The little house on Victor Drive

Mama and the pizza…

My Southern Heart, Reflections, The little house on Victor Drive

It was the late 1950’s. We were living in the house on Victor Drive with the sunny windows and the knotty pine dining room with the corner china cabinets. It was a time of early rock and roll, dancing and pizza. Our first introduction to pizza was from George, a big, strong, dark-haired cajun planter from Louisiana. All these years later, and I remember George Broussard like it was yesterday. He was Glenda’s boyfriend and Glenda was Dot’s best friend. So we all spent a lot of time together in that little house on Victor Drive.

George had a booming voice and a great laugh. His conversation was sprinkled with a few cajun words here and there, and he loved to kid Mama. One weekend, he brought a large, filled-to-the-brim pizza over for lunch. We’d never even seen a pizza. I have to admit, at first glance, I had my doubts. All these years later, I’ve had the best Chicago pizza in downtown Chicago…so I’d have to say I know good pizza. I don’t know where George got it, but that was some pizza! Mama took one look at it and had her doubts too. It, obviously, wasn’t Southern vegetables and cornbread. She almost didn’t try it, but she did…and she fell in love with George’s pizza. The best I recall all these years later, I’d say it was a thin-crust, SUPREME pizza and it was, indeed, delicious.

Quite frequently after that, George would arrive with Glenda on his arm and toting another gift for Mama…a pizza supreme. I’m not sure that George ever knew that Mama became a serious pizza fan after that. She tried making it from scratch from time to time, but when she was in a hurry, she’d resort to Chef Boyardee. Not too sure that George would have approved of that…

Pizza closeup with salami and vegetables on an old wooden background.

The Mamie Road Mystery…

My Southern Heart, Reflections, The little house on Victor Drive

It had been fifty-five years since we had lived in that little house on Mamie Road. It was bound to have changed – together with the neighborhood which had been in the countryside when we lived there. During my recent visit home to the South, Sharon and I both wanted to visit that house again and see the neighborhood. We knew, of course, it wouldn’t be the same, but we still wanted to see it. We wanted to see where we had lived so many years ago…

She reminded me that, now, it isn’t the safest neighborhood – definitely not one we’d visit after dark. I still wanted to go and so did she.

I can’t remember what I bought at the grocery store for supper this week; but, in the recesses of my deepest memory, I found the street address for that little house – 3972. Strange, isn’t it? As we drove down Mamie Road, however, nothing looked right. Time had brought so many changes and none for the better. There was a used car lot on the corner now and the little grocery store on the other corner where we used to walk to get things for Mama was now a rundown business of some sort. All too sad. There was some sort of compound behind an elaborate fence where one of the houses used to be and there was one too many houses.

We finally realized that when we lived in that little house, there was a treed vacant lot next door to us. That’s why we thought we had such a big yard to play in and that’s why there was room for a large garden. Once we realized that, we knew which house was ours. Sharon had a photo (which unfortunately I forgot to scan) that even had the house numbers on it. I was right after all…it was 3972 Mamie Road.

According to the records at the assesor’s office, the house was built in 1947…which meant we either bought it new or not long after. Thankfully, our little house on Mamie Road looked nothing like the current one below. Ours had white clapboard, a dark roof and black shutters. There was no front porch then – just steps. There was no front chain-length fence with a satellite receiver on it. There was an old-fashioned screened door which we’d, no doubt, get in trouble for slamming as we went in and out. There were tall trees and there was grass instead of a front yard of dirt. There was plenty of green grass to do cartwheels on. I do remember that…

The boy across the street…

My Southern Heart, Reflections, The little house on Victor Drive

I can’t remember when Larry and his family first moved in across the street…Larry, his older brother, two younger brothers and his parents. Not long after they moved there, his Dad died suddenly. I don’t remember if his Mom went to work after that, but I’m assuming that she did. I do remember seeing Larry and his older brother frying chicken for their supper and caring for their younger brothers.

I don’t know what it was about Larry. Maybe it was that James Dean look, but I was certainly drawn to him…crazy about him. We weren’t in the same crowd at school. I was yearbook staff, honor society and Bible Club. He was sports and, most likely, a faster crowd I’d say. Larry and I would sit on my front porch and talk for what seemed like hours or take a long walk around the neighborhood block and talk some more.

After graduation, Larry joined the Air Force and went to basic training. I think I got a post card or two from him after he left. I finished my senior year of high school and went away to a Baptist College in Mississippi. On one of my first visits home from school, my roommate and I took the train home. My parents met us at the train station and told me that Larry was home on a brief furlough. They said he asked them if he could pick me up at the train station, but they had said no…talk about disappointment! At any rate, he came over as soon as we arrived home. If memory serves me right, we had a date that night…to the movies…along with my roommate and a friend of his.

I went back to college and he went back to the Air Force. Time marched on, and I heard he had married a couple of years later. I’ve often wondered what happened to Larry. I hope he’s had a good life…a happy one. I’ve also wondered if he still looks like James Dean. I think I’d rather remember Larry that way…it’s best I don’t know if he’s bald and fat now.

Update: I’ve heard within the past year or so that Larry has had multiple strokes and has dementia. Such sad news. I will keep him and his family in my prayers.

Moving to Victor Drive…

Family, My Southern Heart, Reflections, The little house on Victor Drive

When I was about ten years old, my parents purchased a larger house about two miles away on Victor Drive. It wasn’t a large house by any stretch of the imagination, maybe twelve hundred square feet at the most. In my memory, it was a white cottage with green shutters. In addition to an extra bedroom, the house had a dining room which was paneled in warm knotty pine and had two built-in corner china cabinets. The sun filtered through the dining room windows and reflected against the pine, casting a warm glow on the large round antique dining table. That table was the scene for so many family meals and special times…(also the scene where Sharon and I would occasionally – well, okay, frequently – get sent from the table for uncontrollable giggling.)

I remember that we moved in the winter after my first semester of the fourth grade. Strange how certain pictures stick in your mind. Sixty years later and I can still remember Mama, my sisters, Sharon and I sitting in the sun coming in those dining room windows eating our lunch. The gas heat must not have been turned on yet because I remember we were cold. We must have been there to clean in preparation for moving or we had just moved in. The memories are fuzzy after all this time.

There was a large back yard with trees and plenty of room for Mama’s vegetable garden. Mama and Daddy planted apple, peach and pear trees for a small orchard as well. Mama was an incredible Southern cook, and with the bounty from those trees, she made the most delicious jams and preserves I have ever tasted to this day. Those pear preserves on one of her homemade biscuits was truly a legend.

Our move to a new home had meant changing neighborhoods, friends, schools and churches. Thankfully, this school was only .31 tenths of a mile (map quest again) and a much shorter walk to school. The fact that we moved half-way through the fourth grade made it especially difficult. As I recall, I wasn’t too happy at first, especially since the class was on a totally different subject in math – one I had not had. I had gone from being a straight A student, to having serious problems in math. One day, the teacher hit my hand very hard with a ruler because I didn’t know the answer to a math problem. Mama, who was barely five feet tall and very soft-spoken, had a few well-chosen, but totally appropriate, things to say to my teacher. After that, the teacher took a little extra time and patience, and my good grades returned. Honestly though, I never was fond of that particular teacher after that. Unfortunately, I had her again for two more subjects in junior high!

All too soon…

My Southern Heart, Reflections, The little house on Victor Drive

The seasons came and went on Mamie Road…and the years with them. My Dad had a good job at a manufacturing plant; but like everyone else in the fifties, there wasn’t a great deal of money. My mother was a wonderful cook and there was always plenty of good food on the table. She had a big vegetable garden in the Spring and Summer and canned the abundant produce for the months to follow. An excellent seamstress, she made almost all of our clothes, except for my Dad’s. As best I can remember the little jumper I’m wearing in the photo above left was a dark blue and green woolen plaid…amazing how far I’m having to reach to produce that memory.

The elementary school was .79 of a mile. I remembered that it was a long way for a small child to walk; but just in case I couldn’t trust my memory, I used mapquest and confirmed the actual distance. Rain, sleet, snow or shine…we walked. There were little galoshes and raincoats for the wet days…warm coats, hats and mittens for winter…but we still walked.

One particular afternoon after school, I walked in the WRONG direction and got in big trouble for it! I must have been…maybe 8 years old…just the size of the little girl in the photo. A little friend of mine invited me to go home with her after school. She lived over the bridge (which crossed the large Veterans Cemetery) and down Bayliss Avenue. Altogether, about a mile in the OTHER direction. The days were growing shorter by then and it was getting darker. About the time we arrived at her house, I remember having some serious second thoughts. I called my Mama to brightly tell her where I was and what I had done. FIFTY-FOUR years and I can still hear her words: “you’d better get home right now and you’re going to get it when you get here!” Sound familiar to anyone else?! It was almost dark by then, and, needless to say, I ran the whole way home. My grandparents, her parents, were visiting at the time, and she was particularly upset with me that I had done that with them there. I was rarely spanked, but I definitely got one that day.

The Wilson family lived in the house directly behind us. They were a young family with two daughters, Sandra and Katie, who were almost the exact same age as Sharon and me. Sharon and I were happy because now we had each other and two good friends. Mr. Wilson worked at a chemical company several miles away. From time to time, he would work the second shift, and when he did would give the four of us girls a ride to school. He was kind and gentle, and my child’s instinct told me he was a very good man. One afternoon, we heard a loud explosion which literally shook the ground. Mama turned the radio on to hear the news. There had been a terrible explosion at the chemical company. She said, “I hope Mr. Wilson is alright”; but he wasn’t. He died in that explosion. I was only a small child, but I remember being very sad…especially for Sandra and Katie.

Weekends during the fifties were much more relaxed than now. On Sundays after church and Sunday dinner, we’d go “visiting” OR someone would come visit us. There would be homemade pies or cakes, fresh hot coffee or iced tea for the adults and lemonade for the kids. In the Summertime, there would often be homemade ice cream…with the hand-turned crank. After a few hours, the news would have been exchanged…the memories relived…and we’d go home. Another Sunday afternoon destination was occasionally the Memorial Park Cemetery with its Crystal Shrine Grotto. It was a beautiful setting with a cave with amazing scenes carved out. Trees graced the entire setting and in the Autumn and Spring, it was breathtaking. The trees are magnificent now, much taller than in the photo above. Sadly, now though, it is also where my husband of thirty-nine years and the father of my three children is buried.

We are a composite of every experience we’ve ever had…every person who has significantly touched our lives…every decision we’ve ever made – each of us creating our own memories one day at the time. I’m reminded, once again, to enjoy each and every one of those days, because each one is over all too soon.