Oh if the night could speak. Jan and my history of mischievous behavior began early. Let me preface this by saying that early in my life I was a follower. When Jan or one of the older guys suggested some extra curricular event I didn't want to do it, really I didn't. I wasn't easily influenced but the prospect of blackmail or being called a pussy usually did the trick. God, I hope Mom never reads this. This is not a story but a list of historical events that will set the stage for later stories. A "I remember one time me and Jan went to..." type of thing. Sort of out of character for my writing style.
When ever my dad bought something cool like a riding lawn mower or my first motorcycle Howard, Jan's dad would buy the exact thing. We had the same Sears 16 hp lawnmowers and identical Suzuki 50 motorcycles. Our dads were neither friends nor foes so I never understood why this happened. Our dads did work at Mason - Dixon as did about one fourth of the subdivision. Most were Eastman people back then.
When Jan mowed his lawn it became a public spectacle. My Mom Barbara and Jolene Hilton, even me would watch. Like I said, our mowers were identical and for those of you who know mowers there was none faster than the Sears 16 hp. In fourth gear high range those things were like a go cart. I would slowly, carefully, methodically mow our grass knowing that if I missed a strip or scratched the machine then my ass would be proverbial grass. Not Jan, third gear high range, one hand on the wheel one hand holding on to his baseball cap, full speed ahead man. A half acre in thirty minutes.
When our dads would be working, Mason - Dixon was a trucking outfit and they were gone quite a bit, we would race down Oneida Court starting at the circle in front of J.W. Strickler's house. First we would start in neutral and coast down the hill for the first leg of the race. I usually won this part because I was heavier but when gravity had its say and we had to gear up it was no contest.
Jan lost his virginity at twelve. This one I will not go into. She was fifteen. I didn't believe him (of course he told me, we were 12 and 13 and male). To prove it he said "I'm going back tonight at ten o'clock. If you sit outside the window I will look out and then close the curtain when we are about to do it. I'll be damned if he didn't casually look out the window and then draw the curtain. That was all the proof that I needed.
Jan was also a big part of my deflowering. That my friends is a story unto itself but for a later date.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Jan: From the memory of Cydne Abernathy
Hey, I read some of your blog. It is fabulous. Oh Jan. What a guy. I loved him. I remember one day at Central I walked by his locker and he was covered in white paint. I said, "Jan, what happened?" and he said, "I fell off a scaffold and the paint can spilled on me." I asked if he was ok and he said, "cydne, I have paint all over me." I said, "no I mean are you hurt?" and he said, "No, I'm fine. I landed on my head." So very Jan.
Have a good day!
Have a good day!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Roger That!
I moved into the subdivision (Indian Hills) in March of 1969. Middle of the third grade. By that time Jan's mother Jean and father Howard were separated soon to be divorced. Being a truck driver, Howard was gone for days at a time and Jean was just gone, period. Supervision at Jan's house was left up to Jerry the hippie and Big Sister Donna who had her own agenda. Like most twenty one year old women, looking after her nine year old brother was not on top of the agenda list. Donna worked at Hill's department store and dated a classic greaser, hellraiser, alcoholic, and future muderor named Roger Baily.
Roger wore leather everything. He squeaked when he walked. Pompador hair and liquor breath were his greatest traits. He also owned or worked at a body shop and was a master mechanic. We always knew when Roger was around. If he was close you could smell him, but the sound of squeaking leather gave him away from a good distance.
Jan and I were not exactly afraid of Roger but we were always on alert. Sometimes we would hear him smack Donna, and when we were in the basement near the garage door we for sure could hear him give her the old leather saddle ride. Squeaking, moaning, pounding, sounded like the roof was falling in. Of course we thought it was funny but we never ventured upstairs to the fridge until half an hour after the last sound. We knew Roger and Donna would be sitting on the bar stools and Roger would give us a beer. I think now that we envied Roger. He drove a hot rod, a mid sixties chevelle, was getting laid, wore leather and gave us beer with the disclaimer that if we told he would kill us. Little did we know that he was dead serious.
Donna drove a 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner. Daddy must have helped her buy it considering she worked at Hill's, but that Roadrunner parked in Jan's driveway meant that Jan would have a real meal and not a can of Chef Boy Ardee. Donna was always cool but was caught in the same web that Jan was always struggling against. She was only twenty one but was practically Jan's mother. She always called Jan "Pee Wee". "Pee Wee, I'm going to Roger's tonight, beans and cornbread in the oven". A great family structure, Dad gone, Mom flown, Big Brother on acid, Big Sis trying, in a terrifying relationship. I loved staying at that house.
A couple of years later Donna broke up with Roger who was getting quite a long rap sheet by that time, dui, pi, assualt, minor but violent. He had also traded cars. Donna's new boyfriend, Phil Kinser, drove a souped up Nova. Donna and Phil married later and had three children. Jerry called them "rugrats". I had never heard that term before.
One night or morning, Jan and I had been somewhere doing something. We were thirteen and twelve, me being older by nine months minus two days. I remember that Phil's car was in the driveway and there was another car parked on the street, neither one of us recognized this car and didn't really think much about it, could have been visiting the neighbors, whatever, so we walked on down the hill, entered the driveway and suddenly both of us froze in our tracks. That noise, we looked at each other, Jan said "what is that", and not quietely. I knew in a second that it was the sound of squeaking leather, Roger's leather. I said "I hear Roger" but we did not see him. We knew there was bad blood between Roger and Phil but what was Roger Baily doing here this time of night? We walked to the carport, still listening and hearing the unmistaken sound of Roger. We were tripping, literally, where was he? All at once, maybe simultaniously, we saw him, there was Roger's leather cowboy boots sticking out from underneath the Nova. Despite our initial noise, Roger was too busy cutting Phil's brakeline that he didn't hear us. If he had...
We walked away silently (we always practiced silent movement in the woods) to the lower den entrance. Jan went upstairs and beat on Donna's bedroom door, interupting whatever they were doing in there. Phil came out, gun drawn, Roger ran to his car and like the pussy he was, screamed down Montezuma Road. Jan and I watched him as he left black marks. I remember saying to Jan "that crazy fucker would have killed us."
A few years later Roger Baily was convicted of first degree murder. I can't remember the circumstances but Jan and I knew this was one bad dude.
Look it up.
I moved into the subdivision (Indian Hills) in March of 1969. Middle of the third grade. By that time Jan's mother Jean and father Howard were separated soon to be divorced. Being a truck driver, Howard was gone for days at a time and Jean was just gone, period. Supervision at Jan's house was left up to Jerry the hippie and Big Sister Donna who had her own agenda. Like most twenty one year old women, looking after her nine year old brother was not on top of the agenda list. Donna worked at Hill's department store and dated a classic greaser, hellraiser, alcoholic, and future muderor named Roger Baily.
Roger wore leather everything. He squeaked when he walked. Pompador hair and liquor breath were his greatest traits. He also owned or worked at a body shop and was a master mechanic. We always knew when Roger was around. If he was close you could smell him, but the sound of squeaking leather gave him away from a good distance.
Jan and I were not exactly afraid of Roger but we were always on alert. Sometimes we would hear him smack Donna, and when we were in the basement near the garage door we for sure could hear him give her the old leather saddle ride. Squeaking, moaning, pounding, sounded like the roof was falling in. Of course we thought it was funny but we never ventured upstairs to the fridge until half an hour after the last sound. We knew Roger and Donna would be sitting on the bar stools and Roger would give us a beer. I think now that we envied Roger. He drove a hot rod, a mid sixties chevelle, was getting laid, wore leather and gave us beer with the disclaimer that if we told he would kill us. Little did we know that he was dead serious.
Donna drove a 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner. Daddy must have helped her buy it considering she worked at Hill's, but that Roadrunner parked in Jan's driveway meant that Jan would have a real meal and not a can of Chef Boy Ardee. Donna was always cool but was caught in the same web that Jan was always struggling against. She was only twenty one but was practically Jan's mother. She always called Jan "Pee Wee". "Pee Wee, I'm going to Roger's tonight, beans and cornbread in the oven". A great family structure, Dad gone, Mom flown, Big Brother on acid, Big Sis trying, in a terrifying relationship. I loved staying at that house.
A couple of years later Donna broke up with Roger who was getting quite a long rap sheet by that time, dui, pi, assualt, minor but violent. He had also traded cars. Donna's new boyfriend, Phil Kinser, drove a souped up Nova. Donna and Phil married later and had three children. Jerry called them "rugrats". I had never heard that term before.
One night or morning, Jan and I had been somewhere doing something. We were thirteen and twelve, me being older by nine months minus two days. I remember that Phil's car was in the driveway and there was another car parked on the street, neither one of us recognized this car and didn't really think much about it, could have been visiting the neighbors, whatever, so we walked on down the hill, entered the driveway and suddenly both of us froze in our tracks. That noise, we looked at each other, Jan said "what is that", and not quietely. I knew in a second that it was the sound of squeaking leather, Roger's leather. I said "I hear Roger" but we did not see him. We knew there was bad blood between Roger and Phil but what was Roger Baily doing here this time of night? We walked to the carport, still listening and hearing the unmistaken sound of Roger. We were tripping, literally, where was he? All at once, maybe simultaniously, we saw him, there was Roger's leather cowboy boots sticking out from underneath the Nova. Despite our initial noise, Roger was too busy cutting Phil's brakeline that he didn't hear us. If he had...
We walked away silently (we always practiced silent movement in the woods) to the lower den entrance. Jan went upstairs and beat on Donna's bedroom door, interupting whatever they were doing in there. Phil came out, gun drawn, Roger ran to his car and like the pussy he was, screamed down Montezuma Road. Jan and I watched him as he left black marks. I remember saying to Jan "that crazy fucker would have killed us."
A few years later Roger Baily was convicted of first degree murder. I can't remember the circumstances but Jan and I knew this was one bad dude.
Look it up.
Friday, November 16, 2007
just another bottle in the wall
Summer of '79. Many stories here but this one is just another bottle in the wall.
At the end of Beason Well Road, at the intersection of Stone Drive, next to "Ralph's Bar and Grill", was the infamous Marbro Drive In. Specializing in the finest in "B" horror and Cheerleader Titty Movies. My favorite being "I Spit On Your Grave". I also saw "Jaws", "American Graffiti ", and "Saturday Night Fever" there. "Bruce The Chin" movies were prevelant there. Bruce was the master of "B" horror. Most don't know Bruce but if you ever went to the Marbro you saw a Bruce movie.
The "Marbro" was exactly what drive in movies were supposed to be. In the sixties my parents would pop the corn and pick up a six of coke and we would have family night watching Disney Movies. There was a swing set and jungle gym in front of the massive, concrete screen.. A place right out of dreamland for a kid.
By the mid-seventies this had all changed to a place to trip and have sex for $2.50 per person. Of course, the price was too high so we would invent ingenious ways to sneak in. Including dropping a couple of people off at the side of Beason Well Road to walk in from the cow field, two people in the trunk, hunkering down in the back seat of our enormous cars, or covering up in a blanket or sleeping bag. On any night a person could see many trunks opening. like Mexicans crossing the border.
On this particular night, probably June or July, we were in Spike's Batmobile. A 1963 Ford (my friends, including me, drove incredibly uncool cars, and we didn't care). The Batmobile was given to Spike by the late, great G.B. Archer. Totally uncool by standards but totally cool by ours. Eight track tape player with speakers mounted in the rear window, three speed on the tree, wings on the rear like the real Batmobile and drove like a USS ship. Huge auto it was. We smoked and drank and jammed so much in that car...another story entirely.
After all, this is a "Jan" Story.
We always had "yazz" with us, always. "Yazz" is what our click called it. "let's catch a yazoo" means just what you think. Our buzzes and bongs were all named, Tommy Toker, The Killer, Double Trouble, as in "Did you bring Tommy and Yazz".
Any way, we had successfully infiltrated the "Bro", only two of us paying, Jan, Jonsey, I in the trunk, Spike and Big Joe actually paying. We always parked behind the projection booth so they would not see us exit our fortress.
It was still daylight, God I love summer. Joe, Jonsey, and I were sitting on the ground in front of the Batmobile, Spike and Jan were reclining with their backs on the windshield, Jan loading ones and all of us drinking those six ounce Bud ponies. Eight packs of Bud were the shit then.
After each succesfull swilling of the beer we would absently toss it over our shoulder.
Joe finished a beer and tossed it over his shoulder straight into Jan's eyebrow, blood everywhere. You just had to know Jan. No screaming, no yelling, just a simple, "Damn, I'm bleeding."
We spent the rest of the night doing what we do with Jan holding a T-shirt over his eyes with Joey's never ending apology.
Jan's destiny. God, there is so much more
This is another one of those "I will never forget moments"
just another bottle in the wall
Summer of '79. Many stories here but this one is just another bottle in the wall.
At the end of Beason Well Road, at the intersection of Stone Drive, next to "Ralph's Bar and Grill", was the infamous Marbro Drive In. Specializing in the finest in "B" horror and Cheerleader Titty Movies. My favorite being "I Spit On Your Grave". I also saw "Jaws", "American Graffiti ", and "Saturday Night Fever" there. "Bruce The Chin" movies were prevelant there. Bruce was the master of "B" horror. Most don't know Bruce but if you ever went to the Marbro you saw a Bruce movie.
The "Marbro" was exactly what drive in movies were supposed to be. In the sixties my parents would pop the corn and pick up a six of coke and we would have family night watching Disney Movies. There was a swing set and jungle gym in front of the massive, concrete screen.. A place right out of dreamland for a kid.
By the mid-seventies this had all changed to a place to trip and have sex for $2.50 per person. Of course, the price was too high so we would invent ingenious ways to sneak in. Including dropping a couple of people off at the side of Beason Well Road to walk in from the cow field, two people in the trunk, hunkering down in the back seat of our enormous cars, or covering up in a blanket or sleeping bag. On any night a person could see many trunks opening. like Mexicans crossing the border.
On this particular night, probably June or July, we were in Spike's Batmobile. A 1963 Ford (my friends, including me, drove incredibly uncool cars, and we didn't care). The Batmobile was given to Spike by the late, great G.B. Archer. Totally uncool by standards but totally cool by ours. Eight track tape player with speakers mounted in the rear window, three speed on the tree, wings on the rear like the real Batmobile and drove like a USS ship. Huge auto it was. We smoked and drank and jammed so much in that car...another story entirely.
After all, this is a "Jan" Story.
We always had "yazz" with us, always. "Yazz" is what our click called it. "let's catch a yazoo" means just what you think. Our buzzes and bongs were all named, Tommy Toker, The Killer, Double Trouble, as in "Did you bring Tommy and Yazz".
Any way, we had successfully infiltrated the "Bro", only two of us paying, Jan, Jonsey, I in the trunk, Spike and Big Joe actually paying. We always parked behind the projection booth so they would not see us exit our fortress.
It was still daylight, God I love summer. Joe, Jonsey, and I were sitting on the ground in front of the Batmobile, Spike and Jan were reclining with their backs on the windshield, Jan loading ones and all of us drinking those six ounce Bud ponies. Eight packs of Bud were the shit then.
After each succesfull swilling of the beer we would absently toss it over our shoulder.
Joe finished a beer and tossed it over his shoulder straight into Jan's eyebrow, blood everywhere. You just had to know Jan. No screaming, no yelling, just a simple, "Damn, I'm bleeding."
We spent the rest of the night doing what we do with Jan holding a T-shirt over his eyes with Joey's never ending apology.
Jan's destiny. God, there is so much more
This is another one of those "I will never forget moments"
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Jan on the vine...
Some of us smoked grapevine, but all of us swung on them. Not really grape but the vines that hung from so many of our trees. Don't know what kind of trees but many of the vines were at least two inches in circumference. Some of them were near water and your landing would be adventurous but pleasingly cool and wet. Many vines could be found around Boone Lake. The vine I remember most was located at the creek in front of B&C Market in Indian Springs. There are large houses there now but in the seventies there was nothing but open fields, woods and the creek. One spot in particular was cultivated by guys from my neighborhood. Jimmy Hilton, Kevin Archer, me and Jan. There was a wide spot in the creek that we would dam and the water would be about knee deep to a sixth grader. We camped there, smoked Swisher Sweet cigars, Marlboro cigs, grape vine and the occasional Mexican doob. What I remember most is the vine we found and molded to spec to swing on, you know, like Tarzan. Like I said before, there were many vines, mostly pedestrian, harmless, eventually breaking from wear, only to drop one of us from two or three feet. Now this new vine is the vine of legend. At least twenty feet up to where it originated with a perfect handle, like a y. Notice how the y is shaped, left hand on the appendage, right hand on the bottom of the vine. As cool as this vine was, it just hung there, right out in the open, teasing an old man to tell a long ago story, it was on an incline with a steep eight to ten foot bank that we would swing over vaulting the swinger at least fifteen feet in the air. What a rush that was. The kicker was the tree in the path of the vine's arc. Let me start again. The swinger would grab the vine, take a five step running start, lift the legs and soar in the air at least twenty feet from the nearest terra firma and thirty feet from the original starting point. Now this was an enormous vine swing. The tree at the end could not be reached by the ordinary swinger. I could swing and maybe reach out and touch a leaf, only the very athletic and lithe could actually touch the tree. I never saw anyone swing and land in the tree except Jan. Now I cannot emphasize enough that at the apex of the swing, which would be at the skinny but tall tree was probally twentyfive to thirty feet off the fartherest ground. It was scary as hell in a Baptist church altar call. Noboby EVER could wrap their knees around that tree...except Jan. By this time in history, Jimmy and Kevin were skipping school, doing acid and not playing by the rules. Jan and I had this treasure all to ourselves. One summer day, we took motorcycles down to the creek to swing. Most of the time Jan would swing out, throw his legs, and grab the tree and let go only to fly safely back to the starting point, but on this day he said that he was going to land in the tree and climb down. Remember how high this was, more than a two story building. Me, being the voice of reason, said to go for it because I couldn't do it. Off he goes. People, I will say this many times when I speak of Jan. I will never, ever forget this. He reached the target, legs wrapped tightly around the the skinny, young tree. He let go of the vine with his hands and grabs the tree. For a second I thought he had done the impossible. The tree begins to bend, his hands slip off the trunk, there are no branches or real limbs, he hangs suspended upside down by his legs, his baseball hat sways to the ground. He is bent at the waist, backwards, his face looking at me. I was as helpless as his eyes, screaming, in a split second his legs let go...he lay motionless at the base of the sapling, moaning softly. How he lived through that one is beyond me. We were maybe twelve or thirteen and I never spoke of this again until now. Jan did not remember any of this for a few days until I told him. We never told his Dad. I put him on the back of my cycle, rode him home and put him on the couch. I then walked down to the creek and rode his bike home. He was asleep when I returned but I stayed with him that night. Like I said, he never knew. You will never know.
Jan on the vine...
Some of us smoked grapevine, but all of us swung on them. Not really grape but the vines that hung from so many of our trees. Don't know what kind of trees but many of the vines were at least two inches in circumference. Some of them were near water and your landing would be adventurous but pleasingly cool and wet. Many vines could be found around Boone Lake. The vine I remember most was located at the creek in front of B&C Market in Indian Springs. There are large houses there now but in the seventies there was nothing but open fields, woods and the creek. One spot in particular was cultivated by guys from my neighborhood. Jimmy Hilton, Kevin Archer, me and Jan. There was a wide spot in the creek that we would dam and the water would be about knee deep to a sixth grader. We camped there, smoked Swisher Sweet cigars, Marlboro cigs, grape vine and the occasional Mexican doob. What I remember most is the vine we found and molded to spec to swing on, you know, like Tarzan. Like I said before, there were many vines, mostly pedestrian, harmless, eventually breaking from wear, only to drop one of us from two or three feet. Now this new vine is the vine of legend. At least twenty feet up to where it originated with a perfect handle, like a y. Notice how the y is shaped, left hand on the appendage, right hand on the bottom of the vine. As cool as this vine was, it just hung there, right out in the open, teasing an old man to tell a long ago story, it was on an incline with a steep eight to ten foot bank that we would swing over vaulting the swinger at least fifteen feet in the air. What a rush that was. The kicker was the tree in the path of the vine's arc. Let me start again. The swinger would grab the vine, take a five step running start, lift the legs and soar in the air at least twenty feet from the nearest terra firma and thirty feet from the original starting point. Now this was an enormous vine swing. The tree at the end could not be reached by the ordinary swinger. I could swing and maybe reach out and touch a leaf, only the very athletic and lithe could actually touch the tree. I never saw anyone swing and land in the tree except Jan. Now I cannot emphasize enough that at the apex of the swing, which would be at the skinny but tall tree was probally twentyfive to thirty feet off the fartherest ground. It was scary as hell in a Baptist church altar call. Noboby EVER could wrap their knees around that tree...except Jan. By this time in history, Jimmy and Kevin were skipping school, doing acid and not playing by the rules. Jan and I had this treasure all to ourselves. One summer day, we took motorcycles down to the creek to swing. Most of the time Jan would swing out, throw his legs, and grab the tree and let go only to fly safely back to the starting point, but on this day he said that he was going to land in the tree and climb down. Remember how high this was, more than a two story building. Me, being the voice of reason, said to go for it because I couldn't do it. Off he goes. People, I will say this many times when I speak of Jan. I will never, ever forget this. He reached the target, legs wrapped tightly around the the skinny, young tree. He let go of the vine with his hands and grabs the tree. For a second I thought he had done the impossible. The tree begins to bend, his hands slip off the trunk, there are no branches or real limbs, he hangs suspended upside down by his legs, his baseball hat sways to the ground. He is bent at the waist, backwards, his face looking at me. I was as helpless as his eyes, screaming, in a split second his legs let go...he lay motionless at the base of the sapling, moaning softly. How he lived through that one is beyond me. We were maybe twelve or thirteen and I never spoke of this again until now. Jan did not remember any of this for a few days until I told him. We never told his Dad. I put him on the back of my cycle, rode him home and put him on the couch. I then walked down to the creek and rode his bike home. He was asleep when I returned but I stayed with him that night. Like I said, he never knew. You will never know.
Friday, October 19, 2007
These will be random, as the memory emerges...
One time I saw Jan's brother Jerry, a true hippie, raging alchoholic and drug addict (I remember Howard, Jan's dad saying "Boy, you on that herain?." Add a hillbilly drawl and you understand that herain would be pronounced heroin.) throw Jan down the den stairway. Seventeen stairs, and he never hit the floor. Instead he crashed into the wall at the base. That was one of the few times I ever saw Jan cry. I didn't run but I was scared. Jerry was out of his mind and we were tormenting him. Things like "hey you fucking hippie, get a haircut and take a bath." Jerry was cool. I was twelve, Jan was eleven. We were nine months apart. Boys, you will never understand where I have been but there are many more "Jan: a dog" stories to come.
These will be random, as the memory emerges...
One time I saw Jan's brother Jerry, a true hippie, raging alchoholic and drug addict (I remember Howard, Jan's dad saying "Boy, you on that herain?." Add a hillbilly drawl and you understand that herain would be pronounced heroin.) throw Jan down the den stairway. Seventeen stairs, and he never hit the floor. Instead he crashed into the wall at the base. That was one of the few times I ever saw Jan cry. I didn't run but I was scared. Jerry was out of his mind and we were tormenting him. Things like "hey you fucking hippie, get a haircut and take a bath." Jerry was cool. I was twelve, Jan was eleven. We were nine months apart. Boys, you will never understand where I have been but there are many more "Jan: a dog" stories to come.
DISCLAIMER - This will be graphic, stupidly real, and my life's crowning achievement, and the best therapy since frontal lobe exploration.
Jan: A Dog
Circa March 1969. 224 Oneida Court (pronounced O ni da not O need a). My street had fifteen houses (1973 it grew to seventeen). Counted among these seventeen houses were twentythree young people with the greatest age difference being about seven years. What a wild ass neighbor hood. Ballgames that lasted until dark and then a game of "kick the can". The stories are too numerous, the memories too vivid, I remember everything.
The tale of "Jan: A Dog" begins here.
Bicycles were the most important accessory in a child's life in those days. High Hanger handle bars and the obligitory banana seat. (Damn, I'd like to be that bicycle seat. Thought that one a million times). The problem I had was one of esteem. My dad bought me many fine toys, I am thankful for that, but the things he gave to me were far from cool (except for the firearms). Dad presented me with the very same bicycle that Andy gave Opie after Opie forged his report card. Ya'll remember that one don't you? It seems that Miss Crump, Opie's teac...No wheelies, no jumping, (hey, we did this too, gen x can bite my ass). I witnessed Jan: A Dog fly thought the air at crazy speeds and altitudes...it did not always end pleasant, much like his life.
Jan: A Dog
Circa March 1969. 224 Oneida Court (pronounced O ni da not O need a). My street had fifteen houses (1973 it grew to seventeen). Counted among these seventeen houses were twentythree young people with the greatest age difference being about seven years. What a wild ass neighbor hood. Ballgames that lasted until dark and then a game of "kick the can". The stories are too numerous, the memories too vivid, I remember everything.
The tale of "Jan: A Dog" begins here.
Bicycles were the most important accessory in a child's life in those days. High Hanger handle bars and the obligitory banana seat. (Damn, I'd like to be that bicycle seat. Thought that one a million times). The problem I had was one of esteem. My dad bought me many fine toys, I am thankful for that, but the things he gave to me were far from cool (except for the firearms). Dad presented me with the very same bicycle that Andy gave Opie after Opie forged his report card. Ya'll remember that one don't you? It seems that Miss Crump, Opie's teac...No wheelies, no jumping, (hey, we did this too, gen x can bite my ass). I witnessed Jan: A Dog fly thought the air at crazy speeds and altitudes...it did not always end pleasant, much like his life.
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