Wednesday, May 24, 1967

As the scene comes into focus I, seated at the rear of the English class, continue to stare at the large round, Board of Education issued, clock. Today is the day. The day that I formally enter into the world of commerce. Oh, I have chased a rusting Briggs and Stratton around lawns in my east Memphis neighborhood for a few bucks, but today is different. Today is the day that I have my own business. With the Memphis Press Scimitar as my co-conspirator, I am venturing out to the deep end of the pool, yes out past the buoys; yes, out where one's toes can't touch sand. ( I am not sure what a scimitar is, but it must be good). Yes, today is the day that I get my own route. Gone are the days of helping for "chump change"; here are the days where I pull the strings and call the shots.

Ring...Ring...Ring! The bell vibrates and, like racers responding to the starter's gun, the hordes flood out into the hall. Today is no ordinary day; it is the paper's annual Cotton Progress edition. That day when all the virtues of King Cotton are canonized in one glorious edition of the local paper. Each section is a massive publication. Every section is as big as the normal paper. Instead of fifty or one hundred papers in a single bundle, today there are ten to a bundle. I take two bundles and, after cutting the wire that is holding them, I place one bundle in each one of my bags, leaving the rest of the bundles there till I can make it back.

With brown route book in hand, I stagger and stumble, decoding its own set of hierogrypics as I go out, delivering the truth. This book supplies me with the list of customers and how they prefer to pay. Someday I will have a concise plan; zigging here, zagging there, but that day is not today. Before I can finish I am joined by my two brothers, Pete and Troy, and good friend Jack, who have finished their adjoining routes and we make short work of my remaining customers. I finish covered with black ink smudges and two and one half papers, which leads me to believe that there may be at least one customer who might not be as excited with my first day's performance as I am.

Tonight for dinner we are having one of my favorites, minute steaks, tenderized, battered and fried with mashed potatoes and gravy. There is also green beans, which isn't one of my favorites, and brown and serve rolls. I try but fail in my passionate attempt to convince mom that in the finer eating establishments jelly beans are often substituted for green beans. For dessert there is yellow cake topped with spiced peaches.

After a short game of cork ball (the sewer system eats another one) we are called inside to take our baths and to complete any unfinished school work. All work complete, the family joins in for some Wednesday night television -- tonight headed up by I Love Lucy and Bonanza. Soon the Sandman runs me down and I find myself in my top bunk bed, staring at the ceiling, day dreaming of all the things that I did today, but not for long. Soon I hear Mom's familar voice warning of imminent crop disaster if I do not get out of bed.

Thursday, May 25, 1967

Far too early for me, I find myself at Sherwood Junior High where I am in the 9th grade. Next year I will be a sophmore at Overton High School, but till then I am fighting French, Algebra, English, and History. It 's hard to tell who is winning, me or the subjects. It's probably a dead heat, as I settle in with mostly Cs with an occasional B or D.

After walking home from school, my brothers and I walk to the Sno Cream Castle to pick up our papers and buy a treat. Today we take a short cut through the field at the end of our street and cross the mighty Nonconnah Creek. Braving the churning, chilly flood, we take 5 to 10 minutes off of our walk. After yesterday, today is a breeze. I even have an envelope attached to my bundles. It has a blue slip that tells me of an additional customer. Hurrying through my route, I go home and shower and skip dinner. Tonight is the main night to collect, so I mount my trusty steed and set out to collect my route. Papers are normally paid for on a weekly basis, while some are paid for bi-weekly or monthly. My route has about 100 customers generating about $15.00 to $20.00 per week, a tidy sum for a kid in Memphis during the 60s. But there is one that is not happy with my new job, Cindy, our Pomeranian/Chihualiha mix, but she does enjoy riding around with me in my newspaper bag.

Friday, May 26, 1967

It's the weekend and a busy one at that. After school and delivering papers, the entire family loads into our 1965 Ford Custom and drives to two of my favorite places, the Red Barn and Cherokee Lanes. The Red Barn serves up massive burgers and onion rings, and we order our share before heading across Lamar Avenue to Cherokee Bowling Lanes.

With the tonnage of a freighter and the grace of a gazelle, Dad hurls the Black Beauty toward the gutter, but as it nears the trough it snaps back ripping a hole in the rack of pins depositing all ten in the pit. Mom is the lead off bowler and Dad bowls anchor. Mom is also quite effective, as well, but she does not tempt the gutter gods but opts to stay in the center of the lane and throw a back up ball.

Cherokee Lanes is a cool place if you are a teenager stuck in those demanding years between playing with cars and driving one. Sometime after 10 PM we pile into our '65 Ford Custom and head home. Too excited to sleep, I reach under my pillow and grab my transistor radio and dive under the covers. I tune in WSM (650 AM) from Nashville, then WLS (890 A M) from Chicago, then WMPS (680 AM), a local station before settling on WHBQ (560 AM), another local offering. There George Klein plays the latest must-have rock and roll offerings. There, through the magic of technology, I learn of a far different world.

Saturday, May 27, 1967

"I'll be back at 12:30 to pick you up. Behave yourselves and have a good time."

"Well, make up you mind." I responded. Mom is not amused.

With those directives, Mom pulls away and we head back into Cherokee Lanes for our Saturday morning league. After buying a couple of donuts at the snack bar and renting a pair of bowling shoes, I head to the schedule and to the bad news. My team, the Pin Busters, are playing the Strikers, the real "pin busters." Clayley is the anchor for the Strikers and is the holder of most of the top honors: high average, high series, high game, etc.

Fully aware of the futility in it, I begin to search the racks for my magic ball. It is black, a 16 pounder and is #554. After two passes through the racks produces no #554, I select an alternate and proceed to the assigned lanes. Next time I'll get here early and get #554, then we'll see who wins. Right.

It's Saturday, it's spring, and it's a sunny day . . . and that means baseball. If one is lucky it means organized baseball. My church, like any good Southern Baptist Church, Southmoor Baptist, has multiple teams as part of their ministry, and I am glad. After the diaster at the bowling alley, I was glad to see Mom pull into the lot. A short 2 mile drive later, Mom lets us out at Robert O'Brien Park. There we find most of the team already there for our 1 PM game with arch-rival Charjean Baptist. Brother Eddie McAteer is our coach today (while he is not our full time coach, he fills in when needed). I like him a lot. Not only is he one of the kindest people I know, he believes eveyone needs to play -- a philosophy with which I strongly agree; may his tribe increase.

While waiting for our adversay to finish talking infield practice, we convene out in left field to get "loose" and practice catching fly balls. I prefer outfield because if I miss a fly ball, and it doesn't conk me in the head, I won't have far to chase it down.

As Charjean finishes up, Coach calls us in to take our infield when the umpire strolls over and tells the coach to cut it short and that we might get this one in before the rain. Looking up at a cloudless sky, I guess it must be raining somewhere. After a hurried, abbreviated infield, we meet at the bench, where we have our unabbreviated prayer and then the starting roster.

"Hey, slugger. Stay ready. Might need your bat soon."

"Sure, Coach," I reply.

Our pitcher today is Roger Weeden. His stuff is pretty good and usually gives us a chance to win. Relief falls off pretty quickly. After the first half inning we are behind 2-0. As the game progresses, the good players get hits and the bad players make outs, and our cat calls seem to have little effect.

"Michael, you are in right field next inning," Coach announces.

So I run out to right field and in my best stacatto chatter implore the batter to swing. Luckily my fielding and arm are not challenged and I run in, hoping that my spot will not come up. It is the last inning and we are trailing by one, and I am due up seventh.

"Batter up." The umpire bellows as I stroll to the plate with two outs, the score tied, and the bases loaded.

Tapping my cleats with my Mickey Mantle bat, with nails and tape holding it together, I step into the batter's box and jump back from a heater over the outside corner.

"Strike one." Slamming the bat against the plate, I prepare for his next offering. Focusing on the pitcher, I plan to end the contest a hero, but a mighty swing is likewise unsuccessful. "Strike two."

"You only need one." I could hear the coach say.

Back in the box, I prepare for the next offering and, to my surprise, I get the perfect pitch, low and inside. And just that fast it is over. No, I didn't jerk it over the left field fence. No, it hit me and we won. After we shake the opposition hands and sack up the equipment, we meet at the cooler full of Cokes and, after a quick prayer, relive the game.

Sunday, May 28, 1967

Walking out the door and down the steps in my Robert Hall issued blazer, I join the rest of the family in the family's '65 Ford custom for the short drive to church. Southmoor Baptist Church is as good a place as any to get one's theology. There the God I was taught at home was reinforced; mainly God is, has spoken and holds one responsible. Accept his love and live according or reject it at one's peril.

My Sunday School teacher is Mr. Carlock, a good decent man, and after a quick lesson where each attendee reads a verse and we discuss how it applies in our daily lives, we are dismissed in time for a quick trip to McLemore's market across the street. I get a few snacks and eat them as we head back, easing through the back door and into the next to last pew just as the organ begins HOLY, HOLY, HOLY. One has got to be early to get the last pew or even an end seat. As pastor Cordle delivers the weekly sermon for our enlightment and edification, I look down the aisle and view the pious worshippers with their heads bowed onto the pew in front of them.

Things are going well until Jackie pushes Randy arms and Randy's head falls onto the pew in front of him with a resounding thud that wakes him and several more worshippers just as the good pastor comes to a 'pregnant pause' in his presentation. This is followed by a minimum of 8 to 10 snickers and a multitude of parental stares.

Back home now we change out of our Sunday clothes into our play clothes, which used to be our church clothes. Following a hot meal and a determination that there is not an offering on TV that interests me, I go out to see what is shaking in the hood.