103 East Meadow Wood Drive, Chesapeake, VA
I was born in Anniston, Alabama and have no recollection of the house, whatsoever. Mind you, I lived there from birth to age two so that’s understandable. I do know that my parents planted a tree in the yard when I was born and, often I wonder if it now towers over that house I can’t remember. In 1964, we moved from Anniston to a nice brick ranch home in a new neighborhood called Green Meadow Point in Chesapeake, Virginia so my father could manage a new JC Penny store in neighboring Portsmouth. My mom still lives a few miles from that house and I have — at times—driven by hoping that it would spark memories of the two years I lived there. Here are few:
1. Candy.
My dad demonstrating the maneuver that prevented me from choking on a piece of candy
One of my earliest — and no where near my fondest — memories of living in this house was choking on a piece of candy when I was around three years old years old. My calls for help were more like squeaks. I remember running down the hallway searching frantically for my parents. My father rescued me with a likely untested procedure because in the early sixties, the Heimlich maneuver had not yet been invented. He didn’t use the tried and true method of a hearty slap on the back but rather flipped me over like WWE wrestler, grabbed me by my heels and shook me like someone trying to remove sand from a beach towel. I flipped and flopped, even bumped my head on the kitchen’s linoleum floor but surprisingly, it had the desired result.
A gooey, purple glob of hard candy slid from my mouth, tendrils of saliva in tow. My eyes watered from both gagging on the candy and from the mild head injury I sustained from banging my head on the floor. My father hooted with excitement. My mother came running. My older siblings laughed and pleaded to be flipped upside down as well. My parents likely preached about appropriate candy size suitable for three year olds and how I shouldn’t have had a piece before dinner. To this day, I am wary of hard candy, and I WISH the “upside down ankle shake” wrestling maneuver was called “The Earl” in honor of my father. Earl Ward.
2. Trains
Waiting on trains
When you’re really young, it doesn't take much to get you excited. Maybe it’s petting a puppy, getting a birthday present or peeing in a toilet for the first time. For me, watching trains pass by 103 East Meadow Wood Drive was exciting. The house was located about 100 yards from the train tracks, and because there were few houses in the neighborhood at that time, we had an unobstructed view. Trains chugged by at no particular or predictable time; maybe once or twice a week hauling cargo to ports — likely in Portsmouth.
I used to sit on the back steps of our patio and wait. And listen. And wait. And likely wondered when in God’s name the next train going to come by. Sometimes there was a distant horn that sounded like that buzzer on game shows when TV contestants blurt out the wrong answer—but only longer and two octaves deeper. Other times, it was more like a moan, deep and intimidating. Most of the time, there was no horn at all, just a distant rumble like never-ending thunder. My oversized ears had no trouble picking up that sound. And when it did, I relied on my dark blue PF fliers to propel my thirty-pound frame quickly across the back yard so I could get in prime position to see, hear and feel the train go by. Usually, I made the trek to the tracks alone. In the early sixties, parents didn’t think twice about letting toddlers toddle about in fields, streets and near 6,000 ton freight trains.
My big sister Gena keeping me a safe distance from the trains because that’s what big sisters do.
One a few occasions, my mom used her Bell & Howell movie camera to capture the event. The film showed me darting across the yard in shorts, t-shirt and those blue sneakers eventually becoming just a speck where all you could see was my white blond hair blowing in the breeze created by the passing train. Unfortunately, our movie camera did not record sound. But, when I watch that clip, I can hear that train, and it’s exciting.
3. Stunt boy.
Our home at 103 East Meadow Wood Drive had a storm door. I always thought the term “storm door” was odd. Did it really protect inhabitants from an approaching storm or did its thin glass and flimsy aluminum frame merely provide a clear, unobstructed view of the inevitable destruction? I suspect our storm door was attached to our front door frame by no more than four to eight screws as thin as chopsticks and almost as sturdy. Regardless, we had a storm door, and one summer morning, I was the storm.
Three year old boys have two gears: neutral and full-on fourth gear with the latter being fueled by sugary snacks and intense curiosity, and I was no exception. I would dart from room to room ricocheting off walls and older siblings in search of a misplaced toy or a momentary change of scenery. I don’t recall ever being winded by this perpetual motion; nothing could stop me. At least that’s what i thought.
99% of the time our storm door was unlocked, and 99% of the time I’d push open the door in fourth gear with arms outstretched, elbows locked and palms out like I was blocking for a tail back making his way to the end zone. The optimum location for this method for egress was the bottom window pain, because I was just shy of three feet tall. Plus, I didn’t have time to mess with pesky door knobs or understand the locking mechanisms on storm doors manufactured in the early 60s. I had places to go, things to do, sugary snacks to consume.
It was a sunny, summer morning. I was moving fast. The door was locked. The door was never locked. I hit it like I’ve had hundreds of times before, happily emerging onto the front porch ready to take on whatever suburbia was going to throw at me. This time, the lock did what locks do — the door frame held, the bottom window not so much.
You know those black and white western movies where the sheriff punches an outlaw named bad Bart, or Kit, or Angus so hard he flies through the front window of some place called on the Sloppy Saloon or the Brass Spittoon Bar and crashes onto the street while horrified townsfolk gasps and point? That was me, flying though the bottom window pane, Chiclet-sized chunks of glass scattered across the front porch, providing a less than ideal landing spot. One one hand, I made it outside. On both hands, blood seeped between my fingers. I vaguely remember my mom rushing to my side and tending to my wounds. I don’t remember her scolding me for my stunt boy maneuver. I do remember: however, that Band-Aids provide little relief when applied between your fingers. And storm doors are no match for three year old whirl winds.
4. Beach Balls
Before we moved into 103 East Meadow Wood Drive, my parents failed to tell me our new home would be no more than a forty-five minute drive to the Atlantic Ocean. Of course, I had no idea what forty-five minutes meant, being as though I was only three, nor did I have any idea what an ocean was. So, I forgave them. To date, my experience with bodies of water was limited to bath time, ankle deep kiddy pools, and those muddy, grass clipping soup puddles that formed near clogged gutters and in indentations under swing set swings.
Getting a family of five ready for the beach had its full of its share of distractions — and my father was one of them. Once, he grabbed one our beach balls —that was probably no larger than a basketball — but to me seemed as large as those bright blue Bosu balls found at health clubs, and took off running into the backyard while us kids stood baffled.
Then, we’d hear him yell “ready?” and seconds later the ball would sour over the roof as if lunched from trebuchet. We didn’t know what to expect from this display of strength and agility. My father was lanky like Lincoln. Athleticism for him was playing golf five times a year or opening a stuck lid on a jar of jelly. He danced like he was trying to kill ants.
Regardless, the ball reached its intended targets, and my brother scooped it up and ran to the back yard so my father could reload and fire. This time the ball barely crested the roof’s ridge, bounced a few times off the shingles, and I almost caught it. Bouncing off my head counts as a “almost.” Surely, there was no need for us to hop in our station wagon and drive 45 minutes to this “beach thing” when excitement could be had right here in the front hard.
Besides, my father wasn’t a beach guy. A flash camera would give that man a sun burn. He’d often set up camp under the 14th street pier along with ravenous seagulls having their way with half-eaten french fries with ketchup that looked like bloody, severed fingers. This combined with my ice-berg white father sprawled out on a blanket wearing plaid swim trunks no larger than tighty whities created a macabre scene that would give Steven King the heebie-jeebiess.
Eventually we made it to the beach that day. The ball was stuffed in the back of the station wagon along with towels, toys and a white, Styrofoam cooler that complained about the ride as much as I did. I don’t remember if the beach ball even made it on to the beach that day. Being launched over the rooftop of 103 East Meadow Wood Drive is a tough act to follow.