Summer
jobs, lord were there plenty! From painting fences and house-trim to
baby-sitting, mowing, washing cars, tutoring, fixing radios &
TVs, the list goes on and on!
One
summer Saturday morning in 1967, I stopped before work to talk with
Mark, of Bauer & Hudson, to plan the night's festivities. His
summer job was policing the grounds of the Bama Drive-In where we
would probably both wind up that night, he with one of the gals that
was listed by the Public Health Service (he never listened, used to
shake the hell out of the urinal plumbing while screaming), me with
Connie who was my squeeze since we were twelve.
Well,
back to our talk. We had been discussing the festivities and whether
the penicillin was working or not when Mark became very sad. Seems
the speaker post he had just put his hand on was presently occupied.
The occupant had previously been in a foil package labeled “for the
prevention of disease only”. This one was, one might say, rather
heavily used before becoming a hand-trap. I found it expedient to
leave before Mark's sadness faded as I was feeling much mirth!
Undoubtedly, Mark would do something I would regret.
My
summer job that year was at Claude's Radio & TV Repair. Most of
my work was in the shop as a 5' 2”, 17 year old that could pass for
14 kinda shook up field customers. Claude did have a contract with
the Archdiocese so the Catholic hospital had him regularly service
their huge, old EKG machine and elected to send me. The head
nurse/Mother Superior gave me the hairy eyeball when this 14 year old
kid took the back off of HER machine and crawled inside with his
toolbox. Soon, a couple of parts were tossed out, then the kid came
out and promptly unscrewed the safety cover to check the machine's
calibration. Poor gal, thought she was going to need the machine!
Subsequent visits were not nearly as much fun as she greeted me
warmly and asked sensible questions. And yes, Claude & I planned
it.
Next
was a trip to the Archdiocese itself. Just a small B & W set
belonging to the head man himself. Now Claude didn't warn me the
abbot, bishop, whatever, was “friendly”. The TV just had two
loose screws on the antenna connector. His bishopness didn't want me
to leave a whole bunch. I felt it wise to leave a whole bunch. I got
back to the shop to find Claude with a huge, shit-eating grin on his
face. Oh yes, he had one coming and he didn't see that one coming
either.
The
last Catholic related service call (interesting term, considering)
was to a rather out of the way address. Knowing Claude, I figured
another B & W portable did not bode well at all. I had been
lifting weights with my dad since the age of eight, running track at
school, and was not too concerned about another fat old queer. Oh how
wrong I was!
The
rather large, Edwardian abode was full of girls! Lots of girls! I
liked girls! It took a looong time to repair that little TV with all
the wonderful help, however the girls in the Home for Unwed Mothers
were off limits. ...sigh... Thanks Claude, that WAS a nice service
call!
Remember
Mr. Miller's pond? He also had a daughter, Anne, about six years
older than me that used to baby-sit my sister and self when our folks
would vanish for a weekend now and then. Since dad was a pilot and we
had our own airplane, it was hard to tell where they went.
Anne
was a typical 12 year old girl, knobby knees and elbows, growing like
a weed, and properly school-marmish with her almost six (me) and
almost four (Gracie) year-old charges. Since my sister and self were
rather small, Anne used to put one on each knee and read to us (I've
still got the book!). Of course I'm curious about most every thing
and had to gently pull her blouse out a bit to have a look. She gave
me a lesson on propriety. I didn't do that to her again.
For
fun, I ran into her 19 years later! My oh my! We had a heck of a
visit ,however I wasn't invited to sit on her knee anymore. Darnit.
This
thing was to be about The Hill.
The
Hill was located between one of the prettiest meadows east of the
Rocky Mountain meadows, and a failed, post World War 2 subdivision.
The meadows were gently sloped toward the climax forested upper
waters of Rabbit Creek which became a large river of the same name
emptying into Mobile Bay. Sunrise services were held every Easter.
The
subdivision was kinda sad. All there was of it were a grid of
streets, well done since they were nearly 20 years old and still in
good shape. Wonder what happened?
The
Hill itself had quite a few live oaks open to the west (meadows) and
closed to the north and east by a fairly dense, young forest. A
perfect Lovers' Lane! Sitting in one's buggy or outside on a moon-lit
night with a lot of hormones and very little sense tends to make a
bunch of full-term babies the mom only carried six months!
We
kids kept "our Hill" clean and mowed. No one knew who owned
it so we just followed the last generation. I always wondered how
many of us were conceived there!
You
might ask if I ever went back. I did. Once. Twelve years later. Wish
I hadn't.
The
miles and miles of climax forest around the creek were nearly
clear-cut. The creek itself was filled in by erosion run-off making a
yellow, sandy bottom for a wide, six-inch deep, barren drainage
ditch. So ugly. The old subdivision had a few "Jim Walter"
type houses (cracker-boxes) and mobile homes, The live oaks on The
Hill were gone and for the life of me, I couldn't imagine why. In
twelve short years, the beauty that would not come back even if man's
"works" were removed for hundreds of years.
The
original purpose of this essay was to explore the various names of
The Hill. Kinda lost now. Got too serious. One variance had to do
with us kids policing it on Saturday morning and Sunday evening,
finding the occasional used device which had packaging stating "for
the prevention of disease only". This made for a rather ribald
name ;o)
Oh
well...
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