11/17/13 - "Brookport"
Blogger's Note: This afternoon a tornado destroyed my home town.
I was at work when weather alerts started coming across the radio, and the town's siren began wailing. My wife was also at work with me, so my concerns focused where my mother was babysitting our children at our home in Paducah, KY. Fortunately, nothing significant hit there.
Just across the river, Brookport, IL wasn't so fortunate.
"I don't like Metal."
My bicycle was a Mongoose. The guy at the store where we had bought it said it was a very good bike. I imagined myself being the fastest kid in the whole town when I saw it. When Mom told me I could have a new bike for my birthday, I wanted the best one I could get. Maybe then I could keep up with Brandon. Maybe even faster... I chose this one.
I was pedaling as hard as I could, but he was still a good distance ahead of me. "Wait!" I implored breathlessly.
"Hurry! We're going to be late!" Brandon shouted back at me. His collar was turned up, so I couldn't see his mouth moving when he spoke.
He turned down Pylant St. beside the phone station where I'd sometimes hang out and bounce tennis balls off the brick wall there. Determined to catch up, I gritted my teeth and pumped harder. Mr. Abel was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his house. When I walked to school (sometimes I just liked to walk), I'd cut through his yard. I called it a shortcut even though it wasn't really shorter; I mostly went that way because he'd give me an apple off his tree when he saw me walk across his yard. When I didn't see him around, I'd still take an apple off that tree. I'd guiltily wonder if he knew I did that; but, if he did, he never let on.
Brandon slowed a little, and I caught up. "What'd you say? I couldn't hear you!" I asked him.
"I said, 'we're gonna be late!'" he clarified.
"No! Before that! You said something about metal!"
"Oh, I said I don't like Metal. I don't like that name. I was thinking Metal Man." Brandon was referring to the comic book we'd been making. We had been creating and drawing our own comic book over the past few days. We didn't have access to a copier, so we were tracing each page. So far we had traced six copies, but we needed twenty-one because there were twenty-one kids in our class. We were going to sell each page for a quarter and save all the profits until we had enough to buy a copier. Then, manufacturing a comic book would be a lot simpler. Metal was the name of one of the characters in the comic.
I considered Metal Man for a moment. So many heroes had -man or -woman at the end of their name that I wasn't sure if the world needed another one. However, Metal Man did have a nice alliterative appeal.
"I guess Metal Man sounds better," I acquiesced thoughtfully. Later, we'd also decide that the superhero Vibrator needed a name change, as well; all the delays in production became a bit too problematic and eventually resulted in the reluctant cancellation of the series.
Aunt Shirley was walking to the end of her driveway to retrieve the newspaper. She was in her housecoat and slippers. When she waved, I waved back. Sometimes, when I'd walk to school with my brother, we'd stop by her house and pretend to say hello. In truth, we'd come by because we knew that she would offer us some pancakes for breakfast, and her pancakes were just so damn good!
"Mom said she'd take us to see 'The Temple of Doom' on Friday," I informed Brandon.
"Seriously?? Cool! Aww, man, that's gonna be a good one I think!" Brandon sounded genuinely excited. I was pretty excited as well. Indiana Jones sort of had that effect.
"Are you going to Pat's Market for lunch?" Brandon asked me. If you brought a note from your parents, you could walk to Pat's Market for lunch. That's what the cool kids did.
I reached in my pocket to see if I remembered the note. I always tried to bring one in case one of my friends were going there. I didn't like being the only one. The note was there along with $8. Five dollars for lunch and three dollars for the postage stamps that Mom wanted me to pick up on my way home from school.
When we crossed the old railroad tracks by the old, tie yard, I could see Mrs. Burden's snow cone truck parked down her driveway. Summer was coming, and I couldn't wait to get one those snow cones!
The cross-guard lady held the stop sign once we got to the highway. Once across, the school was just a block away.
Everyone was waiting by the side door which unlocked at 8am. We had made it with a minute to spare. We locked up our bikes and approached the waiting mob.
Joanne, Angie, Heather, and Amy were huddled together and giggling about something. I tried to pretend like I didn't see them. I still wasn't over the sting of Amy breaking up with me last week. How could she so easily forget all the plans we had made in the First Grade??
Susan and Helen were looking at something in a folder, and Mike was daring Costo to call someone 'Bootycon'. Costo was shaking his head 'no' but smiling nonetheless.
The school bell rang, and the crowd of children filtered into the side of the building.
When lunch finally arrived, Brandon and I left for Pat's Market. Joanne, Heather, Amy, and Angie were half a block in front of us. I tugged Brandon's shirt and implored him to hang back with me. I didn't want to catch up with them and have to decide on how to act around Amy: pretend to ignore her, be mean, or nonchalantly pretend like nothing had ever happened and that I was the happiest person in the world.
Heather looked over her shoulder at us; and Angie whispered something in Joanne's ear. Joanne started laughing, and suddenly I was certain that they were laughing at me. Amy just walked along innocently enough... or was she just pretending to be innocent?
"I think it's purple horseshoes." Brandon interrupted my paranoia with some random drivel. I looked at him as if he was crazy.
"Lucky Charms!" he explained. Suddenly, I knew exactly what he was talking about. In the latest commercial of Lucky Charms, the wily leprechaun promised to reveal a new marshmallow to go along with the pink hearts, yellow moons, blue diamonds, and orange stars.
"Purple horseshoes? Why in the world would you think that??" I had to ask.
"At the end of the commercial, Lucky is about to be kicked by a horse. On the horse's foot is a purple horseshoe. And you know how horseshoes are supposed to be lucky?"
Holy cow! He was totally right! Why didn't I see that? It was so obvious! I didn't want to give away my cover, so I acted nonchalant. "Oh yeah," I began casually, "purple horseshoes. Yeah, I know..."
An old jalopy cruised by us on the street just as we passed under the awning at Robinson's Barber Shop. I always liked to watch the spinning red, white, and blue pole there. I could see Mr. Robinson inside buzzing off some elderly gentleman's hair. In the passing car on the street, the mayor, Gump, had a couple of extra buttons undone on his shirt to display a rather unflattering amount of chest hair.
When we finally arrived at Pat's Market, we went our separate ways inside. I usually grabbed a comic book from the comic book rack; and, as fate would have it, once I got there, Heather and Amy were looking at some teen magazine.
I grabbed the first thing I saw that might even come close to be interesting (which happened to be an issue of "Power Pack"). Heather smiled, and Amy politely said, "hey." Whatever. I wasn't going to be polite to her. And yet, for some reason, I dumbly said, "hey" back.
I went to the check-out line where Brandon was waiting. I had a package of ham, my issue of "Power Pack", and a bottle of Coke (a glass bottle like they had back then.) Brandon had some lunch meat and a Coke also. He was scanning the candy for something good. The absurdity that bubble gum chewing tobacco or candy cigarettes was politically incorrect had never crossed our minds. He reached for a Heath candy bar.
"I don't know why, but I always thought that Heath's and Skor's were grown-up candy..." I speculated.
Brandon looked at me with a surprising visage of agreement. "I know. Me, too," he offered. "But they're not. I tried one and actually liked it."
Now I had to try one. I grabbed a Heath as well.
Angie and Joanne were making an Icee where the machine was by the entrance. I envied Angie. Her father was Pat. The very Pat that owned Pat's Market. Trying to choose a flavor from the Icee machine was one of the most difficult decisions of my childhood. I bet she could choose as many as she wanted!
Pat's wife, Donna, checked us out. She always asked me how my mom was doing when I went there. Today was no different. I grabbed a pack of Return of the Jedi trading cards from a box at the end of the counter. Brandon did, as well.
"She's fine," I politely answered as I paid.
Pat, himself, was up in the raised office just by the Icee machine crunching some numbers in a calculator. I heard him laugh and say something to Angie as Brandon and I walked out.
"Hey man, wait for me while I run in the post office real quick." I instructed Brandon. The post office was just across the street; and, if I could get the postage stamps now, I wouldn't have to come back after school.
Inside, the mail lady handed me a book of stamps and said, "I saw you got another letter from Mexico."
I had a pen pal named Javier from Mexico. I always pronounced it 'Jaw-Veer' until one day Mrs. Norwood explained that J's are pronouned like H's in Spanish, so it would be 'Haw-Vee-Air'. I wrote to Javier until the massive earthquake that hit Mexico City in 1985, where he lived. He had been writing pretty regularly, but after that, he never wrote again. I always wondered what happened to him.
"Baseball starts next week," Brandon pondered out loud on the way back to school. I played on the same Little League team that he did. He was really good. I wasn't so much. My favorite thing about going to the ballpark was that just over the hill, my friend Mike had showed me where a Playboy was hidden under the bridge that crossed the creek there. The cover promised to teach men "How To Last Longer." I found this quite intriguing. I had already been told all about the birds and the bees, but the prospect that the Theory of Sexual Intercourse included time trials of endurance needed investigating. I wanted to read that article while no one, not even Mike, was looking. And I could always use a visual aid on what the eighth-graders called pussy.
"Yeah, I know," I responded. "I'll be at practice." I liked batting, but I hated fielding. I could catch a slow floater or telegraph throw, but the prospect of a high-hopping grounder just made me too nervous.
"Look!!!" Brandon pulled an Ewok Village from his pack of Return of the Jedi cards. He knew that that was one of the three cards I needed to complete my collection. If this were poker, my bluffing face would have cost me money. I wanted that card.
"I'll give you a Sarlacc Pit for that!" I started the bargaining without hesitation.
"A Sarlacc Pit and a Boba Fett," he countered.
"That's two cards for one!" I complained.
"Man, you've got 4 Boba Fett's and I don't have any!"
Touché. We shook hands; and, after school that afternoon, we made the trade.
When we got back to school, we still had a little time. The asphalt-supported playground boasted three merry-go-rounds, two swing sets, a slide, and a Jungle Gym that served as my Millennium Falcon when I was playing Star Wars with Amy or Ginger or whoever would care to join me in my Jedi land of make-believe.
At the swingset closest to the street, Susan was sitting by herself, gently swinging with a thoughtful, distant expression.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked me.
"A writer," I answered. 'A writer' was always my answer to that question.
"Who's your favorite author?" she asked.
"Hmmm. I don't know. I've never thought about it." It was a good question. And I would give it some good thought later.
"I like Stephen King," she said.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"He writes scary stuff. He's a really good writer," she explained. She smiled when she said that, and her smile lit up her whole face. Her smile always did that. She was someone that made me feel like anything was possible.
The bell rang, and lunch was over.
We spent the afternoon learning about chlorophyll, erosion, and long division.
After I got home, I ran across the field in my backyard to the creek that I called the Black Castle. Back there, a fallen tree became a speeder bike; a stick became a lightsaber; and stumps in the ground became an obstacle course that I had to manipulate.
A tornado ripped through Brookport this afternoon. I was at work when it happened. One of my co-workers left because his mother lived there.
Another co-worker couldn't be found. I had just joked around with her this morning before she left work. She had just bought a house a year ago in Brookport. She finally called to tell us that she was at the Emergency Room. She would be ok. But, her house was gone.
I write tonight because I don't know what else to do.
Brookport is my home town.
I pulled this story not from some particular day. But from every day. Or any day.
Somebody, somewhere is thinking, 'Yeah, right. Like you really had a mayor named 'Gump.' Like anyone would build a playground on asphalt. Hell, kids would get a concussion every time they fell on a playground like that!'
Customers asked me, "Did you know anyone in Brookport?"
I didn't know how to answer that. I didn't know anyone in Brookport. Hell, I knew everyone.
I wish I could do something. And, while, I can't do anything directly to help yet; for now, I can write.
I'll dip a bucket of imagination into a well of memories and share some of my life with you. And I hardly skimmed the surface.
For the well is deep, and it is magical. And it comes from a time before internet and cell phones, before Jersey Shore and reality television. And this well sits in the shadow of a rusty, gray water tower with the words BROOKPORT BULLDOGS printed across it. It's filled with hearts and hopes and fears and dreams.
We were all such foolish, little children. We'd bicker and joke and get in trouble - the whole time thinking that we were classmates. We never realized that we were, in fact, brothers and sisters.
-- if you'd like to continue reading more Flashback episodes like "Brookport", then check out "The Simplest Lessons"
-- please "like" the Parenting with Lightsabers page here.
Blogger's Note: This afternoon a tornado destroyed my home town.
I was at work when weather alerts started coming across the radio, and the town's siren began wailing. My wife was also at work with me, so my concerns focused where my mother was babysitting our children at our home in Paducah, KY. Fortunately, nothing significant hit there.
Just across the river, Brookport, IL wasn't so fortunate.
"I don't like Metal."
My bicycle was a Mongoose. The guy at the store where we had bought it said it was a very good bike. I imagined myself being the fastest kid in the whole town when I saw it. When Mom told me I could have a new bike for my birthday, I wanted the best one I could get. Maybe then I could keep up with Brandon. Maybe even faster... I chose this one.
I was pedaling as hard as I could, but he was still a good distance ahead of me. "Wait!" I implored breathlessly.
"Hurry! We're going to be late!" Brandon shouted back at me. His collar was turned up, so I couldn't see his mouth moving when he spoke.
He turned down Pylant St. beside the phone station where I'd sometimes hang out and bounce tennis balls off the brick wall there. Determined to catch up, I gritted my teeth and pumped harder. Mr. Abel was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his house. When I walked to school (sometimes I just liked to walk), I'd cut through his yard. I called it a shortcut even though it wasn't really shorter; I mostly went that way because he'd give me an apple off his tree when he saw me walk across his yard. When I didn't see him around, I'd still take an apple off that tree. I'd guiltily wonder if he knew I did that; but, if he did, he never let on.
Brandon slowed a little, and I caught up. "What'd you say? I couldn't hear you!" I asked him.
"I said, 'we're gonna be late!'" he clarified.
"No! Before that! You said something about metal!"
"Oh, I said I don't like Metal. I don't like that name. I was thinking Metal Man." Brandon was referring to the comic book we'd been making. We had been creating and drawing our own comic book over the past few days. We didn't have access to a copier, so we were tracing each page. So far we had traced six copies, but we needed twenty-one because there were twenty-one kids in our class. We were going to sell each page for a quarter and save all the profits until we had enough to buy a copier. Then, manufacturing a comic book would be a lot simpler. Metal was the name of one of the characters in the comic.
I considered Metal Man for a moment. So many heroes had -man or -woman at the end of their name that I wasn't sure if the world needed another one. However, Metal Man did have a nice alliterative appeal.
"I guess Metal Man sounds better," I acquiesced thoughtfully. Later, we'd also decide that the superhero Vibrator needed a name change, as well; all the delays in production became a bit too problematic and eventually resulted in the reluctant cancellation of the series.
Aunt Shirley was walking to the end of her driveway to retrieve the newspaper. She was in her housecoat and slippers. When she waved, I waved back. Sometimes, when I'd walk to school with my brother, we'd stop by her house and pretend to say hello. In truth, we'd come by because we knew that she would offer us some pancakes for breakfast, and her pancakes were just so damn good!
"Mom said she'd take us to see 'The Temple of Doom' on Friday," I informed Brandon.
"Seriously?? Cool! Aww, man, that's gonna be a good one I think!" Brandon sounded genuinely excited. I was pretty excited as well. Indiana Jones sort of had that effect.
"Are you going to Pat's Market for lunch?" Brandon asked me. If you brought a note from your parents, you could walk to Pat's Market for lunch. That's what the cool kids did.
I reached in my pocket to see if I remembered the note. I always tried to bring one in case one of my friends were going there. I didn't like being the only one. The note was there along with $8. Five dollars for lunch and three dollars for the postage stamps that Mom wanted me to pick up on my way home from school.
When we crossed the old railroad tracks by the old, tie yard, I could see Mrs. Burden's snow cone truck parked down her driveway. Summer was coming, and I couldn't wait to get one those snow cones!
The cross-guard lady held the stop sign once we got to the highway. Once across, the school was just a block away.
Everyone was waiting by the side door which unlocked at 8am. We had made it with a minute to spare. We locked up our bikes and approached the waiting mob.
Joanne, Angie, Heather, and Amy were huddled together and giggling about something. I tried to pretend like I didn't see them. I still wasn't over the sting of Amy breaking up with me last week. How could she so easily forget all the plans we had made in the First Grade??
Susan and Helen were looking at something in a folder, and Mike was daring Costo to call someone 'Bootycon'. Costo was shaking his head 'no' but smiling nonetheless.
The school bell rang, and the crowd of children filtered into the side of the building.
When lunch finally arrived, Brandon and I left for Pat's Market. Joanne, Heather, Amy, and Angie were half a block in front of us. I tugged Brandon's shirt and implored him to hang back with me. I didn't want to catch up with them and have to decide on how to act around Amy: pretend to ignore her, be mean, or nonchalantly pretend like nothing had ever happened and that I was the happiest person in the world.
Heather looked over her shoulder at us; and Angie whispered something in Joanne's ear. Joanne started laughing, and suddenly I was certain that they were laughing at me. Amy just walked along innocently enough... or was she just pretending to be innocent?
"I think it's purple horseshoes." Brandon interrupted my paranoia with some random drivel. I looked at him as if he was crazy.
"Lucky Charms!" he explained. Suddenly, I knew exactly what he was talking about. In the latest commercial of Lucky Charms, the wily leprechaun promised to reveal a new marshmallow to go along with the pink hearts, yellow moons, blue diamonds, and orange stars.
"Purple horseshoes? Why in the world would you think that??" I had to ask.
"At the end of the commercial, Lucky is about to be kicked by a horse. On the horse's foot is a purple horseshoe. And you know how horseshoes are supposed to be lucky?"
Holy cow! He was totally right! Why didn't I see that? It was so obvious! I didn't want to give away my cover, so I acted nonchalant. "Oh yeah," I began casually, "purple horseshoes. Yeah, I know..."
An old jalopy cruised by us on the street just as we passed under the awning at Robinson's Barber Shop. I always liked to watch the spinning red, white, and blue pole there. I could see Mr. Robinson inside buzzing off some elderly gentleman's hair. In the passing car on the street, the mayor, Gump, had a couple of extra buttons undone on his shirt to display a rather unflattering amount of chest hair.
When we finally arrived at Pat's Market, we went our separate ways inside. I usually grabbed a comic book from the comic book rack; and, as fate would have it, once I got there, Heather and Amy were looking at some teen magazine.
I grabbed the first thing I saw that might even come close to be interesting (which happened to be an issue of "Power Pack"). Heather smiled, and Amy politely said, "hey." Whatever. I wasn't going to be polite to her. And yet, for some reason, I dumbly said, "hey" back.
I went to the check-out line where Brandon was waiting. I had a package of ham, my issue of "Power Pack", and a bottle of Coke (a glass bottle like they had back then.) Brandon had some lunch meat and a Coke also. He was scanning the candy for something good. The absurdity that bubble gum chewing tobacco or candy cigarettes was politically incorrect had never crossed our minds. He reached for a Heath candy bar.
"I don't know why, but I always thought that Heath's and Skor's were grown-up candy..." I speculated.
Brandon looked at me with a surprising visage of agreement. "I know. Me, too," he offered. "But they're not. I tried one and actually liked it."
Now I had to try one. I grabbed a Heath as well.
Angie and Joanne were making an Icee where the machine was by the entrance. I envied Angie. Her father was Pat. The very Pat that owned Pat's Market. Trying to choose a flavor from the Icee machine was one of the most difficult decisions of my childhood. I bet she could choose as many as she wanted!
Pat's wife, Donna, checked us out. She always asked me how my mom was doing when I went there. Today was no different. I grabbed a pack of Return of the Jedi trading cards from a box at the end of the counter. Brandon did, as well.
"She's fine," I politely answered as I paid.
Pat, himself, was up in the raised office just by the Icee machine crunching some numbers in a calculator. I heard him laugh and say something to Angie as Brandon and I walked out.
"Hey man, wait for me while I run in the post office real quick." I instructed Brandon. The post office was just across the street; and, if I could get the postage stamps now, I wouldn't have to come back after school.
Inside, the mail lady handed me a book of stamps and said, "I saw you got another letter from Mexico."
I had a pen pal named Javier from Mexico. I always pronounced it 'Jaw-Veer' until one day Mrs. Norwood explained that J's are pronouned like H's in Spanish, so it would be 'Haw-Vee-Air'. I wrote to Javier until the massive earthquake that hit Mexico City in 1985, where he lived. He had been writing pretty regularly, but after that, he never wrote again. I always wondered what happened to him.
"Baseball starts next week," Brandon pondered out loud on the way back to school. I played on the same Little League team that he did. He was really good. I wasn't so much. My favorite thing about going to the ballpark was that just over the hill, my friend Mike had showed me where a Playboy was hidden under the bridge that crossed the creek there. The cover promised to teach men "How To Last Longer." I found this quite intriguing. I had already been told all about the birds and the bees, but the prospect that the Theory of Sexual Intercourse included time trials of endurance needed investigating. I wanted to read that article while no one, not even Mike, was looking. And I could always use a visual aid on what the eighth-graders called pussy.
"Yeah, I know," I responded. "I'll be at practice." I liked batting, but I hated fielding. I could catch a slow floater or telegraph throw, but the prospect of a high-hopping grounder just made me too nervous.
"Look!!!" Brandon pulled an Ewok Village from his pack of Return of the Jedi cards. He knew that that was one of the three cards I needed to complete my collection. If this were poker, my bluffing face would have cost me money. I wanted that card.
"I'll give you a Sarlacc Pit for that!" I started the bargaining without hesitation.
"A Sarlacc Pit and a Boba Fett," he countered.
"That's two cards for one!" I complained.
"Man, you've got 4 Boba Fett's and I don't have any!"
Touché. We shook hands; and, after school that afternoon, we made the trade.
When we got back to school, we still had a little time. The asphalt-supported playground boasted three merry-go-rounds, two swing sets, a slide, and a Jungle Gym that served as my Millennium Falcon when I was playing Star Wars with Amy or Ginger or whoever would care to join me in my Jedi land of make-believe.
At the swingset closest to the street, Susan was sitting by herself, gently swinging with a thoughtful, distant expression.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked me.
"A writer," I answered. 'A writer' was always my answer to that question.
"Who's your favorite author?" she asked.
"Hmmm. I don't know. I've never thought about it." It was a good question. And I would give it some good thought later.
"I like Stephen King," she said.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"He writes scary stuff. He's a really good writer," she explained. She smiled when she said that, and her smile lit up her whole face. Her smile always did that. She was someone that made me feel like anything was possible.
The bell rang, and lunch was over.
We spent the afternoon learning about chlorophyll, erosion, and long division.
After I got home, I ran across the field in my backyard to the creek that I called the Black Castle. Back there, a fallen tree became a speeder bike; a stick became a lightsaber; and stumps in the ground became an obstacle course that I had to manipulate.
A tornado ripped through Brookport this afternoon. I was at work when it happened. One of my co-workers left because his mother lived there.
Another co-worker couldn't be found. I had just joked around with her this morning before she left work. She had just bought a house a year ago in Brookport. She finally called to tell us that she was at the Emergency Room. She would be ok. But, her house was gone.
I write tonight because I don't know what else to do.
Brookport is my home town.
I pulled this story not from some particular day. But from every day. Or any day.
Somebody, somewhere is thinking, 'Yeah, right. Like you really had a mayor named 'Gump.' Like anyone would build a playground on asphalt. Hell, kids would get a concussion every time they fell on a playground like that!'
Customers asked me, "Did you know anyone in Brookport?"
I didn't know how to answer that. I didn't know anyone in Brookport. Hell, I knew everyone.
I wish I could do something. And, while, I can't do anything directly to help yet; for now, I can write.
I'll dip a bucket of imagination into a well of memories and share some of my life with you. And I hardly skimmed the surface.
For the well is deep, and it is magical. And it comes from a time before internet and cell phones, before Jersey Shore and reality television. And this well sits in the shadow of a rusty, gray water tower with the words BROOKPORT BULLDOGS printed across it. It's filled with hearts and hopes and fears and dreams.
We were all such foolish, little children. We'd bicker and joke and get in trouble - the whole time thinking that we were classmates. We never realized that we were, in fact, brothers and sisters.
-- if you'd like to continue reading more Flashback episodes like "Brookport", then check out "The Simplest Lessons"
-- please "like" the Parenting with Lightsabers page here.
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This is great!
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