She was always there every summer.
The brick house in a small Carolina town on Chestnut Street was a solid
landmark, a greeting location for the McIver family.
My family would travel all day
down a two lane road crossing state lines to unpack our belongings for a week
of awkward family relations.
My grandmother, always smiling and
greeting, would cook and entertain the weary travels with laughter and good
cheer. She ran the house like a well oil operation, but raising so many
children probably gave her the experience of a 4-star general.
The white side porch swing was the
male refuse as the women gathered in the kitchen. The living room with its
plastic covered furniture was never used. The only sound from that room was the
spinning brass clock chime. My uncle’s photo was in that room draped with his
medal, but was never discussed.
I learned to play piano from the
upright off the kitchen where the women would gather to sing in harmony.
The back yard was full of roses
and the carport smelled of oil. The neighbors had chickens and dogs.
Upstairs were empty bedrooms,
awaiting children who never came back home. Soft beds with no circulation that
didn’t cool the summer’s beach sunburn were the retreat after a day at the
beach.
Across the street was a stepsister
to my mother, who seemed uncomfortable with our invasion of the small sleepy
town.
It seemed every time our family
came to town, others would come out of the woodwork. Flora, Peggy, Mac, Randy,
Lamar…. the list goes on and on, and then there were the families with
grandchildren all running amok.
The beach was a refuge from the
crowded house, but every summer presented rain and visible stress from the
elders.
Later in life, I was just dumped
on the beach and made my way for weeks of exploration, temptation, and
examination. All these were great life changing learning experiences.
The little brick house is still in
the little sleepy town, but the McIver family will not return there.
A few boys from the 1960s played
together. The excuse was to make music, but it was comrades in arms that
brought us the reward.
We were not good musicians. We had
a mishmash of equipment, held together with wire and tape. We gathered in
living rooms and dens, running extension chords blowing out fuses.
And like a football team, or a
cadet company, or a fraternity, we bonded even for a short period of time.
We gave ourselves a name, like a
gang, but instead of creating a menace, we had cards printed up in several
colors to announce to the world we were “swinging teens”.
Why do young men get together on
weekends to annoy the neighborhood with this loud noise? The main reason was to
impress girls who are attracted to guys who acted or sounded similar to rock
stars of the time.
Later in life, I realize there was
much more than that. This crew mixed from different lifestyles, high schools,
backgrounds, and abilities were the perfect mix for lads having fun together.
We did not judge, we did not argue,
we only laughed and joined together in the celebration of music that defined
them.
Joel went on to have two kids,
teach and live happily in Bon Air. Paul moved to Carolina and passed away
recently. Cliff retires and has a live recording of this group. Alex has moved
on and has lost touch. Steve lives in Yorktown and is a skipper of a yacht.
“Thursday Night” may never play
again, but for a brief space in time, these guys were so good together.
A group of familiar faces gathered for a ceremony of lasting proportions and new lives introduced. Music practiced over and over in a dark room with giggles and smiles, but determined to accomplish the goal of a solid music greeting to a new couple. With puffy Williamsburg shirts and long hair, we sat in the grass of a college lawn and sang the tunes and peered at each other understanding this was the last concert. A couple was gathered that day while another group was separated,
A time before I remember, I time I spent in the mountains of Virginia.
Leaving Richmond and the hotel life on a Grace Street row house, to the dusty road leading up to a giant granite and glass monument of human consumption of elegance.
But I was only a few years old and did not understand the surroundings, except for the smell of oil from the groundkeeper’s shed or the slick marble floors of the clubhouse.
A few years were spent in the mountains. My brother played baseball, catcher as I remember. I was a participant in a May Day celebration with a jester hat and a furlough look captured later in a tapestry for the Crimson King.
The swimming pool was always there. The green grass and the smell of open air were always there. The crowd of horses and dogs in a gathering with red jackets and black hats and much drinking became a foxhunt with little hunting and much more drinking.
My brother tells me there was strife in the family, but I don’t remember (or wish not to remember it) while we lived there.
I only have a few references of this time, then we move to Richmond.
Some of my fellow bloggers have
been in a sentimentally mood talking about places and times gone by, so I will
gone the fray after finding an old laundry bag in my excavation.
At a younger time and a younger
me, I was shipped off to Carolina to camp for several weeks during the summers
of younger years.
This was probably to get me out of
the house, out of town or out of their lives, but I had no choice in it.
A narrow sandy beach on a shoal
draped by wooden drafty cabins, shutters clapping in the wind became my home
for weeks, my only familiar was a wooden trunk with towels, t-shirts, and
underwear. My new life was spent with college age men showing young boys how to
shoot arrows, sail small boats, and water ski, before retiring to rusty spring
cots with tight sheets listening to parties in the distance.
Early on there were campfires and
stories of Black Beard pirate escapades, but within a year the base became
familiar and easy to adjust from city to sandy. I began to look forward to
being gritty for weeks with sand and salt water, and with time became an
accomplished archer and sailor.
Every summer, the camp would load
themselves into canoes (except the counselors boarding speed boats to meet us
at the docks on the other end) and we would paddle across the shoal to a
distant point for a lunch and a trip back. Quickly I learned that paddling a
canoe is a partnership with the crew and the water. First in front, then in the
back, my partner and I tried every configuration to straighten our path, only
to zigzag under the burning summer sun. Finally reaching our destination, we
were rewarded with a lunch at Tony’s Seafood Restaurant situated out on a pier.
I had eaten in some of the best
restaurants, but this was different. Tony’s was famous for homemade fresh
seafood straight off the boat by local seamen and prepared by the finest home
cooking available in Carolina.
A rich creamy smooth clam chowder
was placed in a bucket of a bowl and served with ground pepper corns and fried
hush puppies. Even my sunburn enjoyed this new taste pallet. For the first time
in my life, I actually tasted home cooking.
The meal filled us and gave the
energy to paddle back to camp into the dark with new partners and a straighter
path.
And camp wasn’t all about getting
away from parents, playing in the water, and eating local delicacies. There was
an introduction to girls.
Every summer, at the end of our
stay in this camp, there was an interactive activity known as dancing. Yes,
boys and girls, the social culture required every boy and every girl to learn
how to hold each other close.
So a woman in flying glasses and
tights came to the dinner hall with the tables moved to the corners. She
wiggled and jumped and swayed in motions never seen by these young prepubescent
boys.
After we learned to twist and
gyrate to the turntable playing safe songs of folk music and a whiff of African
American rhythm and blues, we dressed in our cleanest t-shirts and waited for
the arrival of the opposite sex.
A busload of young ladies in puffy
dresses and turned up sprayed hair does, were presented to the dusty floor to
the awe of a wall hugging line of boys and the chuckles of the older counselors
cajoling with the female escorts.
The music began to fill the hall,
but no one moved from his or her secure lines across the void. The counselors
started the action cutting up he rug. Then one girl crossed the room and tapped
a shy boy who reluctantly followed her to the center of the floor and started
to shake. Then a boy feeling brave cross the no-man’s land grabbing a girl’s
arm and started a movement. Eyes scanned the room for an appropriate partner.
One by one we all made the leapt of faith into a new world of music,
conversation, and touching the opposite sex.
So Camp Morehead was a huge learning experience for brief summer visits.
Walked to the grocery store today,
enjoying the sunshine, but not the stiff wind. The temperature was in the
teens, so I avoided the two-wheel ride.
A cold start, but after some
adjustment to the layers and quickening the pace, the body self started the inner
warmth, though by the time I reach the mile and a half trek, the wind had
invaded the coat, sweatshirt, t-shirt, and long johns.
After a quick trip around the store
for soup, pizzas, and beer, I packed my back sack, zipped up my layers and
prepared to wander home.
By this time my body had adjusted
to the temperature and was prepared for the return journey. Also, the wind was
at my back to fill my sails.
So step-by-step I found a good
cadence on the empty sidewalk listening to a tune in my head.
The sights were familiar, but the
vision lower not being on a riding machine. A fluffed up bird sang on a
telephone line overhead, reminding me to feed the yard critters when I get
home.
Turning the corner of culverts of
frozen water, I pass the hand painted nativity scene with the big eyed cartoon
characters. This did not strike me as sacrilegious due to the painted big eyed
snowman across the yard.
I paced down the street, noticing
how much was still frozen, the little amount of activity in human or animal
form due to the cold. Frosty mobile machines and shuttered shelters sat silent
as their occupants sat huddled under covers watching the blue flashing images
of football.
Then it hit me.
I was home!
I had just walked almost two miles
and was warm, breathing steady, rhythm in motion, and a song in my head
(without an ipod).
It was almost anti-climactic to
arrive at the gate, removing my dark glasses and unpack my scavenger items.
So I join the masses, turning on
the TV, frustrated with the boom box, have three quick drinks, gloves on and
attack the 13 steps.
Walking will relieve me tomorrow on
another journey, continuing this new adventure of exploration and excavation.
And hopefully the city will removed
another load so I can fill the void.
