonstrated the stereo unit. The turntable was smooth, and the built-in, 8-track tape player looked so cool as it changed from one track to the next. The AM/FM stereo radio got great reception from all the local music stations. Who could have asked for more? This young listener stood there for what seemed to be an eternity, lost in the music and the great sound that came out of that stereo.
What a surprise it was when this thirteen-year-old birthday boy was presented with that same stereo as his gift. Second prayer answered! What a way to welcome in the teen years!
Evidently, both Mrs. Tidwell and Mama had taken note during that visit of her son's fixation on this piece of audio gear. Mama paid for the unit that day, and had Daddy pick up a brand new, still-in-the-box, version of it a few days later. It was one of the greatest birthday presents a young man could have received. It might as well have been a gift from heaven.
Though it did not come from above, that stereo, and the timeless memories of those monthly visits to the, "classiest store in Riverside," were priceless gifts, nonetheless. No trip to any Walmart, anywhere, anytime, will ever equal shopping with the neighborhood merchants of this writer's beloved home community.
To Mr. C.J. Gary, the Smallwood brothers, the Tidwell family, and all the store owners of Riverside...
Thank you for helping make our community the very "classy" place it was. It is on this 11th day of March, 2011 - on what would have been my late mother's 89th birthday - that I salute you.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 11, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
"Life Before Xbox"
Wii, Xbox and PlayStation.
Ask any young person in 2011 what these things are. They know. They know all too well.
"Virtual" games have virtually replaced the real thing. It began with a device called an Atari and a game called "Pac-Man." Next there was "Mario Brothers" and "Donkey Kong," which came with the insidious, yet infectious, music that became so recognizable.
Technology enables children of today to "play" without ever leaving the living room or the TV screen. Tennis, golf, baseball, martial arts, race car driving, and a closet full of other games and amusements are available. Young females can even buy, or download, a game that allows them to dress and mother a "SimBaby" (simulated/virtual infant).
Amazing!
Thankfully, these games, as well as the host controller units they must have in order to operate, only cost a small fortune. If they were very expensive at all, parents might have to go out and get a third mortgage or home equity line, instead of just two.
At the risk of sounding crotchety and/or far too nostalgic, this writer is thankful to have grown up in a time and place when games were real (versus "virtual"). Games were also inexpensive. And, they were tied more to a kid's imagination than to some highly-paid, computer geek, "gamer" who sits and stares at a virtual screen all day long.
The list of child games from yesteryear is "virtually" endless. It would include: Jacks, Marbles, Straws, Spoons, Hide and Go Seek, Red Rover, Tag, Duck-Duck-Goose, Leap Frog, Kick the Can, Mother-May I?, Simon Says, Musical Chairs, I Spy, Red Light-Green Light, Tick-Tack-Toe, Hop Scotch, Rock-Paper-Scissors, Thumb Wrestling, Slap, Cowboys and Indians, and House.
These games rarely cost anyone anything, and were instantly available. The only thing required for most was the mere suggesttion of, "Let's play ____________." If toys or other items were involved, they were usually cheap to buy, or already part of the private stash of one of the neighborhood families.
For instance, a high-quality fort could easily be made with old boards or planks, cardboard boxes, a few chairs, and one of Mama's discarded sheets or tablecloths. Props of all kinds were an outgrowth of the imagination.
Early in this writer's childhood, a neighborhood family whose property backed-up to ours also had a boy of similar age. The only part of his name that remains in the memory today are his initials, "R.L." He was no more intelligent than the rest of the neighborhood boys, but R.L.'s imagination ran on the Autobahn in terms of being ahead of his time.
One of every young boy's favorite television shows was, "Sky King." This was a show about a World War II aviator turned Arizona rancher who flew his Cessna aircraft into all sorts of high adventure. Every young lad wanted to be "Sky King."
The popular way to emulate the show's flight scenes was to extend the arms out from one's side, weave up and down and from from side to side, while making sounds of a plane engine with one's mouth.
R.L. took this a step further.
He somehow secured an old wicker bottom dining chair from his mother. It was a ladder back design. R.L. took a hammer and broke out enough slats in the ladder back to be able to slide himself down through the chair back. He would lay the chair on the ground, step into the area where the slats had been, and pull the chair up around his waist. This way, the wicker seat was aginst his chest, with the legs jutting out in front of him. In his imagination, he was now in the cockpit of his own Cessna. As he walked along, he would hold that chair up high around his chest and pretend to be Sky King - flying his own "plane." No expensive gaming system needed.
One of the other neighborhood boys loved to watch, "The Lone Ranger." After the show was over each week, with no horse available, the young wannabe cowboy got his dad to tie a rope around a large, low-hanging tree limb. It was tied in a fashion that resembled a bridle on a horse's neck. An old pillow was borrowed from his mother for a "saddle." As a result, instant horse!
Other games required their own unique accessories. A large silk scarf made a perfect cape for playing Superman. The cape doubled as a parachute, when the intent was to imitate another show from the time called, "Ripcord." In that show, skydivers were the action figures and heroes. In playing, "Ripcord," scarf-clad neighborhood boys "parachuted" the short distance to the ground from the roof of a small garage. No sky-diving plane or expensive lessons were needed.
Life before Xbox also allowed children to invent, "Imaginary Friends." When no real playmates were around, "virtual" ones could be conjured up at a moment's notice. These imaginary human beings were no High-Definition, 3-D, "Avatars." They were the objects of a child's endless imagination.
Life before Xbox was lived outdoors. Children stayed outside most of the long, summer days of their youth. The only trips indoors were to eat, visit the bathroom, do some sort of dreaded household chore, or escape the danger of a passing thunderstorm. When mothers did call their children indoors, it was difficult to get them to comply. "Can't we stay out just a little while longer?" was the customary plea.
Even at night, things like catching lightning bugs, or telling ghost stories while "camping out," kept children out of the house. Mothers would sometimes donate an old quilt or sheet, that was draped over the clothesline (there were no clothes dryers other than the sun). This became a tent. Or, if the Dad of the family had been extra industrious, there was a tree house somewhere in the neighborhood where kids congregated until just before bedtime.
It seems that these practices have now been reversed with the coming of the so-called, "virtual age."
Life before Xbox did involve the use of a television, but for watching cartoons and great family shows like, "The Andy Griffith Show," "Mr. Ed," and "My Favorite Martian." With only three channels and no remote control, black and white television was no match for today's monster-sized, flat screen, HD, cable/satellite-fed, marvels. However, when those incomparable shows from that era came on, even on that small, black and white screen, children became mezmorized - lying motionless for a solid half-hour, on the floor, directly in front of the set. It was the only time during the day when they were still.
Life before Xbox had at least one other priceless feature. Storytelling.
The master of storytelling was, and shall always be, Andy Griffith. His creative spinning of a yarn for the boys of Mayberry was a highlight of that classic show. Whether they were ghost stories by a campfire, or the re-telling of an event like Paul Revere's historic ride, a gifted storyteller like Mr. Griffith could do more with a child's imagination than any electronic, cyber game ever will.
For a while during this writer's childhood, Riverside had its own storyteller. His name was Cliff Herrin.
Mr. Herrin was the scout master for Boy Scout Troop 467, which met in one of the buildings on the property of the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church. The Herrins lived across the street from this writer's family on Forrest Avenue. He had two boys of his own, and was forever hosting impromptu get-togethers in their family's yard for all the neighborhood kids. It was around a campfire in his yard that the classic, ghostly tale of the, "Golden Arm," was first heard by many of the youngsters in our community.
Mr. Herrin told the story like Andy Griffith would have. Displaying emotion, exaggerated facial expressions, and vocal inflection, he made the tale seem vividly real. He kept that circle of young folks glued to his every word and gesture. When the crowning line of the "Golden Arm" story finally came, the boys jumped and the girls shrieked. It was better than a movie!
Take that, Xbox!
Life before the High-Def age was a great thing. Every day was yet another exciting episode of discovery, creativity, and fun!
Thank you, Lord, for allowing so many of us to grow up during such a great time in history.
A time of...
Life before Xbox.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 10, 2011
Ask any young person in 2011 what these things are. They know. They know all too well.
"Virtual" games have virtually replaced the real thing. It began with a device called an Atari and a game called "Pac-Man." Next there was "Mario Brothers" and "Donkey Kong," which came with the insidious, yet infectious, music that became so recognizable.
Technology enables children of today to "play" without ever leaving the living room or the TV screen. Tennis, golf, baseball, martial arts, race car driving, and a closet full of other games and amusements are available. Young females can even buy, or download, a game that allows them to dress and mother a "SimBaby" (simulated/virtual infant).
Amazing!
Thankfully, these games, as well as the host controller units they must have in order to operate, only cost a small fortune. If they were very expensive at all, parents might have to go out and get a third mortgage or home equity line, instead of just two.
At the risk of sounding crotchety and/or far too nostalgic, this writer is thankful to have grown up in a time and place when games were real (versus "virtual"). Games were also inexpensive. And, they were tied more to a kid's imagination than to some highly-paid, computer geek, "gamer" who sits and stares at a virtual screen all day long.
The list of child games from yesteryear is "virtually" endless. It would include: Jacks, Marbles, Straws, Spoons, Hide and Go Seek, Red Rover, Tag, Duck-Duck-Goose, Leap Frog, Kick the Can, Mother-May I?, Simon Says, Musical Chairs, I Spy, Red Light-Green Light, Tick-Tack-Toe, Hop Scotch, Rock-Paper-Scissors, Thumb Wrestling, Slap, Cowboys and Indians, and House.
These games rarely cost anyone anything, and were instantly available. The only thing required for most was the mere suggesttion of, "Let's play ____________." If toys or other items were involved, they were usually cheap to buy, or already part of the private stash of one of the neighborhood families.
For instance, a high-quality fort could easily be made with old boards or planks, cardboard boxes, a few chairs, and one of Mama's discarded sheets or tablecloths. Props of all kinds were an outgrowth of the imagination.
Early in this writer's childhood, a neighborhood family whose property backed-up to ours also had a boy of similar age. The only part of his name that remains in the memory today are his initials, "R.L." He was no more intelligent than the rest of the neighborhood boys, but R.L.'s imagination ran on the Autobahn in terms of being ahead of his time.
One of every young boy's favorite television shows was, "Sky King." This was a show about a World War II aviator turned Arizona rancher who flew his Cessna aircraft into all sorts of high adventure. Every young lad wanted to be "Sky King."
The popular way to emulate the show's flight scenes was to extend the arms out from one's side, weave up and down and from from side to side, while making sounds of a plane engine with one's mouth.
R.L. took this a step further.
He somehow secured an old wicker bottom dining chair from his mother. It was a ladder back design. R.L. took a hammer and broke out enough slats in the ladder back to be able to slide himself down through the chair back. He would lay the chair on the ground, step into the area where the slats had been, and pull the chair up around his waist. This way, the wicker seat was aginst his chest, with the legs jutting out in front of him. In his imagination, he was now in the cockpit of his own Cessna. As he walked along, he would hold that chair up high around his chest and pretend to be Sky King - flying his own "plane." No expensive gaming system needed.
One of the other neighborhood boys loved to watch, "The Lone Ranger." After the show was over each week, with no horse available, the young wannabe cowboy got his dad to tie a rope around a large, low-hanging tree limb. It was tied in a fashion that resembled a bridle on a horse's neck. An old pillow was borrowed from his mother for a "saddle." As a result, instant horse!
Other games required their own unique accessories. A large silk scarf made a perfect cape for playing Superman. The cape doubled as a parachute, when the intent was to imitate another show from the time called, "Ripcord." In that show, skydivers were the action figures and heroes. In playing, "Ripcord," scarf-clad neighborhood boys "parachuted" the short distance to the ground from the roof of a small garage. No sky-diving plane or expensive lessons were needed.
Life before Xbox also allowed children to invent, "Imaginary Friends." When no real playmates were around, "virtual" ones could be conjured up at a moment's notice. These imaginary human beings were no High-Definition, 3-D, "Avatars." They were the objects of a child's endless imagination.
Life before Xbox was lived outdoors. Children stayed outside most of the long, summer days of their youth. The only trips indoors were to eat, visit the bathroom, do some sort of dreaded household chore, or escape the danger of a passing thunderstorm. When mothers did call their children indoors, it was difficult to get them to comply. "Can't we stay out just a little while longer?" was the customary plea.
Even at night, things like catching lightning bugs, or telling ghost stories while "camping out," kept children out of the house. Mothers would sometimes donate an old quilt or sheet, that was draped over the clothesline (there were no clothes dryers other than the sun). This became a tent. Or, if the Dad of the family had been extra industrious, there was a tree house somewhere in the neighborhood where kids congregated until just before bedtime.
It seems that these practices have now been reversed with the coming of the so-called, "virtual age."
Life before Xbox did involve the use of a television, but for watching cartoons and great family shows like, "The Andy Griffith Show," "Mr. Ed," and "My Favorite Martian." With only three channels and no remote control, black and white television was no match for today's monster-sized, flat screen, HD, cable/satellite-fed, marvels. However, when those incomparable shows from that era came on, even on that small, black and white screen, children became mezmorized - lying motionless for a solid half-hour, on the floor, directly in front of the set. It was the only time during the day when they were still.
Life before Xbox had at least one other priceless feature. Storytelling.
The master of storytelling was, and shall always be, Andy Griffith. His creative spinning of a yarn for the boys of Mayberry was a highlight of that classic show. Whether they were ghost stories by a campfire, or the re-telling of an event like Paul Revere's historic ride, a gifted storyteller like Mr. Griffith could do more with a child's imagination than any electronic, cyber game ever will.
For a while during this writer's childhood, Riverside had its own storyteller. His name was Cliff Herrin.
Mr. Herrin was the scout master for Boy Scout Troop 467, which met in one of the buildings on the property of the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church. The Herrins lived across the street from this writer's family on Forrest Avenue. He had two boys of his own, and was forever hosting impromptu get-togethers in their family's yard for all the neighborhood kids. It was around a campfire in his yard that the classic, ghostly tale of the, "Golden Arm," was first heard by many of the youngsters in our community.
Mr. Herrin told the story like Andy Griffith would have. Displaying emotion, exaggerated facial expressions, and vocal inflection, he made the tale seem vividly real. He kept that circle of young folks glued to his every word and gesture. When the crowning line of the "Golden Arm" story finally came, the boys jumped and the girls shrieked. It was better than a movie!
Take that, Xbox!
Life before the High-Def age was a great thing. Every day was yet another exciting episode of discovery, creativity, and fun!
Thank you, Lord, for allowing so many of us to grow up during such a great time in history.
A time of...
Life before Xbox.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 10, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
"The Ice Cream Man"
David Lee Roth & Eddie Van Halen.
These two rock icons likely made a good payday off the simple, three chord, rock tune they called, "The Ice Cream Man." Of course, their play on the metaphor was extremely sexual. Not at all the image that comes to mind when a mid-fifties, southern male remembers his Georgia childhood and upbringing.
Riverside was just that - a community beside a river. River bottom land is almost always good for growing things. But, a major drawback to living in that environment is the heat and humidity from June through August. In the dead of summer, Riverside was a place where Al Gore's "Global Warming" nonsense would have seemed almost plausible.
Sadly, the Chattahoochee River was already being impacted by industrial pollution by the middle of the 1960's. So, going down to the river for a cool swim on a sweltering summer afternoon was not the ideal way anymore to get relief from the heat. Too, most folks during that time, at least in Riverside, did not yet have central air conditioning, or even a window A/C unit, in their homes. The older homes in the neighborhood had been built, as was the practice in earlier times, amongst large water oaks and sweet gum trees in order to benefit from the cool of the shade they provided. Box fans were used inside the house, and the classic, "funeral home fan," was used while sitting on the front porch. These were the easiest and most convenient ways to circulate air, and help folks endure the oppressive heat.
Another option involved a large block of ice purchased at the local ice house. The nearest ice house was located at the corner of Bankhead Highway and Hightower Road. (Bankhead has since been renamed, "Holowell Parkway," but it will forever be known as, "Bankhead Highway," to this Atlanta native). Our family would pick up a block almost every Sunday after church.
Mama would chip large chunks off the ice block, and place them in a wash pan. She would run the pan about half full of water and let it sit for five or ten minutes - until the water became bitingly cold. Then, the pan was positioned in front of the box fan. The forced air over that ice-filled pan really did help cool the room. Too, a "wash rag" placed in the water, wrung out, and wiped over one's face and neck provided instant cool!
The most memorable way, however, to beat the summer heat in Riverside during those remarkable years came lumbering down its streets every Monday through Friday between 2:00 - 3:30 PM.
The Schwan, "Ice Cream Man," made his daily trek through Riverside every afternoon, of every weekday, of every summer, of every year for as long as our family lived in that great old community. His truck could be heard from several blocks away. It was equipped with a loud speaker and an audio device of some kind. Every kid in that old neighborhood knew the sound of the "Ice Cream Man" and his musical truck.
It was the "jingle" that did it. There were no vocals or lyrics, just the sound of the "ding-ding-ding" of the melody blasting loudly through the neighborhood. The only sound rivalling this were the calliope bells that rang out from one of the neighborhood churches. This writer can still "hear" the hymns sounding out so clearly and peacefully on Sunday mornings.
When that ice cream jingle started playing, kids in every house and yard went into full begging mode.
"Please, please, please let me have an ice cream, Mama," was the cry. Wise mothers used the leverage of "ice cream money" as a reward for the timely completion of chores. Either way, one of greatest disappointments for any Riverside child was to see and hear that truck drive right on by, leaving a broken heart and an empty tummy in its wake.
The blessed children fortunate enough to have "ice cream money" came scurrying and swarming like locusts to a grain field.
The Schwan's truck was really nothing more than a large, square ice cream freezer on a heavy duty chassis and wheels. The freezer units on those trucks were monstrously powerful. Even the exterior was cold to the touch. Children lacking ice cream money came running just to stand and lean against the side of the cool Schwan truck.
The Ice Cream Man always dressed in an olive green outfit, complete with an official looking cap which had a badge on the front. He looked a lot like a policeman, but without the gun. Instead, he carried a change-making, shiny, silver, coin carrier on his belt. He could count out change faster than a Walmart self check-out register. And, he knew exactly which of the multiple freezer doors to open to find what each child was clamoring for.
The Ice Cream Man's menu was simple. Push-Ups, Nutty-Buddies, Fudgesicles, Ice Cream Sandwiches, Eskimo Pies, Cups, Rainbow Bars, Popsicles, and "Mr. Freeze(s)." The latter of these was nothing more than frozen Kool-Aid in a long, clear tube. But, on a ninety-plus degree day, it was like sweet manna from heaven.
The prices were also easy to remember. Everything was either .05 cents, or .10 cents.
There was nothing that brought the kind of cool on a hot day like a stop from the Ice Cream Man. There was no song as recognizable as his jingle. He would ride up and down the streets of Riverside several times, just to make certain that no child was, "left behind." (And, educators thought their slogan was original with them.)
There were times when the Ice Cream Man ceased being a businessman and became more of a humanitarian.
Whenever one of the neighborhood's poor kids came around, the Ice Cream Man would sneak a popsicle or other item to them for free. He would whisper, "Now, don't tell the other kids," even though the other kids were standing close enough to hear every word. This act of kindness, done more than a few times, won the appreciation and respect of many mothers and fathers in Riverside.
Just as angels often appear in two's in God's Book, there was also a second, "Ice Cream Man," on our block.
His name was T.J. Speer.
Mr. T.J. Speer was an accountant by trade. He did more tax returns in his lifetime than six H&R Block locations. For a while, his office was located on Concord Road in Smyrna, Georgia. But as he got older, Mr. Speer closed his Smyrna office and moved his operation into the front bedroom of his large, craftsman-style home on Forrest Avenue in Riverside.
Mr. Speer was a large, imposing man, with snow white hair, a voice more gruff and deeper than John Wayne's immortal movie character, Rooster Cogburn. He smoked Pall Mall's for so many years that the index and middle fingers of his right hand were discolored to a deep, yellowish tone. The only time his neighbors saw him without a Pall Mall between his fingers was the night his body "lay a corpse" at Castellaw Funeral Home.
Mr. Speer's home was forever a flurry of activity, particularly during tax season - with a countless parade of cars coming and going at all hours. Part of the activity during the summer was the arrival of the Speer's three grandchildren - David, Debbie, and Russell. When they came to stay for the summer, Mr. Speer's wife, Mary, became a doting grandmother. She hauled those lucky kids all over Fulton, Cobb, and Douglas County. Swimming, summer ball, sightseeing, and playing in the area's parks were just a few of the things that "Nanny" Speer did for her beloved grandkids.
Rarely did "Papa T." ever go on these excursions. But, he made up for it in another highly memorable way.
Whenever David, Debbie and Russell came to visit, "Papa T." frequently treated them, as well as all the other neighborhood children, to Schwan's ice cream. This writer witnessed on many occasions Mr. Speer buying frozen treats for at least a dozen children who were crowded around the Schwan's ice cream truck. Though it only cost him $1.20 at most, this rugged, old, teddy-bear of a man might as well have been Donald Trump passing out $100 bills. The neighborhood kids loved him, and their parents were most willing and glad to let him buy their offspring yet another round of Schwan's.
More than this, with each Nutty Buddy and Push-Up, both Mr. T.J. Speer and the Schwan driver won the hearts of many young people. Their generous deeds impacted more lives than they ever possibly realized.
Hot, summer weather in Georgia was made a little cooler and a little more bearable because of these two great gentlemen.
Every time David Lee Roth & EVH sing and play that song, this Riverside boy remembers our community's version of the, "Ice Cream Men."
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 7, 2011
These two rock icons likely made a good payday off the simple, three chord, rock tune they called, "The Ice Cream Man." Of course, their play on the metaphor was extremely sexual. Not at all the image that comes to mind when a mid-fifties, southern male remembers his Georgia childhood and upbringing.
Riverside was just that - a community beside a river. River bottom land is almost always good for growing things. But, a major drawback to living in that environment is the heat and humidity from June through August. In the dead of summer, Riverside was a place where Al Gore's "Global Warming" nonsense would have seemed almost plausible.
Sadly, the Chattahoochee River was already being impacted by industrial pollution by the middle of the 1960's. So, going down to the river for a cool swim on a sweltering summer afternoon was not the ideal way anymore to get relief from the heat. Too, most folks during that time, at least in Riverside, did not yet have central air conditioning, or even a window A/C unit, in their homes. The older homes in the neighborhood had been built, as was the practice in earlier times, amongst large water oaks and sweet gum trees in order to benefit from the cool of the shade they provided. Box fans were used inside the house, and the classic, "funeral home fan," was used while sitting on the front porch. These were the easiest and most convenient ways to circulate air, and help folks endure the oppressive heat.
Another option involved a large block of ice purchased at the local ice house. The nearest ice house was located at the corner of Bankhead Highway and Hightower Road. (Bankhead has since been renamed, "Holowell Parkway," but it will forever be known as, "Bankhead Highway," to this Atlanta native). Our family would pick up a block almost every Sunday after church.
Mama would chip large chunks off the ice block, and place them in a wash pan. She would run the pan about half full of water and let it sit for five or ten minutes - until the water became bitingly cold. Then, the pan was positioned in front of the box fan. The forced air over that ice-filled pan really did help cool the room. Too, a "wash rag" placed in the water, wrung out, and wiped over one's face and neck provided instant cool!
The most memorable way, however, to beat the summer heat in Riverside during those remarkable years came lumbering down its streets every Monday through Friday between 2:00 - 3:30 PM.
The Schwan, "Ice Cream Man," made his daily trek through Riverside every afternoon, of every weekday, of every summer, of every year for as long as our family lived in that great old community. His truck could be heard from several blocks away. It was equipped with a loud speaker and an audio device of some kind. Every kid in that old neighborhood knew the sound of the "Ice Cream Man" and his musical truck.
It was the "jingle" that did it. There were no vocals or lyrics, just the sound of the "ding-ding-ding" of the melody blasting loudly through the neighborhood. The only sound rivalling this were the calliope bells that rang out from one of the neighborhood churches. This writer can still "hear" the hymns sounding out so clearly and peacefully on Sunday mornings.
When that ice cream jingle started playing, kids in every house and yard went into full begging mode.
"Please, please, please let me have an ice cream, Mama," was the cry. Wise mothers used the leverage of "ice cream money" as a reward for the timely completion of chores. Either way, one of greatest disappointments for any Riverside child was to see and hear that truck drive right on by, leaving a broken heart and an empty tummy in its wake.
The blessed children fortunate enough to have "ice cream money" came scurrying and swarming like locusts to a grain field.
The Schwan's truck was really nothing more than a large, square ice cream freezer on a heavy duty chassis and wheels. The freezer units on those trucks were monstrously powerful. Even the exterior was cold to the touch. Children lacking ice cream money came running just to stand and lean against the side of the cool Schwan truck.
The Ice Cream Man always dressed in an olive green outfit, complete with an official looking cap which had a badge on the front. He looked a lot like a policeman, but without the gun. Instead, he carried a change-making, shiny, silver, coin carrier on his belt. He could count out change faster than a Walmart self check-out register. And, he knew exactly which of the multiple freezer doors to open to find what each child was clamoring for.
The Ice Cream Man's menu was simple. Push-Ups, Nutty-Buddies, Fudgesicles, Ice Cream Sandwiches, Eskimo Pies, Cups, Rainbow Bars, Popsicles, and "Mr. Freeze(s)." The latter of these was nothing more than frozen Kool-Aid in a long, clear tube. But, on a ninety-plus degree day, it was like sweet manna from heaven.
The prices were also easy to remember. Everything was either .05 cents, or .10 cents.
There was nothing that brought the kind of cool on a hot day like a stop from the Ice Cream Man. There was no song as recognizable as his jingle. He would ride up and down the streets of Riverside several times, just to make certain that no child was, "left behind." (And, educators thought their slogan was original with them.)
There were times when the Ice Cream Man ceased being a businessman and became more of a humanitarian.
Whenever one of the neighborhood's poor kids came around, the Ice Cream Man would sneak a popsicle or other item to them for free. He would whisper, "Now, don't tell the other kids," even though the other kids were standing close enough to hear every word. This act of kindness, done more than a few times, won the appreciation and respect of many mothers and fathers in Riverside.
Just as angels often appear in two's in God's Book, there was also a second, "Ice Cream Man," on our block.
His name was T.J. Speer.
Mr. T.J. Speer was an accountant by trade. He did more tax returns in his lifetime than six H&R Block locations. For a while, his office was located on Concord Road in Smyrna, Georgia. But as he got older, Mr. Speer closed his Smyrna office and moved his operation into the front bedroom of his large, craftsman-style home on Forrest Avenue in Riverside.
Mr. Speer was a large, imposing man, with snow white hair, a voice more gruff and deeper than John Wayne's immortal movie character, Rooster Cogburn. He smoked Pall Mall's for so many years that the index and middle fingers of his right hand were discolored to a deep, yellowish tone. The only time his neighbors saw him without a Pall Mall between his fingers was the night his body "lay a corpse" at Castellaw Funeral Home.
Mr. Speer's home was forever a flurry of activity, particularly during tax season - with a countless parade of cars coming and going at all hours. Part of the activity during the summer was the arrival of the Speer's three grandchildren - David, Debbie, and Russell. When they came to stay for the summer, Mr. Speer's wife, Mary, became a doting grandmother. She hauled those lucky kids all over Fulton, Cobb, and Douglas County. Swimming, summer ball, sightseeing, and playing in the area's parks were just a few of the things that "Nanny" Speer did for her beloved grandkids.
Rarely did "Papa T." ever go on these excursions. But, he made up for it in another highly memorable way.
Whenever David, Debbie and Russell came to visit, "Papa T." frequently treated them, as well as all the other neighborhood children, to Schwan's ice cream. This writer witnessed on many occasions Mr. Speer buying frozen treats for at least a dozen children who were crowded around the Schwan's ice cream truck. Though it only cost him $1.20 at most, this rugged, old, teddy-bear of a man might as well have been Donald Trump passing out $100 bills. The neighborhood kids loved him, and their parents were most willing and glad to let him buy their offspring yet another round of Schwan's.
More than this, with each Nutty Buddy and Push-Up, both Mr. T.J. Speer and the Schwan driver won the hearts of many young people. Their generous deeds impacted more lives than they ever possibly realized.
Hot, summer weather in Georgia was made a little cooler and a little more bearable because of these two great gentlemen.
Every time David Lee Roth & EVH sing and play that song, this Riverside boy remembers our community's version of the, "Ice Cream Men."
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 7, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
"Apple Blossom"
This Georgia boy never smelled a skunk until his early twenties. Admittedly, there is no odor in the world to match the God-given defense mechanism of those furry, two-toned, critters. However, there are humans in this world who would give the average, garden-variety skunk a run for his money.
Having traveled extensively, this writer is convinced that any list of the world's most beautiful places would certainly include the South Pacific island country of Fiji. Having been to this great place at least four times, the sights sounds and smells are forever burned into the mind and heart. It is everything one would expect in an island paradise.
This writer once rode for a few hours in a small, Japanese car, surrounded by four very large, and very manly, Fijian men. These men eventually got out of the car, but the odor never did. Nor did it ever come out of this American tourist's clothes. After several washings and one valiant effort at outdoor fumigation, the clothes finally had to be sent to the county landfill.
"Fijian Female Funk" is almost as potent as its male counterpart. One very large, very sweaty, Fijian woman passionately bear-hugged this American's neck back in 1994. The smell of that encounter very nearly caused an old Southern boy to faint dead away. The stench from the aforementioned landfill would not even have come close to this Fijian "Marama's" smell.
In remembering the smell of these, otherwise wonderful, island people, a journey into one's childhood seems in order. After all, Fijians and skunks are not the only smells that linger in the mind and nasal cavities for years after the fact.
Joe Cox was one of the most mischievous boys in Mrs. Ragsdale's sixth grade class at the Chattahoochee Elementary School in Riverside. He was a tall, blonde, freckle-faced lad, with an athletic build. Joe did not apply himself in school either academically or behaviorally, and as a result was frequently made to stay after school. Joe logged more than a few hours performing various forms of disciplinary rehabilitation.
Having traveled extensively, this writer is convinced that any list of the world's most beautiful places would certainly include the South Pacific island country of Fiji. Having been to this great place at least four times, the sights sounds and smells are forever burned into the mind and heart. It is everything one would expect in an island paradise.
There is, however, a Fiji that travel brochures never show. It is a world of hard work in sugar cane fields, substandard housing, poverty, and other Spartan conditions that many spoiled Americans would never envision nor tolerate. One of these would certainly have to be the presence of stark, repulsive, Fijian body odor ("B.O.").
"Stink" on a Fijian male is considered manly and cool. The more he stinks, the more manly and cooler he is. There are no shelves of Brut or Polo in most Fijian grocery and department stores. The United States Marines that served in the Pacific during World War II came home telling of the islander's word for aftershave lotion and cologne. They called it, "Fufu Water."
The, "Fijian Funk," has a staying power that is amazing.
"Stink" on a Fijian male is considered manly and cool. The more he stinks, the more manly and cooler he is. There are no shelves of Brut or Polo in most Fijian grocery and department stores. The United States Marines that served in the Pacific during World War II came home telling of the islander's word for aftershave lotion and cologne. They called it, "Fufu Water."
The, "Fijian Funk," has a staying power that is amazing.
This writer once rode for a few hours in a small, Japanese car, surrounded by four very large, and very manly, Fijian men. These men eventually got out of the car, but the odor never did. Nor did it ever come out of this American tourist's clothes. After several washings and one valiant effort at outdoor fumigation, the clothes finally had to be sent to the county landfill.
"Fijian Female Funk" is almost as potent as its male counterpart. One very large, very sweaty, Fijian woman passionately bear-hugged this American's neck back in 1994. The smell of that encounter very nearly caused an old Southern boy to faint dead away. The stench from the aforementioned landfill would not even have come close to this Fijian "Marama's" smell.
In remembering the smell of these, otherwise wonderful, island people, a journey into one's childhood seems in order. After all, Fijians and skunks are not the only smells that linger in the mind and nasal cavities for years after the fact.
Joe Cox was one of the most mischievous boys in Mrs. Ragsdale's sixth grade class at the Chattahoochee Elementary School in Riverside. He was a tall, blonde, freckle-faced lad, with an athletic build. Joe did not apply himself in school either academically or behaviorally, and as a result was frequently made to stay after school. Joe logged more than a few hours performing various forms of disciplinary rehabilitation.
When the task was cleaning the blackboards, Joe found a way to get around using only one eraser. His practice was to grab an eraser in each hand, while standing in a chair or school desk with his derriere facing the board. This way, he could "wipe" the board with two erasers and the seat of his pants at the same time.
Or, if the task was writing five hundred times the phrase, "I must not interrupt the teacher in class," Joe was equally as inventive. He would Scotch tape up to seven pencils together. Thus, one sachet of his large hand across a notebook paper line would produce multiple sentences of punishment instead of one.
Joe Cox's crowning moment of delinquency came on a fateful day when he was introduced to the innate power of observance and judgment in a female school teacher. His weapon of choice was a tiny vial of the world's most powerful and unforgettable smell.
"Apple Blossom" was its name. It was a yellow liquid that resembled the old Vitalis hair lotion that many school boys were forced to wear during those years. Apple Blossom came in an almost microscopic-sized bottle, with a small, black screw-on cap. Its tiny size did not do justice to the danger lurking inside. This was no Fufu Water.
Apple Blossom smelled worse than a combination of rotting flesh, spoiled milk, extreme flatulence, and a paper mill running full tilt on a south Mississippi summer afternoon. One whiff of this potion made the eyes water profusely, and the nose recoil in rank disgust.
No one ever asked when or how Joe Cox got his first snort of Apple Blossom. But, it was he who attempted to introduce his sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Joan Ragsdale, to her first bottle.
It was a Monday morning in the late Fall of 1966. Joe came into class, late as usual, and immediately had a confrontation with Mrs. Ragsdale. She was noticeably irritated by both the chronic tardiness, and his repeated failure to produce written excuses from home for it. When he finally sat down at his desk, instead of taking out his books, Joe took out his Apple Blossom.
He opened the tiny bottle and began shoving it into the faces of students seated around him. With audible objections from each, they forcefully pushed Joe's hand away. The disruption attracted Mrs. Ragsdale's attention. She noted the commotion and scolded the students, ordering them to cease their noisemaking.
Finally, after a few minutes of this, Joe Cox raised his hand. Surprised at this sudden and unusual display of classroom etiquette, Mrs. Ragsdale asked him what he wanted.
Joe made up a story about one of the girls sitting near him. He said that she was trying to put perfume on him as a prank, and that he had wrestled the bottle away from her. He offered to bring it up to Mrs. Ragsdale's desk. When she agreed, the students began trying to warn their teacher that this was not the truth, and that Joe was attempting to play a stinky prank on her.
She summoned Joe to the front desk.
"Joe," she said in a voice loud enough to be heard down the hall of the Chattahoochee school building, "I want to thank you for bringing this to my attention." Joe turned toward the class, beaming as if he was about to get away with something.
"Joe," Mrs. Ragsdale continued, "I'm sure your mother wears perfume, doesn't she?" Joe shook his head in affirmation. "Good," she continued, "then I am going to make sure I give her this 'perfume' when she comes up to school tomorrow night for P.T.A. I am sure she will enjoy it."
What Joe didn't know was that Mrs. Ragsdale had seen what he was doing earlier with the Apple Blossom. She knew full well that he and his "perfume" were the cause of the noise in class, and that he was now trying to prank her. This was her chance to make an impression on this prince of class clowns.
Joe's fellow students leaned forward in their desks, soaking in Mrs. Ragsdale's every word. Many had been the objects of Joe's practical jokes, with some having been implicated as his accomplices, and punished because of his antics. This hooligan was about to get, "his," and they were glad.
"Joe," she said, "I don't believe you got this from a girl...And, I don't believe it is perfume...I believe it is a stink bomb...You just wanted me to open it so I would be repulsed by the smell."
Joe was now staring wide-eyed at Mrs. Ragsdale - his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Joe," she went on, "tell you what I'm going to do...I'm going to give you a choice...Either you take this stink bomb, open it, and put a big finger full under each of your ears and on each side of your neck so you'll be forced to smell it all day long, or else I am going to give this bottle to your mother tomorrow night and tell her what you tried to do with it this morning in my classroom."
The class almost erupted.
Before Joe could reply, Mrs. Ragsdale informed him that once he had put the Apple Blossom on, not to think that he would stay in her classroom and punish the rest of the students by their having to smell him all day long. Rather, Joe would spend the day in detention hall, all by himself, sitting at a desk far removed from anyone else, with one pencil in his hand instead of seven, writing a thousand times, "I will not play practical jokes in Mrs. Ragsdale’s class."
These were his only punishment options. Mrs. Ragsdale stood as she finished the lecture. "Alright, Joe...Which will it be?" she calmly and firmly asked.
After several seconds of silent deliberation, Joe dropped his head and contritely chose the first of Mrs. Ragsdale's two options. He knew full well the severity of the beatings he would receive from his parents if they "caught wind" of what he had tried to do with the Apple Blossom. A day spent in detention, smelling like Apple Blossom, was without question the lesser of the two evils.
Mrs. Ragsdale made Joe stand in front of the class and apply the Apple Blossom under his earlobes and on his neck. She then led him by the hand down the hall to detention. It was the most humiliating day of his life.
After that day, Joe Cox was a changed young man. He rarely tormented his schoolmates again with practical jokes or misbehavior.
Still, the Apple Blossom bottle sat on Mrs. Ragsdale's desk for the remainder of the school year. It was her way of reminding Joe that she was smarter than a sixth grader, and that "stink" did not belong in her classroom.
With every personal encounter on those fragrant trips to Fiji, while Joe Cox was not present in person, his smell and his memory certainly were.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 5, 2011
Or, if the task was writing five hundred times the phrase, "I must not interrupt the teacher in class," Joe was equally as inventive. He would Scotch tape up to seven pencils together. Thus, one sachet of his large hand across a notebook paper line would produce multiple sentences of punishment instead of one.
Joe Cox's crowning moment of delinquency came on a fateful day when he was introduced to the innate power of observance and judgment in a female school teacher. His weapon of choice was a tiny vial of the world's most powerful and unforgettable smell.
"Apple Blossom" was its name. It was a yellow liquid that resembled the old Vitalis hair lotion that many school boys were forced to wear during those years. Apple Blossom came in an almost microscopic-sized bottle, with a small, black screw-on cap. Its tiny size did not do justice to the danger lurking inside. This was no Fufu Water.
Apple Blossom smelled worse than a combination of rotting flesh, spoiled milk, extreme flatulence, and a paper mill running full tilt on a south Mississippi summer afternoon. One whiff of this potion made the eyes water profusely, and the nose recoil in rank disgust.
No one ever asked when or how Joe Cox got his first snort of Apple Blossom. But, it was he who attempted to introduce his sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Joan Ragsdale, to her first bottle.
It was a Monday morning in the late Fall of 1966. Joe came into class, late as usual, and immediately had a confrontation with Mrs. Ragsdale. She was noticeably irritated by both the chronic tardiness, and his repeated failure to produce written excuses from home for it. When he finally sat down at his desk, instead of taking out his books, Joe took out his Apple Blossom.
He opened the tiny bottle and began shoving it into the faces of students seated around him. With audible objections from each, they forcefully pushed Joe's hand away. The disruption attracted Mrs. Ragsdale's attention. She noted the commotion and scolded the students, ordering them to cease their noisemaking.
Finally, after a few minutes of this, Joe Cox raised his hand. Surprised at this sudden and unusual display of classroom etiquette, Mrs. Ragsdale asked him what he wanted.
Joe made up a story about one of the girls sitting near him. He said that she was trying to put perfume on him as a prank, and that he had wrestled the bottle away from her. He offered to bring it up to Mrs. Ragsdale's desk. When she agreed, the students began trying to warn their teacher that this was not the truth, and that Joe was attempting to play a stinky prank on her.
She summoned Joe to the front desk.
"Joe," she said in a voice loud enough to be heard down the hall of the Chattahoochee school building, "I want to thank you for bringing this to my attention." Joe turned toward the class, beaming as if he was about to get away with something.
"Joe," Mrs. Ragsdale continued, "I'm sure your mother wears perfume, doesn't she?" Joe shook his head in affirmation. "Good," she continued, "then I am going to make sure I give her this 'perfume' when she comes up to school tomorrow night for P.T.A. I am sure she will enjoy it."
What Joe didn't know was that Mrs. Ragsdale had seen what he was doing earlier with the Apple Blossom. She knew full well that he and his "perfume" were the cause of the noise in class, and that he was now trying to prank her. This was her chance to make an impression on this prince of class clowns.
Joe's fellow students leaned forward in their desks, soaking in Mrs. Ragsdale's every word. Many had been the objects of Joe's practical jokes, with some having been implicated as his accomplices, and punished because of his antics. This hooligan was about to get, "his," and they were glad.
"Joe," she said, "I don't believe you got this from a girl...And, I don't believe it is perfume...I believe it is a stink bomb...You just wanted me to open it so I would be repulsed by the smell."
Joe was now staring wide-eyed at Mrs. Ragsdale - his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Joe," she went on, "tell you what I'm going to do...I'm going to give you a choice...Either you take this stink bomb, open it, and put a big finger full under each of your ears and on each side of your neck so you'll be forced to smell it all day long, or else I am going to give this bottle to your mother tomorrow night and tell her what you tried to do with it this morning in my classroom."
The class almost erupted.
Before Joe could reply, Mrs. Ragsdale informed him that once he had put the Apple Blossom on, not to think that he would stay in her classroom and punish the rest of the students by their having to smell him all day long. Rather, Joe would spend the day in detention hall, all by himself, sitting at a desk far removed from anyone else, with one pencil in his hand instead of seven, writing a thousand times, "I will not play practical jokes in Mrs. Ragsdale’s class."
These were his only punishment options. Mrs. Ragsdale stood as she finished the lecture. "Alright, Joe...Which will it be?" she calmly and firmly asked.
After several seconds of silent deliberation, Joe dropped his head and contritely chose the first of Mrs. Ragsdale's two options. He knew full well the severity of the beatings he would receive from his parents if they "caught wind" of what he had tried to do with the Apple Blossom. A day spent in detention, smelling like Apple Blossom, was without question the lesser of the two evils.
Mrs. Ragsdale made Joe stand in front of the class and apply the Apple Blossom under his earlobes and on his neck. She then led him by the hand down the hall to detention. It was the most humiliating day of his life.
After that day, Joe Cox was a changed young man. He rarely tormented his schoolmates again with practical jokes or misbehavior.
Still, the Apple Blossom bottle sat on Mrs. Ragsdale's desk for the remainder of the school year. It was her way of reminding Joe that she was smarter than a sixth grader, and that "stink" did not belong in her classroom.
With every personal encounter on those fragrant trips to Fiji, while Joe Cox was not present in person, his smell and his memory certainly were.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 5, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
"Play Ball"
Neighborhood ball games were once as universal as neighborhoods. Traveling extensively throughout different parts of the world, this writer has personally seen, in almost every corner of the world, gangs of neighborhood boys and girls playing sports of some kind or another. Soccer, football, baseball, cricket, basketball, field hockey, and softball, to name just a few.
No matter how poor or backward the culture, playing ball seems to be a part of the human bloodline.
In years gone by, however, the process was much simpler.
Every neighborhood seemed to have a place to play. A yard, a field, a spare lot, a driveway or even the middle of the street. The necessary equipment always seemed to come from somewhere. Balls, bats, gloves, sticks, or whatever else was needed - somebody always had.
This writer's father grew up in the 1920's in a farming community in Northwest Atlanta. An old corn field was their stadium. No one had gloves. A strong hickory limb was fashioned as a bat. Old socks, rags, and flour sacks were bound tightly and stitched by hand into a makeshift baseball. Pieces of cardboard, wood, tin, garbage can lids, or even old throw rugs were used as bases.
When the sport was basketball, the "court" could be any flat surface, whether driveway, street or yard. The backboard was a sawed-off piece of plywood that was nailed to the front of a garage, or nearby tree. The rim did not always have a net, and was sometimes bent and rusted. In some cases, the basketball that was used was full of holes, which were plugged with tire inner tube patches.
In addition to one-on-one contests, these half-court basketball games included shot-making contests known as, "H-O-R-S-E", or its abbreviated version, "P-I-G." There was also, "Around the World," and other made-up-on-the-spot games.
When baseball was the focus, any number of variations were fair game. For instance, one neighborhood boy in Riverside had a "dog lot" on the back of his parents' property. This fenced area was approximately seventy square feet. It was just big enough for a small baseball diamond to be fashioned. There was not enough room in the dog lot for infielders or outfielders - only the pitcher and batter. A wooden bat, the players' personal ball glove, four pieces of tin for bases, and a tennis ball were the only pieces of equipment needed.
Any ball hit within the dog lot had to be fielded by the pitcher. If the batter pounded a single, double, or triple, the pitcher fielded the ball and tried to get to a base before the runner. If the runner safely reached base, he loudly declared, "ghost man!" He then returned to the plate to take another turn at bat. Most of the time, the only two possible results for an at-bat were either a home run, knocked far over the dog lot fence, or a strike-out.
The neighborhood boys took turns playing the winner of the previous dog lot ball game. At the end of the summer, the two boys who had the most wins played the, "Dog Lot World Series."
This writer has a DLWS Championship "Ring" from one of these unforgettable years.
The dog lots and sand lots and back yards and community streets are often the initial training ground for promising, young athletes. Sometimes, that training is "taken to the next level" and made even better later on by the intervention of a great coach. This is an even greater blessing when it happens early in a young person's life.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix (the initials stood for "Spright Dowell") taught 7th grade at Chattahoochee Elementary School on Peyton Road in Riverside during the 1960's-70's. In those days, there was no Middle School or Junior High in the Atlanta School System. There was grades K-7 and 8-12. Period.
7th graders were the big, bad, "Seniors" of the Elementary School scene. They served in lofty positions of responsibility, such as the cherished work of being a AAA Crossing Guard. These students, usually male, wore white harnesses and badges that identified them as "official" AAA Crossing Guards. And, they "directed" traffic at major thoroughfares where school children crossed. Looking back, it is amazing to realize that the world was, then, humane enough to allow a 7th grade child to actually direct traffic at busy intersections.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were the only two 7th grade teachers at Chattahoochee Elementary. Which meant that they were also, by default, the coaches of any sports teams fielded by the school. Mr. Mathern was younger and more athletic than Mr. Hendrix, and was left handed. He could throw a football through a tire from about fifty feet away, and did so with great velocity. He performed this feat many times at the school's annual Halloween Carnivals - just to show off.
When afternoon recess came to Chattahoochee Elementary, Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern rounded up the boys for a ball game. The girls would play kick ball, or swing on the monkey bars. Usually, one of the female teachers from a lower grade would oversee their recess time.
Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would choose the teams. There was football from the Fall through the dead of Winter, and softball the rest of the year. Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would be the opposing quarterbacks during football, and the opposing pitchers during softball. They were excellent motivators, and fierce competitors with each other. At some point during one of the football games, Mr. Mathern would allow one of the students to spell him at quarterback, so that he could run a few pass routes. Or, Mr. Hendrix would come in to bat during a softball game. For about forty-five minutes each afternoon, these two fine gentlemen became 7th graders once again. They often had more fun than the students.
Too, these were teaching moments. These two outstanding men taught the players how to run pass routes, how to block an opponent fairly and without causing injury to either, how to throw particular pitches with a softball, and how to hold a bat for bunting, hitting chop singles, or for an all-out, clearing-the-bases, home run swing.
It was Mr. Hendrix that took this priceless mentoring to an even deeper level. He was the one who coached the Gra-Y football, basketball, and softball teams.
The Gra-Y Sports Program was an extension of the local YMCA. They provided equipment and other amenities to elementary schools for the establishment and sponsorship of inter-school competition. The YMCA assistance was very basic, and certainly did not provide salaries, expense reimbursements, or other remuneration for those who coached or organized teams at the local school level.
Thankfully, men like S.D. Hendrix did not do it for the money. For him, there was, evidently, a much greater reward.
Mr. Hendrix drove a red Mercury Comet. He would go around to each boy's house whose parents could not provide transportation, and pick up his players. Mr. Hendrix was constantly ferrying car loads of 7th grade boys to ball fields, gyms, and other locations where these contests took place. "Buckle Up For Safety," was a farce when you were transporting ten 7th grade boys in car the size of a Mercury Comet.
After the games, Mr. Hendrix would take the car load of boys by a local convenience store and buy each one a "Slush Puppy," or "Slurpee," before depositing them safely back home at the end of the day.
Thank you, Mr. Spright Dowell Hendrix, for the time and attention you so unselfishly gave to all the young boys from Chattahoochee Elementary who played ball for you. You were our our teacher, our coach, our mentor, and our friend. You never got a trophy for your efforts. But, you never expected one. You made all the boys who played for you feel special. You taught us lessons that we'll never forget - just as we will never forget you.
Men like S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were, and are, great examples to the young lads they taught. They were, and are, the epitome of what a neighborhood or school sports "program" should be.
These should be, first and foremost, a way to have fun. They should teach life lessons like sportsmanship and fair competition. They should help form a bond of friendship for players and coaches alike. And, should be done under the careful and caring eye of someone who has the betterment of his fellowman at heart. Winning would just be, "gravy on the biscuit."
Mr. Hendrix, you were all those things and so much more. You left an enduring memory in the hearts of many young men who came through your classes.
May God grant you His rest and peace.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 1, 2011
No matter how poor or backward the culture, playing ball seems to be a part of the human bloodline.
In modern times, particularly in America, organized ball seems to have taken over. Fancy sports complexes, professional grade uniforms and equipment, and trophies for even the lowest achiever on the team have become all too commonplace. Aeons ago, it was only the neighborhood kids that got involved in the "pick-up" games. But, with organized sports, entire families become absorbed. A good friend recently spoke of a Saturday she spent shagging balls in the outfield for the softball team of her eight year old grandchild(ren) (which sounds, most sincerely, like a wonderful way to spend a Saturday).
Some ball teams get so serious about their past-time that they travel hundreds of miles to compete in grueling all-weekend tournaments. And, if this were not enough, many parents count on grooming their kids through ball as a possible ticket to an athletic scholarship.
Some ball teams get so serious about their past-time that they travel hundreds of miles to compete in grueling all-weekend tournaments. And, if this were not enough, many parents count on grooming their kids through ball as a possible ticket to an athletic scholarship.
One would have to admit that the old neighborhood ball game has now evolved into a really big business.
Every neighborhood seemed to have a place to play. A yard, a field, a spare lot, a driveway or even the middle of the street. The necessary equipment always seemed to come from somewhere. Balls, bats, gloves, sticks, or whatever else was needed - somebody always had.
This writer's father grew up in the 1920's in a farming community in Northwest Atlanta. An old corn field was their stadium. No one had gloves. A strong hickory limb was fashioned as a bat. Old socks, rags, and flour sacks were bound tightly and stitched by hand into a makeshift baseball. Pieces of cardboard, wood, tin, garbage can lids, or even old throw rugs were used as bases.
When the sport was basketball, the "court" could be any flat surface, whether driveway, street or yard. The backboard was a sawed-off piece of plywood that was nailed to the front of a garage, or nearby tree. The rim did not always have a net, and was sometimes bent and rusted. In some cases, the basketball that was used was full of holes, which were plugged with tire inner tube patches.
In addition to one-on-one contests, these half-court basketball games included shot-making contests known as, "H-O-R-S-E", or its abbreviated version, "P-I-G." There was also, "Around the World," and other made-up-on-the-spot games.
When baseball was the focus, any number of variations were fair game. For instance, one neighborhood boy in Riverside had a "dog lot" on the back of his parents' property. This fenced area was approximately seventy square feet. It was just big enough for a small baseball diamond to be fashioned. There was not enough room in the dog lot for infielders or outfielders - only the pitcher and batter. A wooden bat, the players' personal ball glove, four pieces of tin for bases, and a tennis ball were the only pieces of equipment needed.
Any ball hit within the dog lot had to be fielded by the pitcher. If the batter pounded a single, double, or triple, the pitcher fielded the ball and tried to get to a base before the runner. If the runner safely reached base, he loudly declared, "ghost man!" He then returned to the plate to take another turn at bat. Most of the time, the only two possible results for an at-bat were either a home run, knocked far over the dog lot fence, or a strike-out.
The neighborhood boys took turns playing the winner of the previous dog lot ball game. At the end of the summer, the two boys who had the most wins played the, "Dog Lot World Series."
This writer has a DLWS Championship "Ring" from one of these unforgettable years.
The dog lots and sand lots and back yards and community streets are often the initial training ground for promising, young athletes. Sometimes, that training is "taken to the next level" and made even better later on by the intervention of a great coach. This is an even greater blessing when it happens early in a young person's life.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix (the initials stood for "Spright Dowell") taught 7th grade at Chattahoochee Elementary School on Peyton Road in Riverside during the 1960's-70's. In those days, there was no Middle School or Junior High in the Atlanta School System. There was grades K-7 and 8-12. Period.
7th graders were the big, bad, "Seniors" of the Elementary School scene. They served in lofty positions of responsibility, such as the cherished work of being a AAA Crossing Guard. These students, usually male, wore white harnesses and badges that identified them as "official" AAA Crossing Guards. And, they "directed" traffic at major thoroughfares where school children crossed. Looking back, it is amazing to realize that the world was, then, humane enough to allow a 7th grade child to actually direct traffic at busy intersections.
Mr. S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were the only two 7th grade teachers at Chattahoochee Elementary. Which meant that they were also, by default, the coaches of any sports teams fielded by the school. Mr. Mathern was younger and more athletic than Mr. Hendrix, and was left handed. He could throw a football through a tire from about fifty feet away, and did so with great velocity. He performed this feat many times at the school's annual Halloween Carnivals - just to show off.
When afternoon recess came to Chattahoochee Elementary, Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern rounded up the boys for a ball game. The girls would play kick ball, or swing on the monkey bars. Usually, one of the female teachers from a lower grade would oversee their recess time.
Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would choose the teams. There was football from the Fall through the dead of Winter, and softball the rest of the year. Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Mathern would be the opposing quarterbacks during football, and the opposing pitchers during softball. They were excellent motivators, and fierce competitors with each other. At some point during one of the football games, Mr. Mathern would allow one of the students to spell him at quarterback, so that he could run a few pass routes. Or, Mr. Hendrix would come in to bat during a softball game. For about forty-five minutes each afternoon, these two fine gentlemen became 7th graders once again. They often had more fun than the students.
Too, these were teaching moments. These two outstanding men taught the players how to run pass routes, how to block an opponent fairly and without causing injury to either, how to throw particular pitches with a softball, and how to hold a bat for bunting, hitting chop singles, or for an all-out, clearing-the-bases, home run swing.
It was Mr. Hendrix that took this priceless mentoring to an even deeper level. He was the one who coached the Gra-Y football, basketball, and softball teams.
The Gra-Y Sports Program was an extension of the local YMCA. They provided equipment and other amenities to elementary schools for the establishment and sponsorship of inter-school competition. The YMCA assistance was very basic, and certainly did not provide salaries, expense reimbursements, or other remuneration for those who coached or organized teams at the local school level.
Thankfully, men like S.D. Hendrix did not do it for the money. For him, there was, evidently, a much greater reward.
Mr. Hendrix drove a red Mercury Comet. He would go around to each boy's house whose parents could not provide transportation, and pick up his players. Mr. Hendrix was constantly ferrying car loads of 7th grade boys to ball fields, gyms, and other locations where these contests took place. "Buckle Up For Safety," was a farce when you were transporting ten 7th grade boys in car the size of a Mercury Comet.
After the games, Mr. Hendrix would take the car load of boys by a local convenience store and buy each one a "Slush Puppy," or "Slurpee," before depositing them safely back home at the end of the day.
Thank you, Mr. Spright Dowell Hendrix, for the time and attention you so unselfishly gave to all the young boys from Chattahoochee Elementary who played ball for you. You were our our teacher, our coach, our mentor, and our friend. You never got a trophy for your efforts. But, you never expected one. You made all the boys who played for you feel special. You taught us lessons that we'll never forget - just as we will never forget you.
Men like S.D. Hendrix and Mr. Paul Mathern were, and are, great examples to the young lads they taught. They were, and are, the epitome of what a neighborhood or school sports "program" should be.
These should be, first and foremost, a way to have fun. They should teach life lessons like sportsmanship and fair competition. They should help form a bond of friendship for players and coaches alike. And, should be done under the careful and caring eye of someone who has the betterment of his fellowman at heart. Winning would just be, "gravy on the biscuit."
Mr. Hendrix, you were all those things and so much more. You left an enduring memory in the hearts of many young men who came through your classes.
May God grant you His rest and peace.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 1, 2011
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