Breakfast at Mema’S

By Van Carroll Temple

Offering a vivid portrayal of time and place, Breakfast at Mema's shares a collection of author Van Carroll Temple's boyhood adventures. The humorous, poignant stories hail from the 60s in Ruston, a small college town nestled in the tree-covered hills of north Louisiana. In Southern storytelling style, the interconnected vignettes portray a unique time and place when Temple's world was the outdoors and the landline telephone was the only personal communication device. His parents taught him and his siblings to treat others as they'd like to be treated and then set them free to figure out the rest. He shares how his days were packed with play and work-climbing trees, riding bikes, working in the garden, poking around in the woods, hunting, fishing, mowing yards, Boy Scout outings, reading books, and girls. This collection narrates how assassinations, abortions, and Vietnam interrupted the idyllic life, revealing a bigger, more complicated world and signaling the beginning of childhood's end. Praise for Breakfast at Mema's "... Van Temple's gentle memoir, Breakfast at Mema's, serves up a bit of indulgent nostalgia. But, there's so much more. At first blush, the stories are a potpourri of childhood vignettes-more Andy of Mayberry than the edgier tell-all stories of dysfunction we have more or less come to expect. They progress, not unexpectedly, up to and over the precipice of a few of those moments that signaled for each of us the end' of childhood. ..." -Nancy McBride, Middle School Social Studies Teacher, Alexandria, Virginia

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532006050

Van Carroll Temple

Van Carroll Temple is a 1974 graduate of Louisiana Tech University and has had careers in city management, social justice, and community development in six states. Temple is a lifelong runner and community activist. This is his third book.

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Copyright © 2016 Van Carroll Temple.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0606-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0605-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016913857

iUniverse rev. date: 11/08/2016

CONTENTS

Introduction

Road Less Traveled

A Summer Afternoon

What It Was, Was Football

Breakfast At Mema’s

Close To The Edge

The Whistle

Where They Keep The Magic

Awakening To Wonder

Rock Solid

House Building

Timber-R-R

The Lookout

Dunked

The Big Dig

Field Of Gold

Miles

Toughest Equation

Fever’s Pitch

Lost

All-American Game

A Just Sentence

Two, Together

A Day In November

Almost Famous

Business 101

Treble Trouble

Third And Long

Whip

Camp Beauregard

Spooky

You Only Live Twice

Camp Kiroli

Spitfire Saturday

Dry Parish

Bigfoot

Mr. B

Shelter

Attractions

The Bell Lap

Hot Pink

Two Feet

Midnight Man

Big Catch

Gray Matter

Fire Towers, Rattlesnakes, And Girlfriends

Wet And Wild

Dropout

Sawmill

March Mail

Suggestions

Heavy Rains, High Winds Expected

Sabre

Rachel’s Question

Mr. Sydnor

Thousand-Dollar Summer

Thousand-Dollar Summer

The Bridge

Trailer Tricks

Birthdays

Afterword

For my dear mother, Harriet Mabel Daniel Temple,

and father, William Benson Temple.

Thank you for loving me, showing me the way, and letting me go.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

S PECIAL THANKS TO Eva Abbott, David Ashcraft, Brian Gueyser, David Hall, Lorijo Metz, Jane Rogstad, Mark Strand, Louise Rosebrook-Temple, Daniel Temple, John Temple, Loranne Temple, and Caitlin Truitt.

INTRODUCTION

B REAKFAST AT MEMA’S is a collection of interconnected stories from my life growing up in the 1960s in Ruston, a small college town settled in the tree-covered hills of north Louisiana. My parents taught me to treat others as I’d like to be treated and set me free to figure out the rest for myself. Days were packed with play and work – climbing trees, riding bikes, mowing lawns, and working in the garden; poking around in the woods, hunting, fishing, Boy Scout outings, reading books, and girlfriends. Life was so compelling I couldn’t wait to wake up and continue the adventure. We played outside even in the rain and believed we could do anything we set our minds to. Assassinations, abortions, and Vietnam interrupted, revealing a bigger, more complicated world and hastening the end of childhood.

Many of the stories were written initially to stand-alone. When I finished a story and thought my parents might like it, I mailed them a copy. Other stories seemed perfect to share with my brother and sisters, so I mailed copies and kept on writing. Later I discovered some were reading the stories to their children and an extended family audience had developed. During 2015-16, I revised some stories, added more, and wove together this coming of age narrative.

I recommend reading the chapters in sequence because the story flows from younger years through high school and on to college. My hope is that the humor, emotion, and truths of growing up, permeates you like the all-enveloping humidity of Louisiana.

Van Carroll Temple

ROAD LESS TRAVELED

L ATE ONE SUMMER Sunday afternoon my brother Danny borrowed the keys to Dad’s baby blue Chevy pickup and asked if I’d like to come along for a drive. I was eight and he was eighteen, and going for a ride sounded good. We jumped in the truck, slammed the big doors, and headed off together.

We shared a room until he went off to grad school at the University of Illinois, so we got to know each other pretty well. Along the way he took time to show me a few things about life. One summer, Danny and his friend Spencer took me to the Ruston Drive-In to see The Guns of Navarone. It was the first time I’d been to the drive-in or seen any movie on a big screen. I guess he thought a war movie would be a good one to start me off with.

Fortunately, I had Danny and an older sister, Louise, to show me the ropes. To hear them tell about those years now, it’s a wonder I encountered any difficulties at all growing up. One thing’s for sure; they broke our parents in well. By the time little sister Jane and I came along, our parents knew the best way to raise kids was to guide ’em gently, teach ’em to be safe, and let ’em figure it out for themselves.

But that’s not what this story’s about. It’s about choices we make along the thorny path of life, those little decisions that sometimes alter the course of our destinies. Some say it’s better to take the road less traveled.

In those days kids could qualify for a driver’s license at the ripe old age of fifteen. Apparently, lawmakers figured if you could reach the pedals and see over the dashboard simultaneously, you were good to go. I went a lot of places on my bike but was already looking forward to the time when I too could drive. Where we lived in north Louisiana was mostly rolling hills covered with pine forests, so driving on the narrow roads was as close to actual fun as you could have with your seat belt on. You couldn’t see very far ahead on the country roads ’cause of the blind turns and tall trees and the up and down of it all. But that was okay, because if you’d been down that road before you could count on it being where you left it.

To get maximum pleasure on our drive, we rolled the windows down and opened the vent windows wide. To make sure we stayed extra comfortable in the intense summer heat, we opened the floor vents too. This accentuated the sensation of speed and freedom, which is, of course, what driving is all about.

We headed out on Barnett Springs Road on a series of hills and valleys that felt like a roller coaster ride and had a splendid time driving around for twenty-five cents a gallon. I was snug up to the passenger door, feelin’ mighty proud of my big brother with both hands on the steering wheel, driving as confidently and safely as Dad. Danny drove us out to Mitcham’s Peach Orchard where Dad went dove hunting in August and September and farther out to Fowler’s where Danny had caught some good sized bass in the small ponds. After we’d explored west of town, we headed back and drove through Louisiana Tech, the college where our father taught in the math department.

After driving around the college a bit, we headed north through downtown Ruston. It was quiet and all the stores were closed since it was Sunday. The town was named for Robert Edwin Russ, the Lincoln Parish * Sheriff in the 1870s, who donated 640 acres that came to be called Russ town and then eventually Ruston.

The year was 1960 and the national system of interstate roads was under construction. The engineers had decided that Interstate 20 going east to Mississippi and west to Texas would come right through our town, which at the time had a population of about 14,000, not counting the Tech students. I hadn’t stopped to contemplate the incredible impact these new, high-speed roads would have on the nation’s transportation system, and I’d never heard the term suburbanization. However, I was painfully aware that Jeanette, the prettiest girl in my class and the one I was sure I’d wed someday, had to move ’cause the highway people bought their house and bull-dozed it right over to make room for the new super-highway.

They’d been building the new roadway for several years and by all appearances it was now finished, but for unknown reasons hadn’t opened. The big wide entry and exit ramps were just sittin’ there begging to be used. From the overpass, for as far as I could see east and west, were two beautiful, doublewide lanes of white concrete. They even had the stripes painted and everything. Danny looked over at me and I looked back. Without a word we agreed. Let’s check it out!

Danny slipped the truck around the barrier fencing with the words ROAD CLOSED painted in big black letters, and eased on down the ramp heading west toward Arcadia where my grandmother, Mama Lou, lived. We were treated to the smoothest riding road I’d ever experienced in my many years of riding. We picked up speed gradually, the only way you could pick up speed with the straight six-cylinder engine. It was certainly no dragster, but very dependable, just like Danny. He was a safe driver and an all around good guy. I’m lucky he’s my brother.

Soon we were moving along fairly well and the wind was blowin’ in the windows and I noticed we passed right through the place where Jeanette’s neighborhood used to be. The hill where her house had been was completely gone! For a minute I thought about our walks together after school and the times we touched and held hands in the bushes where no one could see us.

The Chevy was getting on up there by now and the stripes on the road were flickering almost as fast as the movie at the drive-in. We were all the way up to fifty or maybe sixty miles an hour, which is darn fast for an eight-year old without his mother. I can’t say enough about the new Interstate. Our ride was so smooth and steady I could’ve set a glass of water on the shiny blue vinyl seat and not spilled a drop. It was way smoother than Highway 80, the road to Mama Lou’s. How’d they make it this smooth? I yelled, but Danny couldn’t hear me and he was concentrating on looking ahead because the late afternoon sunshine was in our faces. Underneath the sound of the wind blowing in the cab, I felt the strong, uninterrupted purr of the engine, burning ethyl to perfection, propelling us along the road never traveled.

Suddenly, the truck began shaking up and down furiously and the constant sounds of our perfect journey were replaced by the most awful hammering noise I’d ever heard. My body jerked hard against the seat belt, my teeth rattled, and my skinny arms flopped up and down. Dad’s truck bounced up and down furiously and I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. The racket reminded me of the machine gun fire in The Guns of Navarone. I watched as Danny held the steering wheel steady, put on the brakes, and gradually brought the truck to a halt, right there in the middle of the brand-new, deserted, four-lane divided highway. We had, quite abruptly, reached the end of the pavement just over the top of a hill. We were stopped on a mat of interlacing steel reinforcing rods they put down before they pour the concrete. A second after we came to a halt, the cloud of dust we’d kicked up filled the cab and we coughed up a storm.

After taking a few moments to calm ourselves, we got out and looked underneath the truck to see if any tires were flat or if the suspension had been damaged. To our surprise and delight everything was okay, as far as we could tell. We decided we’d better go back home before anything else bad happened. And we agreed right off that we’d not tell Dad the details of our adventure.

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It’s been quite a few years since that unforgettable summer drive, but now I know what I learned. Taking the road less traveled can make life more interesting and it’s definitely less crowded. On the other hand, taking the road never traveled may not be a good idea at all.

* For readers in the other forty-nine states who may not know, in Louisiana, Parish is the equivalent of County.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON

O NE OF MY favorite play spots was an old farm about a half-mile west of our house on Robinette Drive. It was about thirty acres in size and they used to grow cotton there. I could imagine where the fields had been by the tree lines. By the time I was ten, the fields were grown up in sagebrush, wild blackberries, and a few short pines. I enjoyed many an afternoon in the soft, yellow sagebrush, feeling the warmth of the sun and watching the clouds on the way to where they were going.

The old farm was a great place to run around and ride bikes. The land was flat with a gentle westward slope toward the thick woods by Cypress Springs Lake. In the center of the field there was a stand of pine trees surrounding a small, wooden barn with a corrugated tin roof. The barn was home to only a few field mice and it made a cool hideout for us kids and shelter when a sudden shower interrupted our play.

One summer day several of the neighborhood kids and I went to play at the farm after our usual lunch of PBJ sandwiches, saltine crackers, apples, and Kool-Aid on ice. The air was unusually heavy and I noticed clouds moving in from the west, projecting an odd light on the fields as we played. Suddenly the heavy air was replaced with cooler air and large drops of cold rain began to fall. We rode quickly to the barn to escape the rain. It was easy to get in because the door was gone long before we adopted the place for ourselves. I enjoyed the different sounds that raindrops made. Whether it was splatting in the loose dirt, sifting through the leaves in the trees, or plopping on my head, there’s something kinda comforting about raindrops playing on a tin roof. We waited inside a few minutes listening to the rain until it stopped. We better go home ’fore it rains again, Ray said. We raced home on our bikes under the eerie light and dark, swirling clouds.

We played indoor games at my house while Dad listened to a Cardinals’ baseball game on KMOX in the garage where he was building furniture. Between innings he switched over to KRUS, the local AM station, when he noticed the sky getting real dark again. The broadcast was interrupted by an emergency report saying a tornado had been sighted nearby. Dad told us the news but we took no special note of it. Tornadoes happened often enough. Worrying about stuff like that was for grown-ups, not kids. Besides, we were indestructible.

After an hour the rain stopped and the wind died down so we decided to return to the farm for one last game of bicycle chase before supper. When we got to our field I noticed it didn’t look right. Some of the pine trees were snapped off at the top and sections of sagebrush were all twisted and flattened to the ground. We scouted out the area to gather more clues. We peddled to the center of the field and the barn was gone! All that remained was bare soil, some loose hay, and the corner posts. It had been stripped clean by a great force. The Tornado!

My heart beat faster at the thought and my neck got hot all of a sudden. Where’s the barn? Steve asked, as we looked at each other in wonder. We searched the area feverishly, riding this way and that, then reported back to the site of the old barn. We found a few boards and one twisted up sheet of tin way out in the surrounding woods and we placed the remains in a little pile where our barn used to be. Eddie voiced what we were thinking, What woud’da happened if we hadn’t…? he stopped before completing his sentence. For a few minutes we rolled our bikes around the footprint of our barn, wide-eyed and speechless.

We’d experienced nature’s awesome destructive power almost firsthand! I’ve wondered since why we chose to go home during prime playtime and thought how fortunate it was that we did. In the days that followed we searched the woods and neighborhoods all around but didn’t find any more pieces of our barn.

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Soon after the Little Tornado, that’s what we decided to call it, the bulldozers pushed over the trees on the farm and dump trucks brought in load after load of dirt. As soon as the trucks were gone for the day, we climbed on top of the huge piles and threw dirt clods at each other. The next day some of the older kids brought shovels and threw whole shovelfuls of dirt from atop the mountains.

For a few weeks we played in the piles of fill dirt before the dozers came back and flattened it all out and they built a new elementary school right there on our play field. After they finished building, we rode our bikes around the playgrounds. Ray figured out how to open one of the doors without a key and he showed us all how. Sometimes on rainy weekends, we’d slip in and ride our bikes up and down the wide tile hallways. The way we looked at it, the old farm place belonged to the neighborhood kids first. We didn’t let a little thing like a school building get in our way.

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Progress marches on, but it is no match for a determined child.

WHAT IT WAS, WAS FOOTBALL

E ACH SEPTEMBER THE population of my hometown doubled as the fall semester began at Louisiana Tech, the hometown college, and it was time for football. My parents always went to the home games and brought my younger sister Jane and me along as a matter of custom.

College football smells are distinctive. The most powerful by far was the strong cigar smoke wafting down the stadium seats from the press box up behind us. The leathery-faced old men never seemed to change. It made me wonder if smoking stinky cigars might make you live forever. Much more pleasant to my nose was the crisp scent of just-cut grass, and best of all, the mouth-watering aroma of fresh-roasted peanuts. Mom always brought a brown paper bag of the warm goodies for Jane and me. No doubt she understood it wasn’t the game on the field that made the outings fun for us.

In the stadium you could drop your peanut shells wherever you wanted to, even crunch ’em under your shoes if you felt like it, and not have to clean up. Football was a license to litter. Sometimes when Mom wasn’t looking we’d toss a peanut shell onto a man’s hat a few rows down, then sit looking extra innocent in case he turned around to see who’d done it. Later in the season when the weather turned cold, Mom’s peanuts, fresh from the oven, were especially yummy.

We had our regular seats, like most everybody else. The seat wasn’t an actual seat, it was a white number painted on the old concrete. We knew all the people around us, or at least my parents did. Before, during, and after the game, folks would stop and chat with one another up and down the aisles. It was a time to say howdy to people you hadn’t seen much since last season, especially those who weren’t basketball or baseball fans. Proud parents introduced their sons’ and daughters’ fiances, and grandparents bragged about their new grandchildren. The ladies said, Well don’t you look nice today, to each other and then kept on talking like there was no shortage of words. They talked about what everybody’s kids were up to, who was marrying whom, what had happened at church and school, who was in the hospital, and on and on. They never came close to running out of things to talk about.

The men, on the other hand, had a smaller range of interests. They told each other they were doing fine and then offered their expert opinions about the home team. I didn’t understand exactly what they were sayin’, but I definitely got the idea our team would have done a whole lot better if the coach had taken their advice. Sometimes three or four grown men would gather up close together, speak in hushed voices, and then break out of their little huddle laughing to beat all. I figured out later they were telling the kinds of jokes their wives would not have found amusing.

Some people brought cushions or folding seats to make sitting more tolerable. Jane and I sat directly on the concrete so we got the full, genuine stadium experience. Folks did what they were supposed to do as far as I could tell. It was the way life was meant to be. There we were, right smack in the middle of an important ritual of southern college town life, with something good and warm to eat.

The field was surrounded by a black cinder running track. For track meets they put down white chalk stripes for the lanes, but for football games they were all black. Outside the track were tall, neatly trimmed hedges, thick green walls to keep the outside world out. The hedges formed a complete oval for the football field and stadium. Our seats were on the ‘reserved’ side near the fifty-yard line about three-quarters of the way up. On the opposite side were the student bleachers made of long wood planks bolted on gray steel frames with nothing below. The student’s side seemed to enjoy the festivities considerably more than our side, even when our team was loosing. That made logical sense to me at the time ’cause we were the ‘reserved’ side.

The Tech marching band sat alone in a special set of bleachers at the north end of the field, beyond the goal posts. Sometimes the extra point kicks would land in the band. The band had the most fun of anybody, even though they had absolutely the worst view of the game.

Finally, after all the warming up and waiting was over, the cheerleaders ran out on the field waving their pompoms and doing flip overs. They were followed by the bulldog mascot and a whole bunch of football players. Everybody in the stands stood up and got real excited. The band played the national anthem and the ROTC guys, looking stiff and sharp, raised the American flag on a tall white pole at the north end