Leaving my Alabama home on a sweltering summer morning, the neighborhood kids and I headed toward our public pool to cool off. Back in then it was still safe for kids to walk a few miles unsupervised, especially in the Southern town I grew up in.
We walked along occasionally kicking an empty can left by an inconsiderate person at the side of the street, in the days before we knew what “litter” was. Striding along the hot pavement toward the pool and refreshment. We took the same path most days. Today, humid on top of the oppressive heat. Steam already rising from a quick morning shower just before daybreak, made it more unpleasant than normal.
Up hill and down, past the German style homes, so prevalent in my hometown, with big porches and vaulted roofs. They would have been much more at home in Bavaria than in North Alabama.
Past the truck stop and the newspaper office, then a right turn took me by the Mule Barn and neighboring warehouses. No time for exploring now, the pool awaits.
After a comforting, but long and tiring day of Marco-Polo, cannonballs, diving for quarters and submarine it was late in the afternoon. Jumping out of the pool drops fell from our bodies, standing on the concrete slab next to pool. I had done this ritual so many times before with my friends. Leaving the comfort of the cool water was not something we enjoyed. Teenage lifeguards had already called for the pool to empty more than once and closing was only a few moments away. Even at a few minutes before five, the heat was still intense, as it was always on June, July and August days in Alabama. Whether the drops were sweat or the cool water of the pool was hard to distinguish. Toweling off, the we went inside to the sauna of a bathhouse to change into our street clothes. I dressed in my uniform of lazy summer days, cut-off blue jeans or shorts and a t-shirt as did my partners. Pulling on our P.F. Flyers or Keds to begin the long walk home. A long one at least to eight or nine year old adventurers.
Struggling to climb the hill that led up to the old high school. Where generations before our brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, mothers and fathers had witnessed triumphs and disappointment. Past the dusty ball field where weeks before we had all tried out for summer baseball, ending up on opposing teams from your closest friends. Across the decaying street that led by the old high school, newly converted to the junior high we soon would attend. Wandering over the remains of the home bleachers of our old football stadium gave us a sense of belonging. Onto the field we raced, one of us rolling up a towel into a makeshift football. Tossing it as high into the air as we could, catching it and racing for another amazing touchdown. All the while imagining future glories and rewards that were easy for youngsters of our age. Boring quickly of running at break-neck speed in the tall grass, we resumed our journey across the field that held memories for others and would mean little to our troop.
Down the bank,onto the street, then rambling on. Looking both ways for cars, just as we had been taught. Glancing toward and facing the next challenge of our task. The great hill before us passed by Ol' Mrs. Tiffin's house. The wife of the owner of our town's larger furniture stores and a civics teacher at the high school. Their sons attended one of the private schools in town. Most of us did not know them. We climbed and climbed for what seemed like an eternity. Reaching the top of the hill, we passed the boarding house my grandmother, “Mama”, moved into after my grandfather passed away. Doing volunteer work at the Hospital across the street, it was more convenient for her to walk to her Pink Lady duties.
Further along the street was the most hated building in my hometown, in our school boy minds, the County Health Department. My companions were as fearful of that ominous building with the glass front and high steps leading to aching arms and other parts of our bodies. Memories of vaccines and cups of medicine that protected you from polio, required to get prior to starting school. Its sight still brings back unpleasant memories for someone who had the mumps, measles and chicken pox all within six weeks, my seventh year. It was most unpleasant.
Level ground for the next few blocks. One side of the street higher than the other though. In past days there must have been some small hill or terrace causing the slight rise in the land. If we left the pool early enough and had pocket change, we could stop by the bowling alley for a few games or a snack, specially the hotdogs. Further along we passed the Christian Church, none of us members there. Wondering if it looked different inside, you know, from our church. Doubling back we would cross the street to the treat of our long journey home.
Across the street, lay buildings that sparked our interest on our trip to the pool, the Mule Barn and its adjacent warehouses. Sometimes, accidentally, a door or window would be left open. There was a large cotton warehouse next door, at least to a child it seemed to be larger than any other building in our town. It was cavernous inside. Bales and bales of cotton stacked as high as you could see. Smells of burlap, fresh cotton and cigar smoke. Odors that still remind me of hours spent in clandestine exploration. We thought ourselves brave for getting in and out without being caught. Occasionally, a worker caught a glimpse of one of us while we joined in the fun. Running us out into the bright sunshine, our eyes forced to adjust quickly to the warming, afternoon rays of the sun.
Now as I remember, its was not so big or cavernous. The building looked much smaller than it did to an eight or nine year old traveler. The cotton bales don't look as grand as they once were, however, they are still as heavy as I remember. The cigar smoke has long since dispersed, along with the old men that sat in the shade of the warehouses.
Most intriguing was the Kinney Mule Barn. Strategically sitting on the corner of two main streets. Whitewashed walls, a black sign with white painted letters and the stalls within were inviting enough to budding, adventuresome explorers. In its years the mule barn provided a place for farmers to stable and rest their weary animals after their long trip from the remote country side. At sometimes they could leave them there to offer them up for sale. I always hoped that, even years after farmers stopped bringing teams of mules to town pulling their heavily laden wagons, there would still be one of those mules stabled there. Occasionally, I was right. Slowly as the years progressed and my walking gave way to riding a bike, the mules vanished and the Mule Barn fell into disrepair. Safety, an issue to the owners. After falling through the upstairs floor, I decided my visits to the Mule Barn would have to come to an end.
Little did I know that these afternoon adventures would grow into the full scale wanderings I experienced as I matured. Expanding my world beyond the small North Alabama town I called home. Life moved me all over this glorious place, the South. New Orleans, its humidity, the highlands of Virginia, Kentucky's bluegrass, Tennessee's rolling hills, and South Alabama's flat peanut country. I've rambled, through bayous and forests, over hills and down thorough valleys, across streams and rivers, hiking silent trails among her great mountains and fishing off the coast of swampy Louisiana.
I now find myself listening for the drawl of someone from Selma that is so soft you feel as if you might fall fast asleep. I also listen for a brash, near Brooklyn accent of the New Orleans native while “making groceries” at Schwegman's Grocery on Severn. Seeking the hill country twang of Middle Tennessee still brings a certain warmth to a cold winter night. I anticipate someone going to “warsh” their clothes as the tobacco planters in Kentucky did. Most of all I miss the ambling tongue of my native Sand Mountain, that comes out faster than any New Yorker could ever imagine, but with that melodious gentle lilt to each syllable. Every experience of my journey brought something new and valuable to me. I hope as I moved, I would leave something behind as well.
Things come to an end more slowly in the South. We tend to take things at a more relaxed pace. Our barbecue cooked low and slow and smoked to perfection, not just heated on a propane grill. We are resistant to change.
My old cotton warehouses and the Old Mule Barn are been demolished to build another convenience store and small office complex with a real estate agent and one of those payday loan locations. Yet, new experiences follow the old, but memories of walks home after a swim in the heat of summer and that old Mule Barn still make me smile, especially on warm summer days.
Now if I could only find an open window.....
