Behind our house lived the Powers. Their home faced Laird Avenue and was separated from our property by a hurricane fence. There were three kids in the Powers family: Mary Anne (the oldest), Jim (my sister’s age) and Ellen, who was about two years younger than I. Their family had a pet cat that made for some humorous late-night moments. One night Codge and I awoke to Jim Powers’ basso profundo droning “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” He sounded like Lurch on “The Addams Family”. You could sense his heart was not into calling the cat indoors, as he was inconvenienced by the late hour and the cold winter drizzle. Codge and I lay awake for at least a half an hour laughing our asses off over this dispassionate wee-hour drama. With Mom and Dad’s bedroom being directly above ours, I have no idea how they slept through Jim’s vocal impression of the Addams Family butler, or my brother and I cackling profusely while biting our bed sheets.

Our “back yard” could not have been more that six to eight feet in width. It was primarily a walkway for the Doulgasses to get to their vehicle. There was a clothesline behind the garage that Mom would use year ‘round to hang the wash. Aside from these mundane activities, Codge and I never hung out back there, with the exception of observing the miraculous resurrection of an amphibious creature thanks to the irreverent goading of our friend Nic Baker. More on that story later.

Across the street were the Nelsons, grandparents to friends I palled around with in the summer months. Greg Wooters was their grandson, and my age. We were about the same height, with blond hair, and we both idolized the Beatles. When Greg’s grandparents were out of the house, we played the hell out of the 45 singles “She Loves You” and “From Me To You” at peak levels on their home stereo. Life for the elderly Nelsons must have been nothing less than frenzied because of the constant comings and goings of the grandkids and their neighborhood friends. They were always kind but could, and would, repeatedly lay down the law with raised voices when life got out of hand, which seemed to be an hourly occurrence.

To the left of our house was the Taylor family. They were a very quiet couple who adopted a young child because Mrs. Taylor was unable to bear children. The family was constantly under the attentive watch of Mack, their Scottish Terrier. Mack was the official guard dog that would diligently bark at pedestrians from the fenced-in area of his driveway domain. I lived next door to this dog for five years and he never once stopped barking at me, or for that matter any neighbor living in proximity to his marked territory. Mack had a sense of purpose.

To the left of the Taylors were the Jensens. Mr. Jensen was a dentist and Mrs. Jensen a housewife, managing a hectic home with the comings and goings of her four young children. I hung around with their son Gordon on occasion even though he was five years my junior. He was a nice kid who liked the Beach Boys and would play the “Little Deuce Coup” and “Surfin’ Safari” albums for me when we were hanging out in his bedroom.

At the end of the block was the busy intersection of 17^th East and 13^th South. This was a thoroughfare for commuters and the city transit system. Codge, Nic, and I would catch the city bus at this corner for our daily transportation to school. The bus would turn off 13^th South onto 17^th East ambling its way toward 9^th South while picking up additional schoolchildren and professionals.

Chevron and Sinclair gas stations occupied the corners of this lively crossroads. Codge, Nic, and I would constantly cut through the Sinclair premises going to and from Nic’s house, making sure to step on the vehicle alert hose, much to the annoyance of the station’s attendants.

The Emigration Market sat catty-corner to the Sinclair station. It was the neighborhood’s grocery store, which I frequented fetching mom’s usual staples of a pound of ground beef, a loaf of bread, and a half-gallon of milk. Codge and I were hired by Emigration Market to deliver handbills on Saturday mornings in pre-assigned neighborhoods. We would be given approximately 100 handbills each to distribute to all the front porches to help the store promote its weekly specials. We were paid $2.50 apiece for a job that began at 8:30. My brother had the better of our two routes because his area was much closer to home. My route began at the corner of 13^th South and 15^th East, literally walking down 13^th South at what seemed like a 45-degree incline to 13^th East, then zigzagging up and down the steep terrain the rest of the way. I ascended and descended this landscape for what seemed like interminable hours each Saturday morning until I finished delivering the final handbill. It was usually 11 before I arrived back at the Emigration Market to collect my pay. Codge always finished at least one hour ahead of me, and that included collecting his bounty.

On the opposite side of the Emigration Market, catty-corner from the Chevron station, were the Variety Store and Fernwoods Ice Cream Parlor. The Variety Store was a convenient establishment to get odds and ends, a smaller version of a five-and-dime. I was one of their better candy and monster comic magazine customers. They also sold clothing, groceries and other sundries that included record albums and books. Nic and I hung out in this store more than our fair share (at least before we discovered pop music). Because we liked to read comic books and eat candy, we built our own reading room under one of the aisle bins – a result of meticulous clerk-to-customer reconnaissance. Each bin was draped with a cloth fabric skirt that would conceal the hidden inventory contents from customers perambulating up and down the aisles. This was the store’s attempt to put on its good face and diffuse the typical tackiness of the dime store image. When the clerks were busy with customers, Nic and I would drop on all fours, burying ourselves underneath our chosen bin, squirreling away handfuls of the store’s impressive comic book inventory – a virtual library of Superman and Archie comic books, plus an enviable cache of candy – while sneaking in blankets and flashlights to complete our off- site reading room with all the amenities of home. Our clandestine stunt was shut down one day when we became too rowdy, much to the shock and annoyance of the store clerk who rebuked us repeatedly for our prank. We got the boot but we were never banished from this local hangout and continued our loyal patronage until I moved from the valley in 1967.

One other hangout we frequented: Walking one block east up Laird Avenue was a big playground with a ball field, swings, teeter-totters, a merry-go-round, and other amusements and amenities, where Codge, Nic, and I would play tackle football or “smear the queer” with other kids from the neighborhood. Hot or cold, rain or shine, light or dark, this was the place to congregate. We all earned our shares of bumps, bruises, cut lips, bloodied noses, the typical wounds sustained when engaged in some fierce neighborhood football rivalry. But no one paid more dearly than Nic during one particular autumn day in a tough game of tackle. Each side had about seven or eight players, some wearing protective gear because these games could get a little out of hand. Nic was sporting a football helmet crafted from the 1920s. He looked like a walking anachronism! It was a family heirloom, memorabilia from a time long past. The top of the helmet was white with a brown leather ear covering. There was no face guard or any internal padding – a museum piece left over from the days of Knute Rockne. Nic was gang-tackled and his head hit the ground hard. He was dazed for a moment. Codge and I knew he was hurt. He suffered a minor concussion and his head ached for a few days. Without wearing that old helmet, it could have been much worse.

Of all the neighborhoods I grew up in during my youth, 17^th East-and-13^th South holds my fondest memories. This was home, a safe and secure place that provided a wealth of childhood and teenage experiences. However, it would be the music that would awaken and animate my life during this unique era. While the neighborhood served as our stage and backdrop, the music inspirited our lives with its rich multi-colored hues, as Codge, Nic, and I immersed ourselves in this vibrant soundtrack of our youth.