Probably not the nicest thing I ever did....

It was just after dinner time at our house. The time of the evening when my dad would settle comfortably into his easy chair, pick up the latest Mickey Spillane thriller he happened to be reading, and make it known that for a few hours he expected to have a little peace and quiet. The constant squabbling of my younger sister and me, plus dealing with a seventeen year old daughter who pretty much knew everything, made peace and quiet an impossible request.

The time would have been in the early sixties and I was eleven years old.  A time of political unrest, and a time when racial tension was beginning to grip the nation. For the most part our little community, and our little family, was insulated from most of it, although it was apparent from the six o'clock news stories that it was becoming an issue that would eventually affect us all.

But, here in our little home, all was well....

We didn't have a doorbell so  most people who came calling would open the screen door and rap on the flimsy wooden door to get our attention. Bam, bam, bam.....Dad laid down his book and looked around the room to see who would answer the knock at the door. I glanced out the window and knew it was trouble, but my little sister was already opening the door.  "I'm here to talk to Rocky Marciano". It was my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Grundy, and  though my parents didn't, I knew exactly why he was here.

Earlier that day, there had been an "incident" at school, and I was, shall we say, involved. Ronnie and I had been at each other for a few days, nothing major, just an occasional shove or poke when no one was looking. During morning classes I was walking to the front of the room when Ronnie stuck out a foot to trip me. I saw it in time to avoid the obstacle, but took the opportunity to step on his foot.....Probably not the nicest thing I ever did, and the stage was set.

School let out at noon and everyone headed for the door. We barely made it outside before the fists began to fly, but like most grade school fights, there was little damage done before Mr. Grundy pulled us apart. We had had our spat, shook hands and were friends again. No harm, no foul, except Ronnie was black and I was white. Fortunately, no one made a big deal out of it, but my parents had to be informed, and of course that resulted in further punishment at home.

There was nothing racial about our little scuffle.  It was just two boys trying to prove their manhood. Our school was integrated, and all of us played, yelled, tussled, and made-up on a regular basis. Just kids being kids. I still have very good friends from those days, and color doesn't seem to be the discerning factor.

Those years helped shape us into the people we are today and I like to think we all learned a little from, and about, each other. No doubt we had some trying times, but we also created some great memories. Of course my perspective is skewed, as is the perspective of my black friends. It's my belief that different perspectives shouldn't build walls, they should instead, be bridges to understanding....but again, what the heck do I know.

Little Jack or Big Jack....

"Hello"

"May I speak with Jack please?"

"Little Jack or Big Jack?"

This would have been a common telephone conversation, starting when I was about thirteen years old.  Prior to then it was fairly easy to discern when my friends were calling, or when the call was for my dad. But, as young boys' voices began to change, it became more difficult to determine the age of the callers, therefor, the "Little Jack" or "Big Jack" designation became common identifiers. Thank goodness no one in our house came up with the dreaded "Junior" as my identity!

This went on for several years, and in fact, many years later, at my dad's funeral, one of my dear friends commented that "Big Jack couldn't have ordered a better day for us to be here".  It was a beautiful  February day, and my friend's comment was in response to a flock of geese flying over as we gathered at the cemetery.

There is no doubt that this same friend had very fond memories of Big Jack. You see, as we got to be teenagers, acquired cars, and seemed to always be getting ourselves into compromising situations, Big Jack was the "go to" guy.  He was the adult that they could call at any time and find a sympathetic ear and a helping hand.  He was the guy my friends would call knowing he would keep their latest misfortune in strict confidence, especially where their parents were concerned. He understood the adage, boys will be boys!

My mom answered the call at about 2:30am, and I heard her muffled voice as she roused Big Jack. I couldn't hear the conversation, but shortly my dad walked down the hall and said, "Get up, we've got to go rescue Randy".  No ranting or raving, nor any apparent anger at being rousted out of bed in the middle of the night. Actually I sensed a smile crossing his lips as I struggled out of my nice warm bed and into my clothes. Just wait until I get my hands on my so called friend.

A few minutes later we were on our way across town, where Randy had managed to get his brother's corvette stuck on a railroad crossing. Exiting a well known "parking" spot, he had missed the edge of the road and the car was sitting squarely on the tracks with one wheel dropped in a hole. Big Jack surveyed the situation, had a good laugh as he glimpsed Randy's girlfriend in the front seat, and proceeded to pull the car out as we joked about the possibility of an oncoming train. No train appeared and the whole event was soon forgotten.


A year or so later, another friend was driving his father's pride and joy. It was a brand new, mist green, Buick Electra, and Jim had borrowed it for a special date.  You would have thought the story of Randy's exploits would have discouraged others from attempting the same maneuver, but as I mentioned, that event was long forgotten. Jim ended up in the very same predicament.....stuck on the tracks.

I'll never know if Jim was on his way to give Big Jack a call.  As he trudged to the nearest gas station, a light appeared down the tracks.....

As I recall, it made the front page of the local newspaper, "Teens escape unscathed".  Okay, I made up the headline, but I bet Jim remembers it very clearly.  Yes, very clearly indeed, but what do I know.