When the Street Lights Come On

By James A. McMullen

Nothing about Jimmy McMullen's childhood was dysfunctional, unless you consider having big ears a "dysfunction". He grew-up in the late 50's with twin sisters, a year younger than himself, and had one good friend to accompany him on the journey from childhood to adolescence. But growing-up is hard, especially for a kid!
A first kiss or life's most embarrassing moment-two entirely different events I assure you-become monumental moments when viewed through the eyes of a kid.
This book is a collection of such stories, all of which are true, that define one such life. But in a way they define all of us. It's about the feelings attached to the experiences of growing-up and one kid's attempt to make sense of the world around him.
When the Street Lights Come On is about going home to a place in the heart that's warm and familiar. It's a book for kids about to embark on the journey called "growing-up" and for everyone who's already been initiated. In the end you'll be reminded that sometimes just showing up for the game of life can be the bravest thing a kid can do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 15, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595829354

James A. McMullen

James A. McMullen, against all odds, managed to survive childhood despite attending Catholic elementary school and having big ears. He pulls memories and feelings from the 50?s like a magician pulls rabbits from a hat. He is retired from federal service and is a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) for abused, neglected, and abandoned children in Ventura County, California.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE CONTEST

HIGH FLYER

WHEELS OF FORTUNE

SAFE AT HOME

TAKE THE PITCH

THE TAXICAB KID

PRESSURE POINTS

BLACK BEAUTY

THE BRIDGE OVER

BALLONA CREEK

FIRST LAUNCH

BLUE RIBBON BLUES

THE THREE FACES OF GRANDVIEW

THE BUICK SPECIAL

TABLE FOR FOUR

SUMMER OF ‘62

PEOPLE ON THE PATH

THE JOURNEY BEGINS

A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.

—Jackie Robinson

When a grandparent dies, a iibrary burns down.

—Alex Haley

Introduction

Stories define lives. They lay sheltered deep within the brain obscured only by the element of time. When someone dies, so die their stories. And the documentation needed to preserve a memory vanishes.

This is the story of my childhood. It takes place between 1958 and 1963—5 years that shaped who I was to become as an adult. It was a time before video games and microwave ovens, before solar energy and compact discs. It was a time when television pictures were in black and white and computers were just being developed. No one had yet seen, much less actually used, a hand held calculator or digital watch.

Life was somewhat different for kids then—a little slower and a lot less complicated—but the fundamental reactions to events were the same. They remain constant over time.

The first time I kissed a girl or the most embarrassing moment of my life—two entirely different events I assure you—both have associated feelings that transcend time. The feelings I experienced as a kid can be mirrored by someone experiencing the same events today.

On September 11, 1994, exactly seven years before the tragic events in New York City, Cody James Arthur McMullen was born. He weighed 5 lbs. 11 ounces, blond hair, blue eyes, with all his toes and fingers in their proper places. As I peered through the wire-laced window into the nursery at my first grandchild, I was overwhelmed. His tiny body tucked securely under a blue trimmed blanket reminded me that there was a complete generation between us. I decided at that exact moment to build a bridge to span the newly created generation gap.

My plan was simple. The construction material would consist of words I’d use to convey the experiences I had growing up and I’d offer them to Cody. As he read the words he’d be uncovering the feelings those experiences created for me. Then maybe he’d recognize the same feelings as he journeyed through his life. If so, a connection would be forged between my life then and his life now. The resulting connection would be our bond—a bond of shared experiences, and the bridge would be complete.

When I was a kid, I’d play outside during the summer until dark. Every kid in the neighborhood knew that when the street lights came on, it was time to go home.

This book is about going home; about returning to a familiar place that only exists in my mind to retrieve some feelings. Once uncovered, I’ll dust them off, write them down, and give them to Cody. Sifting through the words, he’ll see that our lives aren’t really that different: similar experiences, same feelings, and a resulting connection.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories—all of which are true—and that you’ll discover some feelings you can relate too as well. It’s the sharing of feelings that makes life so special and creates the bond between us. It’s getting dark and the street lights are about to come on. It’s time to head for home....

James A McMullen

THE CONTEST

I have twin sisters. I’m not a twin, my sisters are. I’m actually a year older than they are. Can you imagine my mom? When I was eighteen months old she had two six month old girls to contend with. Ever try carrying around three little kids at once? You can see why at eight months old I learned to walk, I saw what was coming and did something about it!

My sisters were as different as night and day. They looked alike but that’s where it ended. Sandy, the younger by half an hour, was sweet, dainty, and loved dolls and playing house. Charlene preferred bicycles, baseball, and climbing trees. I spent most of my childhood with Char. I’m not sure what Sandy did or where she did it, but I suppose whatever it was, she was happy doing it.

Char was my best friend. The main reason was that she was really good at everything. When the guys in the neighborhood got together for a game of touch football in the street we’d choose up sides. Since Char was always at my side she’d be part of the game as well. Inevitably, she’d be picked before half of the other boys. This fact didn’t exactly boost the pride of those picked after her, but she was faster and could throw and catch better than most of the guys, so that was that. No matter what we did or where we went Char and I were a great team together.

It was the start of summer,1961, a glorious time in my life. I was ten years old and I’d just finished a somewhat awkward fifth grade school year. I was definitely ready for the freedom and fun that summer was all about.

To kick things off, the local TG&Y—a dime store—held a model building contest for boys and girls eight to twelve years old. Char and I were always eager to try something new, so the following Saturday we jumped on our bikes and headed down to get the details.

From across the parking lot we could see a huge banner hanging above the window. The Master Model Builder’s Contest it proclaimed, sponsored by Revell, a popular model manufacturer. As I stared at the banner it occurred to me that this was something I had been preparing for all my life. Over the last couple of years I’d made dozens of models and I liked to think I learned something about the process along the way. Why don’t we enter? I said to Char. From the look on her face it was obvious that she wasn’t as keen about the idea as I was which was understandable; she hadn’t ever built a model before. But what she lacked in enthusiasm, she made up for in cooperation. Being a good sport and a good buddy, she agreed to give it a try.

We entered the store and headed for the aisle where the modeling supplies were located. My imagination soared as everything needed to build a model was spread out before us: hundreds of kits to choose from, paint, brushes, glue, X-acto knives, and an assortment of decals.

These items fueled my imagination and after several minutes of careful thought I had decided. A bi-plane from WW lI caught my eye. It was equipped with fully functional landing gear, wings with moving stabilizers, and a propeller made of real wood. It contained more pieces than any model I’d ever attempted before. I knew this because a serial number appeared on the end of every model box which was actually a secret code. This code represented the number of pieces in the kit—the more pieces—the more difficult the task. It was exactly the kind of model, if built according to spec, that would take me to the winner’s circle.

I made a mental shopping list of the items required and estimated I would need $5, a ten-week advance on my 50 cent allowance. I would have to promise to do extra chores around the house for a long time before mom would agree to advance the necessary funds.

The next day Char and I went back to the store to make our purchases. There it was, the box containing the WW ll bi-plane, perched on the top shelf where the expensive models were always kept. I carefully reached for it and cradled it between my hands. I felt confident about this selection and the challenge that lay ahead of me.

I’ll be over looking at the paint, I said to Char, who seemed overwhelmed at the choices and still hadn’t made up her mind about which kit to buy. I’ll meet you up front at the register, and away I went.

A few minutes later, we were standing at the checkout. I placed the box containing the bi-plane in front of the checker, in addition to three bottles of paint, a brush, a bottle of paint thinner, an X-acto knife, and a tube of glue. What’d you get Char? I asked. A sea plane, she responded as she set it down next to mine.

The first thing I noticed about her selection, as it laid next to mine, was that it was little. It contained maybe 15 or 20 pieces at most. This kind of kit was extremely easy to build. Not a good choice to win a contest, I thought to myself. The next observation I made was that she was buying just the model and a tube of glue. Apparently she had no intentions of painting it. Big mistake, I thought, because the picture on the box showed an orange