New Kid in the Neighborhood

My parents, circa 1956

The house we lived in on Dalton Street was a nice place. My parents rented the frame house from Jake and Louise Moore. The house had a living room, dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms, a bath, front and back porches, and a detached frame garage. 

My father was an active member of the Lions Club, with perfect attendance at their meetings for 35 years. (I have the plaque that the chapter awarded to him.) He served as secretary and treasurer for many years, and he had a whole desk and file cabinet to store the copious amount of paper that entailed. 

The Lions Club's big fundraiser was organizing and operating the county fair each year. It was a huge event held in September each year. That was perfect timing for weather, farmers had money from the tobacco and other crops they had harvested and sold, and few people were taking family vacations because school was back in session.

It wan't unusual for our family to make a side trip while on a vacation to stop by a fair or carnival in progress somewhere. There my father would meet with the owners, talk to midway acts and concessionaires, and book (or not book) specific shows. I know that he enjoyed visiting the "girlie shows" at each stop, much to the consternation of my mother.

Dad also was responsible for ordering the fireworks and arranging for people to handle the nightly fireworks displays. One year, however, there was a problem with where to store the fireworks when the shipment arrived. Dad didn't hesitate to have the semi truck to deliver the fireworks to our house and unload them for storage in the one-car, frame garage. When my mother came home from work that night there was another type of fireworks! She was not going to have that stockpile of explosives stored in the garage. It was one of the worst arguments I ever heard between my parents! Telephone calls were made and members of the Lions Club descended on our little garage with pickup trucks to relocate the fireworks to some warehouse space that my father had quickly located. That story became legendary in my hometown.

I settled into the new neighborhood. There were other young people around. The Gaskills lived next door with two sons, one a year older than I was and one two years younger. We became pals. There were several early teenaged girls in the neighborhood, one of whom was named Joyce Robertson. She was a beautiful blonde and I adored her. She was very kind to me, and she and Suzie and I visited her house around the corner often. It was there that I heard a 45 rpm record that I used my allowance to buy for myself. It was Frankie Avalon singing "Venus" and I played the record all the time. 

Suzie and I visiting in front of Joyce's house.

Suzie and I were inseparable. Wherever I went, she trotted along. Wherever she went, I followed. In fact, when my mother was close to having dinner ready or otherwise wanted me home, she would go out onto the back porch and whistle a distinctive vacillating two notes. Suzie would start home and I, of course, followed her.  

By the way, I still keep in touch with Joyce through Facebook - under her married name!

I began first grade in the local elementary school. My first teacher was Mrs. Thelma Gatling, one of the kindest and most loving teachers I ever know. She did not appreciate the fact that I loved to talk, and she sent me to the corner in the classroom as punishment. I apparently spent a lot of time there because, as she told it, she sent another student to that corner for some infraction. She said that I cried because she had given "my corner" to someone else. She apparently didn't recognize that I was a budding trainer and lecturer!

I was selected to be the postman in first grade to deliver Valentine's cards in our classroom. I was heartbroken because I was sick and couldn't be there. It turned out that I had come down with chicken pox, measles, and a case of impetigo, all at the same time. My mother didn't know where one rash, blister, or sore stopped and another began. I remember well that she made multiple quarts of boiled custard and refrigerated it, and that was my primary sustenance for many days. I was "quarantined" in my brother's bedroom for the duration. That was fine. My brother, Carey, was 11 years and 51 weeks older than I and had gone off to college at Wake Forest the same fall that I began first grade.

I knew everyone in the neighborhood by name for several blocks around. I wasn't shy, and I learned a lot about people and their lives at a young age.  I knew everyone's names, which persons worked and where, or if they were retired. I addressed the adults as Mr. Price, or Mrs. Smith, or Miss Morton, or my the more familiar form of Mr. Bob or Miss Helen. I knew which people "drank" or didn't attend church. I sometimes arrived at their homes unannounced for a visit, and I had spontaneous conversations with them all. 

(c) 2016 George G. Morgan

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