A Long Lost Friend

I was checking out in Wal-Mart, one of my least favorite places, when the cashier suddenly questioned, "Sallie Jo?"  I knew immediately that she had to be someone from my past--my distant past.  Growing up in the south, I was accustomed to everyone having a double name.  We are crowded with Barbara Ann's, Anne Marie's, Sarah Jane's, and Betty Sue's.  I quit introducing myself as "Sallie Jo" when I entered college in 1966.  That was when I introduced myself to a girl on my floor from Detroit who squealed delightedly upon hearing my name, "Oh, how wonderful!  Sallie Jo!  I just knew when I came to Kentucky I would meet a "Jo" just like Billy Jo, Bobby Jo and Betty Jo on Petticoat Junction!"  Being compared to the popular hillbilly sitcom did not make my day.  After that, I generally dropped my second name, so, I knew when I heard that name that this had to be someone I knew from way back. 

Puzzled, I looked at her as she rushed out from the cash register.  Facing me was a middle-aged woman with short, white hair and arms open wide.  "I know I must know you, but who are you?" I asked, smiling.  Not graceful, but I have always been stymied by these situations.  "Pam York" she beamed.  Immediately my mind rushed back to the carefree days spent at my grandmother's during the long summer vacations from school.  Throwing my arms around her I hugged my irrepressible partner in mischief from those bygone days.  She was still living in Bardstown, actually on the same street that was our playground during those days of endless summer.  Our reunion was cut short by the patiently waiting customers behind me, but not before she told me that she had always kept an eye out for me, sure that eventually I would come through her line.  Parting with contact information and promises to meet when we could truly visit, I left the store in a daze. 

On the drive home my mind was flooded with memories of those glorious days.  My grandparents had lived on a quiet street surrounded by young families.  In an effort to help my mother out over the summer months when we weren't in school,  they often kept us for extended stays.  I don't know how she put up with us for the amount of time we were there,  but having several kids on the block certainly helped.  Pam had lived next door with her three older sisters.  Being almost the exact age and similar personalities (tomboys) we were immediately best friends.  One house up the street lived our third playmate, a lovely, dainty only child.  I'll say this, she was game.  I know sometimes she was appalled by some of the stuff we got into but she followed right along. 

Pam's yard was our playground of choice since it had the most fun to do things in it.  On one side of the sprawling old house was a low building that had originally been a chicken house.  Probably, the old house, now surrounded by modest ranch and cape cod homes, had been the farmhouse on a small farm adjacent to town.  Behind the house was a large metal building housing a shop and garage for her dad's truck.  Next to this stood a huge old willow tree that had branches that draped to the ground all around, creating secret cave behind the green limbs.  The rest of the yard was shaded by mature maples, just begging for kids to climb them. 

The chicken house (long since cleaned up and made into a storage building), became our clubhouse.  We stored our most treasured possessions in two large cardboard boxes in there.  One was filled with old cast off dresses, hats, purses, belts and lengths of left-over fabric, which we used to transform ourselves into whatever characters our imagination created for us.  We held tea parties, sailed with pirates, piloted space ships, fought off Indians, and plotted continuously  against the two boys from across the street.  We would low-crawl behind the bushes around the house to achieve the perfect ambush, only to often be surprised in turn.  With squeals of mock terror we would run to our favorite hiding place, the branches of the old maple in the front yard.  Like monkeys, we would scramble up the tree and smother giggles as we hid in the leafy bower.

The moms on the street left us pretty much alone (they were mostly all stay at home moms at that time) unless things started to get out of hand or someone was actually hurt.  Then we would be called in for a little "rest".  Television was strictly for adults, so a rest meant we would lie on the bed with the windows open for the breeze, read and listen to the noises of the neighborhood and maybe fall asleep. 

With no daylight savings time keeping daylight around all night, dusk just created more adventures for us.  After supper, the adults would gather on a porch and talk about the happenings of their days while we caught lightning bugs and put them in jars.  (yes, we broke some jars, but no one ever amputated a finger or bled to death from the broken glass)  Later when it got full dark we would play kick-the-can or hide-and-seek with the older kids, running from yard to yard, seeing strange and scary new shapes in the shifting shadows.  Before the big boys could scare us completely to death, the adults would call for us to come in for baths. 

For about five years my summers were lived on that little street that will always be wrapped in the heat of summer with the heady smell of cut grass, flowers and warm cookies, echoing with the sound of childish laughter.  Then my grandfather retired and my grandparents moved to our home town to be closer to my mother.  Despite vows to keep in touch, we never really saw each other much again.  We were briefly reunited at my grandfathers funeral, when we were all in high school but never after that. 

Now, with a hug from another middle-aged lady, I was suddenly transported to that time when a eight year old little girls promised life-long fidelity and friendship.  Maybe we weren't so wrong after all.