Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Learning Life on Highland Avenue.







In late 2003 my friend was terminally ill with cancer and in the fight of his life.  He was approaching his 60th birthday.  His wife, Linda, asked friends to write him a letter from their past experiences to be presented on his birthday party.  Below is a reproduction of the letter I wrote.


Learning Life on Highland Avenue



This is a story of five boys growing up in the 50's and 60's.  I strongly believe that adult values, behaviors, work ethic and character are founded in those first 15 or so years of our lives. The
following story is offered as proof of that theory.


It all started circa 1951 while Jimmy was playing on a sand pile in front of a house under construction on S. Parkway Dr.  A chubby little guy wearing bib overalls made from mattress ticking wandered up and said, "Hi, I'm George".  They found out they would be going to the same school and became playmates.  Once school started another boy by the name of Buster showed up.  They all enjoyed sports. In the fourth grade a new kid came to town.  He said he was from New Orleans and his name was Bobby.  He wasn't trusted at first because he wore funny brown shoes and wouldn't  go barefoot to school as the rest of them did.  But once they learned he couldn't spell CATs  correctly, he became one of the crowd.  The bond was starting to form.  They all played baseball, football or whatever game they could invent in the vacant lots and play grounds near Highland Ave. They tried out for Little League and the elementary school programs.






By the 5th or 6th grade they found out that Buster had a "cousin" that went to the other elementary school.  It was through the above connections that they first met the hero of our story, Craig.  Now, Craig played every sport that they did.  In summer programs they either played with or against him.  Other boys came into the picture from time to time.  A skinny kid named Robin that could run fast. You see, all the other boys were not "fleet of foot". There was a pretty boy named Kenny and a bad kid named Alton. There was this giant, hairy guy named Raymond. Later, another pretty boy named Robert with two L's. Sports were the thing to do. They all played. They would compete for anything.  They would invent games. Whatever the game there would be a winner and there would be a loser.

  Talking SMACK began in the 50s somewhere near Highland Ave.  George was the best.

Craig was considered the "rich kid" of the five boys.  He lived on a street named "Zavalla". It had curbs and concrete driveways. The other boys lived on streets named for unheard of people, like Boyd, Clark, Park. They had ditches in the front.  Craig's house was big. It had a den and a two-car carport. His Father was famous.  His name was  on the back of every team photograph any of us ever had.  They were in awe of Craig.  He always got the good jobs, working construction for $2.00/hr, while the rest of the boys mowed yards for minimum wage.  He was the MAN!

The competition was intense.  Craig was the most intense of them all.  Later in life he would make his mark as a top Salesman.  This started on the sidewalks of Highland Avenue.  Craig once sold hundreds of tickets to a "Big John and Sparky" Show at Lamar Theatre.  He was a salesman as a preteen.


He could not stand to lose.  He took it harder than the rest of the boys.  In the sandlots he once almost decapitated his little brother trying to reach home. Somehow he thought the game was football and not baseball.  But, he had compassion; he never blamed someone for their failure. Many times he would throw a perfect pass to one of the other kids only to see them drop the ball.  Rather than blame them, he would whine and say "My fault"! Knowing good and well the other kid should have caught the ball.
,
As they grew older and the competition became more serious, Buster was the one that would train the hardest. The others would do the minimum and then hit the sandlots.  As time went by it became obvious that Craig was the one with the most talent.  When they would choose sides, he was always the first one taken. They soon learned that they did not want to be on George's side if Craig was on the other.  George would talk SMACK and Craig would become incensed.  Then Craig would take it out on George and everyone else on the opposing side. George never learned.


As the fifties turned into the sixties, the boys were changing. They started to notice girls, but not Craig.  As a senior at South Park High School, he was elected TWIRP King, but refused to show up for the coronation.


He never left his roots.  Even while playing football for Rice, he would come home on Sundays and play in the Alice Keith Park touch football game.  When he came to town as a business man, he would go by Jimmy's house on Saturday morning, wake him up for a five mile run and then go visit his Mother.


There are many more examples.  But, I believe the reader can see that the way the boys grew up along Highland Ave. shaped their lives.  They all have good work ethics, high values, and will help  a friend any time the chips are down.  When these boys tell you they are going to do something, you can take it to the bank. A handshake is all they need. Today you can see those values in all of them as they approach 60.


George: Will do anything in the world someone needs. He still talks SMACK and is still obnoxious.
Buster: Still self-disciplined.  The Ultimate Marine.
Bobby: Has traded his weird shoes for weird cars.  The ultimate "friend".
Craig: The ultimate warrior. Successful in business. Successful in life. Standing on the edge and refusing to jump. Defying the obstacles. Still a competitor. Staying a winner!
Jimmy: Well, he is still in awe of Craig.

 
















2 comments:

  1. Thanks this was a good reminder of South Park neighborhoods. My Dad owned the Mobil station on Highland Ave and Elgin St from '59 to '64. We lived on Kenneth St. Every time I see a '62 Corvette I think of Craig.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Jim, I enjoyed the verbal walk through old memories. I remember those guys, too. Here is a piece I thought you might like. I was asked, along with others, to write something to be read at Joel Wrotan's funeral.

    A little from us guys on Highland Ave., Lavaca, and Sparks to name a few other streets.

    He was my friend. He, Kenny, and I played and chased each other around in a neighborhood that would make Mayberry seem cold. We had clover fights in the Ferguson’s vacant lot. A game of flash-light-cowboys would swirl around Buddy’s and Granny Lyle’s houses on summer evenings… stopping only to marvel at the huge fan in Miss Elva’s window. The fig trees shaded us and fed us as we climbed and scampered like monkeys in their long-suffering branches.
    We grew older and our worlds grew larger… then, Joel, Kenny, and I drifted apart. Miles separated us, but memories held us and we always knew where our roots grew deepest.
    I know that Kenny now cherishes these memories, too. We can both say, “He was my friend”.

    ReplyDelete