Meadowbrook: The Neighborhood That Made Me

By Joe G. Bax

While observing the childhood of his grandsons, Joe G. Bax realized that his own childhood stood in stark contrast to theirs, and his childhood could never be repeated. Contemporary children, completely supervised and engulfed in technology, could never imagine a childhood of complete freedom, limited only by the boundaries of your imagination.

Bax grew up in Meadowbrook, a subdivision in Houston, Texas. Meadowbrook would best be described as a neighborhood designed for the free and unimpeded flow of kids and dogs. On balance, it was an ordinary neighborhood of average families. Yet, those people would make a lasting impression on the children who were fortunate to grow up there. Collectively, Meadowbrook rose to the top as the most influential force in the development of its children.

Bax walks you back in time. Using his adolescent voice, he takes you through the pains and joys of his adolescence, ages 5 to 12, during a much simpler time, 1953 to 1961. Let the author guide you through a different era, when respect and tolerance were a given. Discover first hand, how a young boy actually learned of war, college, sex and race.

A chronic eavesdropper who relished adult conversations, Bax will show the reader the true educational process at work. Contemporary parents will be amazed at the geographic freedom of an entire generation. As you join this stroll down the streets and alleys of Meadowbrook, be prepared for a lot of humor, some interesting characters and more than a few touching moments.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480869929

Joe G. Bax

Joe G. Bax, a product of Meadowbrook in Houston, Texas, lives in San Antonio with his wife, Michele. He graduated from the University of Houston and Texas A&M University with a bachelor's in American history and a master's in Southern history. He also earned a doctorate of jurisprudence. He has written many nonfiction articles and two historical novels: The General and Monaville, Texas and A Texas Destiny, the Saga Begins. He and his wife have two daughters, Brittani and Courtney (deceased). He retired from the practice of law in 1994 and returned to his agrarian roots as a rancher until 2012.

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Copyright © 2018 Joe G. Bax.

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.

Notice: This book is a memoir. If you think that you are in it, you are probably wrong. Names, characters, places and events cannot be relied up on; and, it would be best to consider them to be a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events should be considered coincidental or perhaps a lucky strike on the author’s part.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Archway Publishing

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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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-6993-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6994-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6992-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914993

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/31/2018

Dedicated to the wonderful people of Meadowbrook

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1   It’s okay to have Favorites

CHAPTER 2   Kindergarten or Bust

CHAPTER 3   They went up and down the street

CHAPTER 4   Toys, Games and Transportation Contraptions

CHAPTER 5   Becoming a St. Christopher’s Traveler

CHAPTER 6   The Golf Course, the Woods and the woods

CHAPTER 7   Summertime, Barbeques and Watermelon

CHAPTER 8   Little League, Egos and Stroke

CHAPTER 9   Second Grade and Bonk!

CHAPTER 10   Trash Trees and Treehouses

CHAPTER 11   Houses and Ours

CHAPTER 12   Third Grade, Cooties and Cub Scouts

CHAPTER 13   Inside the Neighbor’s Houses

CHAPTER 14   Canister Sets and Discipline

CHAPTER 15   Automobiles

CHAPTER 16   The World beyond Meadowbrook

CHAPTER 17   The Boat People and Assorted Oddities

CHAPTER 18   The Pluses and Minuses of the Holidays

CHAPTER 19   Mike’s

CHAPTER 20   Cottage Cheese and Football

CHAPTER 21   Television

CHAPTER 22   Race and Parts Thereof

CHAPTER 23   Sex, I Think

CHAPTER 24   The End or Maybe a Pause

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

W ho made you?

It’s a fair question. You probably have an answer or, at least, have given it some thought.

My parochial school background cries for a response that I learned from rote memory many years ago at St. Christopher’s Grade School. It was about the Third Grade when the nuns pulled out the serious Catechism. We had already made our First Communion, which really required little more than a dark, blue suit.

Now, we were to get serious about this thing called Catholicism. We were given a book with the word Catechism on the front cover. This has always amazed me about educators, who, in theory, want to educate. Our First Grade reader said Reader on the front. Okay, I got it. I doubted that there were more than three Third Graders (excluding those brilliant little urchins whose mothers were teachers) anywhere, who included the word catechism in their vocabulary. That would not be the first or only mistake that adults would make during my childhood. So let’s move on.

The editors, or the nuns, or some divinely inspired spirit decided that it would be best to structure the catechism in, sort of, a written Socratic Method. A question was followed by a written response. The answers were hellishly long and were to be memorized. The Dominican Nuns’ teaching technique was not terribly sophisticated. Learn this or we will beat you until you do.

The very first question was, Who made you? Now, I have already mentioned nuns a couple of times. That should give you a slight hint that the proper response to the query had nothing to do with an evening of passionate heat between your mom and your dad. No, let that pass. We must get a good deal more spiritual. Earthly groans and sweaty embraces will have a place in this book, just not right now.

The answer to that very first question was, God made me in his image and likeness. Whoa Hoss! Already I had a problem. By the Third Grade, adults had pretty much taken a below the water line hit several times. I was seldom, if ever, predisposed to accept anything that they said at face value. I was not sure if I was familiar with the phrase, a doubting Thomas, but I was right there with ol’ Tom.

The first problem that I had was the pronoun his. I had always thought of God as a man. I still do, and, if I am to have any chance of seeing the other side of those Pearly Gates, it would be best if he was a male. However, even at eight years old, a casual look around the classroom raised the issue of girls, like the one that sat in front of me and shed all the time. So, I was pretty certain that there were he’s and she’s. At that time, I wasn’t certain into which category the nuns fell. It would be some time before I cautiously moved them into the she group.

Then, there was that dangling phrase, almost dicta of a sort, which was gratuitously attached, in his image and likeness. What were we going to do with that? I mean even right now, this minute. I had and have no answer. There were, obviously, a lot of different looking folks out there. Were we talking about a head, two arms, two legs and a torso? These were weighty issues that would bother me daily as I rode my bike home, down River Drive, over the Sims Bayou Bridge, through the Golf Course and to my home on Bonner Drive. The one thing that was certain. I would not ask the good Sister teaching me. I dared not ask an adult. I was working on a record of sorts. I would not ask a question in class until my sophomore year in college. The strain of that experience was so exhausting that I had to take a nap.

This Doubting Thomas has now reached that stage in life where there is a great deal more in the rear view mirror than before me. I am less concerned about where I am going and more curious about how I got here. After some thought, with a little help from my catechism, I have concluded that a place made me, a place called Meadowbrook.

It is fall and I am headed south on the Gulf Freeway. Houstonians now refer to it as IH 45 South. This is largely due to the fact that Houston is a town of newcomers. It is a great place to launch a career. To those of us who grew up in Houston, the highway is the Gulf Freeway. I share the same birth year with this stretch of pavement. Houstonians had gotten tired of bouncing down Old Galveston Road to get to the island, the surf, the sun and the beach. In 1948, the powers that be, herein generally referred to as they, moved a bit to the West, cleared trees, brush and dirt and created a very wide flat path that would become the Gulf Freeway. Between Old Galveston Road and the now new road to Galveston rested Meadowbrook. I would arrive on August 30, 1948, the 112th anniversary of the founding of the City of Houston. At the same time, the building of the freeway would take part of St. Christopher’s Church. New land on Park Place Boulevard would be acquired in 1948 for the new church. It is doubtful that current parishioners even know that there was a prior church. It is no longer called the new church.

I have now left downtown Houston, which is called the CBD, for reasons that escape me. I am driving a new car on a road as old as I am, passing places and buildings that I have seen countless times. It is sort of a marriage of the ages. It starts to sprinkle. In my world, it is still possible to simply have rain, without hail, thunderstorms, lightning and earthquakes, despite what the TV weather wizards predict. My problem is not the rain.

It is the windshield. The guy who sold me this car said that the windshield will automatically turn on the wipers. It looks like an ordinary windshield, like any other. It does not have an especially intelligent look about it. I can see no visible place to hide a brain or any sensory device. But, the salesman said that the car will know when to turn the wipers on. My problem is patience. I do not have a lot; probably because of something from my childhood. Plus, I am a graduate of Mr. Larry Gillespie’s drivers education class, albeit 54 years ago. I would have turned the wipers on by now. Some NASA engineer could probably make an adjustment that would satisfy my desire that the wipers come on earlier. I fear that if I touch anything that was set at the factory, something very bad will happen to me, or to the car, or both.

The wipers finally engaged. Eureka! I now have this quiet confidence that my aging 70 year old mind and the mind of this state of the art car are in sync. While on this trip down nostalgia lane, I have been transported to the age of technology.

But who cares? Every single look see is different. Some buildings are the same, some are gone, and others are in better shape than they were. Sadly, some show their age. The freeway exit to take is the Howard-Bellfort Exit, turn left under the overpass. How long are these things supposed to last? I get a sense of pending doom just driving into the shade that it casts.

Meadowbrook is bisected by Howard Drive. I would live to the left on the North and older side of the neighborhood. The subdivision is bounded on the East by Old Galveston Road and on the West by the new path to Galveston Island, the Gulf Freeway. The most dominate feature is Sims Bayou on the North, which wanders through the Glenbrook Golf Course. A forest of pines and oaks would border the Bayou. It would be forever referred to as the Woods. As you age, you forget a lot of details. Even now, I could be blindfolded, spun around and dropped anywhere in Meadowbrook, and know exactly where I am.

The subdivision has always been atypical. I know of no other like it. Most of East Houston had once been part of the Allen Ranch founded in 1840 by Samuel William Allen. By the 1920’s, his descendants began selling off parcels. Some became small farms and ranches. If you looked hard enough, you could identify a few houses in Meadowbrook that, at their birth, were dwellings for farmers and ranchers

By the early 1920’s, agriculture was no longer the occupation of most people. Someone created a grid of streets in what would be called Meadowbrook. Slowly at first, people selected this flat plain composed of Houston’s blackest, clay gumbo, as their home.

Those homes built in the 1920’s, 1930’s and 1940’s were their own unique person. Their architectural styles varied. My favorites were some of the Spanish style houses, with adobe walls, tile roofs and grottos in the backyards. But there were also rock houses, brick houses, wood houses and later cedar shack houses. Dr. Frawley, my pediatrician, tried to make his house look like a house and an office, failing at both concepts.

During the War, the Federal Government bought several blocks south of Howard Drive. Then, armed with the most bland government construction plans possible, they filled those blocks with non-descript duplexes. Their only claim to fame was that the windows could be cranked open by rotating a lever. Those homes were supposed to be officer quarters for Ellington Field, an Air Force base. That part of Meadowbrook was called Dog Patch by everyone.

I have arrived in front of my old house. It is fall, so we shall begin this story in the fall. I am five.

CHAPTER 1

It’s okay to have Favorites

L ater on, I figured out why our home was located where it was. The 8200 block of Bonner Drive rested amongst a grove of large, old Water Oaks. You could not have found them anywhere else in such a concentration north of Howard Drive. Our house was in the middle of them all.

Water Oaks are part of the Red Oak family that grows a tear- shaped leaf. Those leaves fall in the autumn and were the first harbinger of cooler weather. School started after Labor Day, but that did not make it fall. Oh no, September was still hot and humid and the peak of hurricane season.

The home directly across the street was a white brick bungalow, built in the 1920’s and owned by the Simpson’s. Bobby and Marge were from Maine. Their son, Donal, had the good sense to be born in Texas, and in Meadowbrook about eight years before me. Of course, at age five, I knew nothing of Maine. What I did know was that Marge’s accent did not sound like anyone that I knew.

Four or five large Water Oaks shaded their front yard. Bobby meticulously maintained his yard. This meant that when the leaves fell, he had to go into action. You see, Bobby wanted to have a lush St. Augustine lawn. In fact, he had exactly that in his treeless backyard, which was continuously exposed to the Texas sunshine. St. Augustine does not do well under the shade of massive oaks. Oh, he watered his grass like a mad man, but water was not the problem. It was shade. Bobby would have known that, if he had the Google.

Once the leaves fell, his delicate, tender St. Augustine sprigs would be entombed in a foot of oak leaves begging for light with every dying breath. If this weren’t bad enough, none of the other dads surrounding Bobby’s house gave a darn about leaves or St. Augustine grass. They were fully content to let their oak trees shed their leaves and permit the wind to transport them to Bobby’s yard. Let that Simpson guy add them to his burn pile.

Early one Saturday morning, in the fall of every year, Bobby would start raking. Initially, I did not appreciate that Bobby had a system. He must have been working on it long before I was born. Bonner Drive was a hard topped road. It enjoyed a fairly high crown in the middle, which moved the rain quickly towards the concrete curbing, and, ultimately into the storm sewers at the ends of the blocks.

He raked leaves to his curb, not a lot, but enough to start a fire. Oak leaves are brittle. They are easy to start. Every man carried a Zippo lighter, because almost everyone smoked. Those lighters made a distinctive click when they were closed. The minute Bobby started burning leaves out came the neighborhood kids. Ignoring the fact that he was everyone’s favorite, we actually had an adult doing something interesting on a Saturday morning.

I did not learn that a stove would burn you from my mother. I did not learn that fire or heat could cause you pain from any one in my house. Those burning leaves taught me everything that I needed to know about heat, fire, smoke and wind. A timid five year old boy did not jump into a gutter of burning leaves. I slowly crossed the street. I could feel the heat grow as I got closer to the pile. Standing near Bobby, I felt the heat increase as he raked another pile to the curb. The flames would grow soon to be followed by clouds and clouds of gray smoke.

Cars still came down the street. People slowed slightly, but seemed to pay no particular attention to his project. This was an age of no air conditioning, in your house or in your car. Yet, the smoke never seemed to be a problem. Amazingly, there were no irate neighbors, no complaints, no EPA, just burning leaves.

Overtime your courage rose. Soon, we were jumping over the burning pile, and running through the smoke. We learned to duck low to get under the smoke so that our eyes did not burn. The leaves burned quickly with a hot, yellow flame, until some moss got mixed into the pile. Then, the color turned red and blue. At that time, the oak trees of Meadowbrook were so draped in gray moss you would have thought that you were in the bayou region of Louisiana.

After the leaves burnt, there was nothing left but a little ash. The wind scattered that. Even though I was only five at the time, Meadowbrook had rules. The most generally accepted rule in 1953 was that if there was an adult within a block…or so, of a kid, that kid was considered supervised. There was an exception concerning the Woods, which we will go into later. So, Bobby being there made everything okay for every kid. His annual leaf burning attracted many kids. Granted five was fairly young; but the event occurred directly across the street from my house. Truthfully, the real point was that it was Bobby. Bobby had already become my favorite adult and I had few.

With his St. Augustine now exposed to the atmosphere, it was time for Bobby to get out his magical lawnmower. I had never seen a mower cut so smoothly, with a steady flow of grass clippings that was actually hypnotic. He had a push style, reel mower. Silver or chrome was the color. No, it had no engine; it had Bobby. The blades were curved and affixed to an axle that had wheels at the ends. The blades came over the grass and sheared it against a flat plate towards the rear of the mower. The grass was cut cleanly and precisely, then, discarded towards the back in a steady and graceful arch of soon to be dead grass.

I had no idea how hard it was to push. It looked easy, so easy the cadence of it almost provoked a nap, almost. Bobby moved at a constant pace, dripping sweat. When he finished, his shirt and khaki pants were wet. The mower would be returned to his garage, exchanged for his golf clubs and off he would go to the Glenbrook Golf Course. He had kept us all entertained for an entire Saturday morning.

As I said, Bobby was my favorite. I kept my distance from most adults. But, Bobby was a genuinely happy sort. We knew when he would get home from work. We had no watches. It might have been the sound of his car or the position of the sun. When he arrived, Kenny, my best buddy, and I would run to greet him. In the right front pocket of his pants, he kept a roll of wint-o-green life savers. Each day, he gave us one. If we had a football with us, he made us run out for a few passes before he went inside. One day he reached into his pocket, but he had no life savers. Kenny and I were crestfallen. Our bottom lips hit the tops of our shoes (if we had on shoes). Bobby actually seemed a little perplexed. He reached deeper into his pocket and gave us all his pennies instead.

You will go down a long piece of road before you will ever find the likes of Bobby again. He left us at age 54, cancer. We did not understand the what, or the why of that very sad event. No one else stepped up to take his place. We could not imagine what it would be like to lose Bobby, but we were far too young to verbalize our thoughts. We did learn that when you remove someone from a group, it was no longer the same group. Every one of us kids realized that at one point in our short lives, we had known someone who would give us his time and his attention and who closed every day with a smile.

CHAPTER 2

Kindergarten or Bust

K indergarten. I remembered the first time that