Life at 6

The advent of my sixth year coincided with the start of elementary school and our next rental housing move several blocks away to 418 North 6th Street. This house was unusual for several reasons.

The house in 2000, restored to Victorian elegance 

Though when we lived in it from 1964-66 it operated as a rooming house, it was originally built in the late 1800's as a single-family dwelling; a fine example of Victorian-era architecture. After the estrangement from my grandparents and experiencing the opulence of their Newport Beach abode, this once fine mansion seemed but a pale shadow of it's former self. We occupied three rooms in the bottom right quadrant of the house, roughly corresponding to what would have been a parlor, formal dining room and kitchen. The bathroom next to the kitchen could not properly be called ours, since it was shared with the renter across the hall. This could have been a difficult situation to endure, but there was a connection to this tenant that made things easier - she was my Aunt, Lorena Miller Overstreet. Actually, that familial designation is not quite precise, but it would be year 8 before the hidden family secret concerning her was revealed to me.

This would be the first place that I would have extensive memories of and these would haunt my dreams for decades until the present. Though our portion of it was small, the entire house was overwhelmingly large to my young self, and I spent a great deal of time exploring the hallways and outer grounds. Another reason was the eclectic cast of characters that occupied the other rooms whom I was able to observe while we spent many summer nights on the front porch until the heating of the day dissipated enough for us to return to our rooms. (That lack of air conditioning was just a fact of life for all except the most wealthy of that time, and though uncomfortable was accepted stoically). There were factory workers, alcoholics, people living on the fringes, and then there were the Millers. I became a sponge, soaking up their experiences, dialects and affectations, and I am sure the stories I heard on these starry clear hot nights was a huge impetus to my penchant for storytelling. Most profound to my impressionable psyche though was the fact that our historic house was flat-out haunted! I heard many things during those two years that had no rational explanation, saw shadows on the second-floor landing while playing below, and often had my shoulder touched from behind, only to find no one there. I can recall running from the kitchen after one of these episodes to the comforting arms of my grandmother. My interest in the paranormal would deepen over the years as I became less afraid and more curious about the source of these interactions.

My Historic Belle Grove School Circa 1908

My elementary school was only a block away, and it was only a few weeks after moving in that classes began. Belle Grove was ancient even for 1964, with wide wooden boards for floors, the cafeteria in the basement, the smells of literally a million cooked lunches permeated into the walls. My 1st grade teachers name was Mrs. O'Brien, and though she seemed impossibly old to me at the time I now recognize that she was late 40's - young enough to have decades left before retiring, and old enough to be bitter about that fact. Since I was gifted with natural intelligence, and had parents who at least encouraged my curiosity about life, I was far ahead of the other kids and she used me, as I've already foreshadowed, as a tutor for those below the already low bar of expectations for the general cut of young Arkansan.

So for most of the school year, during reading time, I would be given the role of helping those daunted by the adventures of "Dick and Jane" and their quest to "See (their dog) Spot Run".

Each classroom at Belle Grove had an external cloakroom attached, one that was open to the general hallway but closed off to the classroom proper by a door. This was where we were sent, dragging chairs in tow, while Mrs. O'Brien struggled with the rest. Typically it was only one or two others, and often it would be girls only. Enter phase deux of my toe-dipping into the world of sexuality. After a short time, my female tutees would become bored with printed words, and would try to cajole me to stop the proceedings. Ever the future Boy Scout to-be, I wouldn't agree until one day the ante was upped.

"I'll show it to you"
"Show me what?" Yes, I was that naive.
"You know, down there" pointing to the Southland region.
"Why?"
"You know why" No, I did not, but I would never admit to being in the dark about anything.
"OK" My resolve would wane, and I would agree to the proposition.

This transaction occurred in various forms, most often as a quick up-and-down lowering of their pants, but occasionally they would provide an extended view. I, as have all boys since the beginning of time, became mesmerized with the smooth, protrusion-less split peach appearance of their pudenda. It all stayed innocent, no touching or other manipulation involved, but because of the understood risky nature of our enterprise, it was more than a bit exciting. They weren't interested in me reciprocating, which was fine as I couldn't understand why anyone would be interested in the weird, wrinkled mess that was my perception of my and other boy's genitalia. I never received any feedback from my teacher as to whether my efforts were having success or not, but at least I was getting bonus anatomy lessons.

I became friends that year with a boy named Anthony who was my age and lived in one of the older houses between mine and the school. In that more innocent age, parents could and did let their children roam far and wide, and though we would often hear our respective Moms yelling for us to come eat or return home at darkness, we pretty much had the run of our area. We played wiffle ball, marbles, and our favorite of all activities - trying to dig a hole to China. Don't know what inspired the idea, but our enthusiasm for the project was huge until our efforts were discovered somewhere around the two foot mark by a neighbor, who royally chewed us out and went to tattle on us to our mothers. Our excavation company was closed for good that day. 

Me and Anthony 1965

I spent a good deal of time at Anthony's house those years. It's where I first fell under the spell of football, the college version to be specific. The University of Arkansas Razorbacks were having a

banner year in 1964, one that would culminate in their first and last national championship. Since his parents were rabid fans, I was drawn by their passion to watch the games while at their house, and found myself sucked into the vortex with them. Though I had no idea at the time, two of the players on that team would later become transcendent figures in the sport: then-friends and roommates Jimmy Johnson and Jerry Jones. Anthony's mom would suffer a terrible accident during this year while riding on a tractor driven by his father as they cultivated land they owned in Sallisaw, OK, just across the border from Fort Smith. Though she recovered, she lost the sight in one eye and owing I suppose to the lack of plastic surgery expertise at the time, it was a very visible asymmetry that both scared me and made me feel quite sorry for her.

My most vivid memories of my sixth year were, as I'm sure they were for many, imprinted by entertainment. 1964-65 is when, historically, popular music changed to a more strident, brighter style commonly labeled as "pop-rock". The voices and sounds of Sonny and Cher, the Byrds, Mamas and Papas, the Beatles and so many others blared out of the little AM radio on our mantel. If it had been up to me, it would have played non-stop but there were three adults in the apartment who had veto powers. Fortunately we would all agree on television being necessary and good, and I became an addict of series such as "Bewitched" "Combat" "The Fugitive" and, in a preview of my interest in UFO-ology, the seminal conspiracy theory show "The Invaders".

Flying Saucers were serious business for me in 1964

1964 was my first memories of going to the movies, and particularly it was the avant-garde "Hard Days Night" Beatles film that I remember well. The Malco Theater was an eight

My beloved Malco 25 cent admission Oasis

block walk from our place, but to me it was another world altogether. Constructed and furnished in the old-school style, with a balcony, hand-crafted woodwork, thick rugs and crushed velvet seats, it seemed like an oasis in the otherwise desultory desert of my life. It would become a haven for me dozens of times during my childhood and teen years. Sadly, the last time I saw the movie palace operating was in 1976, it had been reduced by competition from the suburban theater to showing adult films, shortly before it closed for good.

There was much happening with my family during this year but the lines spilled into the next so I'll pass that baton until the next chapter. Suffice it to say that life at 6 was a mixed bag of wonder and terror, and the demarcation between those two states was both thin and apt to change at an instant.