Had it made. Until that day…..

I write this, fresh from having Thanksgiving in my small home town with assorted kin whose unabated appetites have added to their ample girths.

Ah, the small towns of youth…freedom and innocence! We had it made. Until….

My wife and I shared a small room in the local Inn, a quaint Victorian retro, and a bed somewhat smaller than the front seat of my car. Country boys are familiar with car seats, especially back seats. But lo, after 45 years of marriage, well, you know, a good night’s sleep is preferable.

The town gets ghostly quiet at night. What’s there to do but sleep? After a quantity of barbiturates sufficient to sedate an elephant, we finally doze off. Until the sirens wail. Every night they whine. Grief, groans and lamentations follow them, along with a caravan of teenagers, curious for some ‘action.’ We bolt up in bed, take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s Dante’s third circle of Hell.

Sirens bring back youthful memories. They signaled something was happening. Nothing much happens in small towns, except at night. Teenage boredom is a terrible thing to waste. So we’d follow the sirens to fires and the hospital emergency room. Mayhem and blood excites teenagers.

Little has changed in my home town. The old stores are still there, occupied by others. My uncle, Ben Hill, had a haberdashery (a museum, really) on the corner of the square. It bulged with post-Civil War clothing, purchased from an itinerate goy from the Garment District, a fellow named M. Lipmann. It was a sordid tale of greed and sullied our family reputation for good business.

Uncle Hill lived next door. His wife was from somewhere near Milledgeville. She had a nephew named Baldwin who visited them. Now, who would name anybody Baldwin? Junior, Runt or Shorty, yes. But Baldwin? He had freckles, red hair and sweated profusely. Girls fled in disgust. Plus, he was full of mischief. I had gold stars for perfect Sunday School attendance, until he led me astray.

We climbed trees and dropped chinaberry bombs on cars. He promised we wouldn’t be caught. Beware of promises from kids named Baldwin from near Milledgeville. My father’s belt often had its pleasure with us in those days.

Uncle Hill had a cane patch in his back yard a little smaller than a football field. We made it into a fort. We had it made, until Baldwin stole his aunt’s cigarettes. Winstons, I recall. Once we each put a whole pack of cigarettes in our mouths and lit up. Smoke billowed, the sedge field next door caught fire, my brother told my mother, and soon the sirens wailed. And so did we when my daddy got home.

My brother was no saint either. Daddy had bought a new Chevy convertible. It was his idol. One day we crawled on top of it. Convertible tops don’t support stupid boys. It ripped apart and we reaped the whirlwind of daddy’s wrath.

The Brunswick paper reported the saga of a fellow who had it made.., until the Sheriff served him divorce papers. He went berserk and holed up in his house with an arsenal. The local SWAT team converged, an army somewhat smaller than Napoleon’s Russian contingent. The last action they had was the biscuit fight at the station which resulted in some ugly name calling.

Unconfirmed reports say his wife sued for divorce because of his nasty habit of leaving his tobacco-stained dentures in the refrigerator and the lid up. He was lit up by a taser and hauled off in a strait jacket for mental evaluation. The SWAT team retreated to clean up their biscuit mess.

My little town didn’t have a SWAT team. When times got slow we’d shoot rats at the city dump, or sneak into the city jail and taunt the drunks while the jailer slept. We were convinced that the jailer fed the inmates rat stew. Small boys can often be confused.

We did have one divorcee in town. Hushed whispers had it ‘another woman’ was involved. Small boys can be mistaken on certain kinds of details. But having matured, and made a study of politics, it now seems highly likely that might have been the case.

Bob’s liquor store, tattoo parlor and pool room were closed for Thanksgiving. The evils of gambling and alcohol were hotly debated at the local Baptist church. The Methodists quietly assented but secretly imbibed. No such debate raged at the AmVets Club, which was always open, if you knew the secret code. We did. We had it made.

You know, a wink and a nod from the local constable, and things worked smoothly.

Yes, we had it made. Until that day when we grew up!

Bud Hearn
December 1, 2011