Four high school teens, one car and unlimited energy.  Many times when you find that combination you have a disaster in the making.  My nights never resulted in any disasters, just a lot of teen fun.  The others in the car included Jeff Baughn, Steve Boone and Conrad Haden.  We were all in band together and we were the high school stage crew.  I don't know how that happened, but we just seemed to take over.  Steve was a natural on stage crew.  A stage, some lights and a sound system, all he ever needed. He is one person that I can say that took advantage of the lessons taught by his father.  He was comfortable in building and in handling tools.   In that world at school, we were comfortable.  There was no limit to the situations we created.  

Steve was usually the driver, in his dad's blue, early 70's, Chevy Nova.   Night rides, drinking beer, playing foosball,  blue lights, great music.  I often thought Steve had a natural calling as a stock car driver.  He could drive that car through any street, trail or alley.  There was no match to be found anywhere.  Turn on the radio, turn up the Black Oak, and hold on, you were in for the ride of your life! We were kids, reaching out, avoiding boredom at home, exploring our new found adulthood.  Playing foosball at all the great smoke filled foosball joints. Steve, the front man, me, the back man.  Beating all of the college students, taking no prisoners. Those were  times that made great memories. 

                     

I spent my early teen years growing up on Clermont Drive in Homewood.  My dad used to say we grew up under Vulcan's ass.  The grand statue of Vulcan was at the top of the hill on which we lived, overlooking the valley  where the city of Birmingham is found.  His ass is turned towards Homewood, possibly representing  some form of symbolism that was lost on me all those years.  My dad sure seemed to have caught on to that one, though.  We had Vulcan's ass facing us from one side and three large churches at the bottom of our hill.  We were surrounded, no way out, Dawson Baptist, Trinity Methodist and Our Lady of Sorrows.  

My running buddies were the guys on the street, my neighbor Ricky Seales, Clifton McRoy and Keith Roberts.  These three were my friends, all fun, yet all so very different.  Ricky was the bully, the one who never was excited and always seemed bored with everything.  Keith was the a fun loving fella who was a great student of the Three Stooges.  He was the sound effects guy that could mimic anyone or anything.  He was our neighborhood prankster.  Clifton was a pretty smart guy, a rock specialist and the only Ole Miss fan I ever knew.  Archie Manning was his hero.  I would be shocked if he didn't pursue his love of geology at some point in his life.

It was a safe neighborhood with neighbors that we all knew.  We knew everyone on our street, the Zeiglers, the Grays, the Whites, the Glass family, the Donahoo family, the Cook family with Marty and Chris, two of the fastest guys I ever chased. The Runyons behind us and the incredible Robin Adams at one end of the alley behind our house, with the Fogleman family, with Wesley and Brenda, on the other end. It was a place that was safe to play, with many summer nights being spent out in someone's yard till late in the night. 

We did all of the stupid things that kids do, chasing each other, wrestling, fighting, talking about life.  One summer we built underground forts with connecting tunnels in the woods behind Keith Roberts house, a great accomplishment and a great secret club that we enjoyed.  If we had to go anywhere, we were quick to jump on our bikes and ride for miles for any and every reason available.  We spent a lot of time exploring the woods behind the junior high school, which had yet to be cleared to make Valley Avenue and the many apartment complexes that were built there over the years.  I remember the day the bulldozers showed up clearing our woods, trails and caves.  It was a horrible sight to witness.   I did all I could to stop the progress, but the machinery was bigger than I would ever be.  We loved to explore the woods.  There were many rock formations overlooking valleys that were great places to hang out.  There were also the old entrances to several of the old Red Mountain ore mines from years before.  It was an act of courage to pass through a dark entrance and walk into the center of the earth.  It was a great time of freedom and exploration for all of us.  It was the beginning of an end to my innocence.  The move from childhood through puberty.  The beginning of the complicated life that we all find.

     I remember the long days with nothing to do.  Days when Clifton McRoy and I would talk football as young boys.  I was a huge Alabama fan and he was a big fan of Ol Miss.  His hero was Archie Manning.  A name that actually turned to legend due to his survivability and through his sons. We spent untold numbers of hours talking football.  The best way to waste a day was with the electric football game that he had.  Amazing how fantasy can take over as a young kid.  A silly game with a vibrating board and men that "vibrated" the planned plays that we created.  I look back at it now and realize how funny it is.  Pinning your hopes on which way 22 pieces are going to go when the giant earthquake is going to start.  Wasted days and make believe.  Where did it go?  

Third grade at Rocky Ridge elementary.  The school, the fun I had and the feelings that to this day I still feel when I think back on that time in my life.  A good time, a time of innocence, a time of being surrounded by love and encouragement from my parents.  The friends we had, the Dickens, and our dog, Chip.  I had a great family with my sister Lorie and younger brother, Keith.  Unlike most kids my age who didn't care to be seen with their siblings, they were my best friends.  It made for great memories.  Memories of my dad skating with us in the church parking lot, memories of my once being sick and writing poetry to my mom about how much I loved her.  I remember all of us having pink eye at the same time and  being in bed sick together with mom taking care of us.  

I guess I was also a little wild at times having hurt both Keith and Lorie while playing to hard.  I remember Keith breaking his arm while I was playing with him one night.  He was a tough little kid.  He broke it and didn't even go to the doctor for several days.  I remember shaking a small tree he was in while playing in the woods one day and he fell out busting his head, again requiring another trip to the doctor.  Then one day while my cousins from the Carolinas, the Frates ,were down for a visit.  All the kids were out front hitting a baseball, when Lorie walked up behind me while I was taking a swing with a baseball bat, and I hit her in the forehead....another trip to the doctor.  

We lived in a small house next to a church on a corner.  From our house we were able to see the school that I attended that was on the next small hill.  I would walk to school every day along with  my friends.  Now that I think about it, with the exception of the first grade, I walked to almost every school I attended, no matter the distance.  I walked everywhere, I was a strider, one meant to walk the earth.  It was my personal challenge, no distance was to great, never would I walk less than full speed, and never would I show anyone that I was tired.  The short kid with the long strides.   

One memory I have of the third grade at Rocky Ridge was the day my new baby sister, Leslie, was to come home.  I was eight and I had a new "baby" sister.  Lorie and Keith already had made their mark on my world and I was so excited that my new sister was coming into our lives.  Mom had been gone at the hospital and I couldn't wait.  I remember walking to school that day, thinking of what she would be like, telling my friends of my new sister, who I hadn't even met yet.  As the day went on, the routine of school set in and I didn't dwell on the new arrival.  

I was sitting in class daydreaming, looking out the window, when I happened to see a car pull into our short driveway, up to the house.  Then I saw my mom and dad get out of the car, with mom holding something.  Then it struck me, the excitement took over, I realized it was my sister.  I was so excited I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to be home.  I had never done anything wrong, never broke a rule or resisted authority.  It was my day to act.  I raised my hand, quietly asked my teacher if I could go to the restroom and got up to leave the room.  I remember that as soon as I stepped out of the room and the door closed behind me, I started running. Running down the hall, running out the door, running down the long drive to the main road, across the street and up the hill to our house.  My sister was home.  Nothing else in life mattered, I was going to be home with my family.  

She was special to me.  As an eight year old I took to her, the newness, the wonderment of new life. I was at an age that I could just begin to appreciate new life, helplessness and the caring needed to survive.   I remember having Lorie and Keith convinced that I could understand her and that we could talk together in baby talk.  It was a good time in my life, a good time for all of us.    I never wanted anything to happen to her, my sister, Leslie.

As with each generation, there is always a symbol of status.  A symbol of possession that sets you apart from all others.  In 1967, in the sixth grade at Vestavia elementary, the status symbol of the time was your collection of Parker Pens, the unique pen with the arrow design on the clasp.  The expensive pen, not a Bic, not the cheap and affordable one.  It had to be a Parker.  The other kids had nothing but Parker Pens.  I remember not having one.  Most of the  kids had a few.  Some kids, those who deemed themselves as special,  would show up with their school boxes full of them.  Those kids had money and status. 

I felt out of place because of a pen.  Small things in life that can worry a child.  Small things that make it hard to be accepted.  When you take time to look at life, you start to notice how many people still live to collect items, items that mean nothing when you stand back to look at it.

November 22, 1963.  Where were you?  Where were you when JFK was shot?  Do you remember?

We  lived in Green Springs, on the south side of Birmingham.  I was seven years old, in the second grade, going to school at Alley Elementary when it happened.  It was a brick building on the top of a hill, next to the local armory.  We lived only a few blocks from the school.  It was my time of innocence, my time to play, my time to have fun with all of my friends.  The Mullins sisters, all four of them were my special friends.  I used to go home every day under the care of our maid Della.  I know that the term maid may not be politically correct at this point in time, but in the early sixties it was the correct name to use.  To me, she was a part of our family.  She took care of us while our parents worked and disciplined me when needed.  I remember every time a thunder storm with lightening was near, she would turn out all of the lights in the house and make us crawl under a table.  

I was walking home with my friends that day, down the hill from the school.  I'll never forget,  the sun was shining, it was a nice day. One of our friends ran up to a group of us walking together, all excited, to tell us that President Kennedy had been shot.  That he had been killed.  We really didn't know the man, but we knew he was important.  I remember being sad and that we didn't say much to each other on the way home.

My daily routine at the time was to go home and watch television.  All of my favorite shows were after school.  The Popeye show with Cousin Cliff Holman, the Bozo show, the Three Stooges, all my heroes and cartoons were shown each afternoon.  But this was different, the president had been killed.  The cartoons were gone.  For three days, I remember the frustration of not being able to see my cartoons and afternoon shows.  I remember watching the news, my first time to ever watch anything real.  I remember the horse with the backward boots.  I remember the little boy saluting his father.  I remember his pretty wife, strong and sad.