Kokomo Kid Still Has Something to Say: The Sequel

By Cheryl Soden Moreland

KOKOMO KID Still Has Something to Say ~ THE SEQUEL is from the same writer who authored KOKOMO KID ~ Reflections of Growing Up in Indiana’s City of Firsts. Cheryl Soden Moreland’s second book is a continuation of growing up not only in Kokomo with her grandparents as guardians but also delves more into the childhood visits she had with her parents and siblings in Indianapolis’ historic and popular Fountain Square neighborhood. Cheryl gives glimpses into the personalities of those she grew up with while telling of the places she frequented in Indiana’s capital city, along with her experiences of sharing her days and nights with those closest to her.

This book is intended for anyone who has ever been a child; for anyone who has made memories during their childhood. That would include just about all of us. Whether the moments we have created and recall are ones we cherish or would soon rather forget, this book might help you to revive some of those beloved memories held deep which may have been lost in time and place. You may be able to relive some of your own past that was forgotten, holding close the best of moments while overlooking, even letting go of, the worst of times. It is in the understanding and ability to empathize with not only those who came before us decades ago who had our best interests in mind and heart, but also to come to terms with ourselves and how we perceive the child we were yesterday to the adult we have become today. No matter how many lemons we have been dealt with while growing up, just take them and turn them into pitchers of lemonade. Extract the sweetness from your life by adding your own sugar to the sour. Make it palatable. That is what this author has done, showing how life – even with all its ups and downs and sometimes wild roller coaster rides – is still a pretty good gig. It’s not always wrapped tightly and neatly with a big beautiful bow, so it is up to each of us to make our little world what we want it to be. Continue walking along that sometimes crooked yellow brick road to find the life that has been paved just for you.

An excerpt from between these covers…. I looked over at the front yard and suddenly felt like I was in a dream, experiencing a replay of a piece of my past that created smiles and tears at the same time. I was “seeing” Baby Brother, having died just four months before Daddy, running around the side of the house to the backyard, with his toy gun in hand, either chasing me or being chased by me. I heard our screams and laughter, while seeing Lil Sis and my other brother playing outside, too, with Big Sis sitting on the front porch with Mom and Dad. I felt all was well as it was before, or as any child could imagine their life to be at that innocent stage, with everyone happy and healthy in their youth with so much life to look forward to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781982237431

Cheryl Soden Moreland

Cheryl Soden Moreland is a born-and-bred Hoosier who has been writing since she was a mere eight years of age. She has been a freelancer for magazines as well as local newspapers in Indiana. Cheryl was a contributing essayist in Urban Tapestry—Indianapolis Stories as well as Undeniably Indiana, both by Indiana University Press. She was among the poets in the award-winning And Know This Place: Poetry of Indiana by The Indiana Historical Society, as well as many other poetry anthologies locally and nationally. She is the author of Kokomo Kid ~ Reflections of Growing Up in Indiana’s City of Firsts, her first memoir. Cheryl is married and lives in Indianapolis with her hubby and two Schnoodle pups, brother and sister Domino and Dixie, respectively. She loves to garden, decorate, read, write, and has always had a deep passion for fashion. Cheryl is dedicated to helping the homeless as she also volunteers her time and efforts for various outreach programs in her city and region.

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Copyright © 2019 Cheryl Soden Moreland.

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.

Balboa Press

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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.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-3744-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-3743-1 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/31/2019

To Memories

To Family and Friends

To Beckie–Your heavenly light keeps me looking up!

Contents

Favorite Quotes

Introduction

Walk Right In…Sit Right Down

The Houses That Built Me

The Ties That Bind

Edith & Archie

Pops The Sailor Man

Mama Bear

Sissy

Bebo

Tiger

Button Nose

Mikey

His Name Was Bill

Go Comb Your Face

Daddy Dates

Angels Flying Too Close To The Ground

Seeing Double

Down On The Corner

The Day The Music Died…Again

Of All The Guys I Crushed On Before

I Had A Friend In Aunt Gin

There’s More Than Macy’s Parade On Thanksgiving

Second Chances

Hungry Eyes

The Wild Midwest

The Ego Has Landed!

Separation Anxiety

Goin’ To The Chapel

Easter Baskets

A Mother By Any Other Name…

500 Miles – 500 Memories

This Little Girl Went To Market

Come Out Smelling Like A Rose (Or Something Like It)

Summer In The City

M.I.A. But Not In Heart

The Way We Were

The Funnies Aren’t Always In The Newspaper

Wondering

If We Could Look Into The Future…

Mama Told Me There’d Be Days Like This

Reason To Believe

Old School

#MeToo From The Heartland

The Other Side

Sailor’s Last Salute And Final Voyage

September Morn

About The Author

Favorite Quotes

The heart is the toughest part of the body. Tenderness is in the hands. Carolyn Forche

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift. Mary Oliver

I do not believe that the accident of birth makes people sisters and brothers. It makes them siblings. Gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood are conditions people have to work at. Maya Angelou

It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our lives that we must draw our strength to live and our reasons for living. Simone de Beavoir

Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights before the dark hour of reason grows. Sir John Betjeman

If we focus on what is bad, we pull the shade on future’s light. Billy Graham

To treat life as less than a miracle is to give up on it. Wendell Berry

Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it. Mark Twain

Never let the fear of striking out get in your way. Babe Ruth

Writing is more than a gift. It is a struggle that blesses those who see it through to the end. Nona King

I want a poem I can grow old in. I want a poem I can die in. Eavan Boland

Sometimes even music cannot substitute for tears. Paul Simon

People fear death even more than pain. It’s strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend. Jim Morrison

Death is our friend precisely because it brings us into absolute and passionate presence with all that is here, that is natural, that is love. Rainer Maria Rilke

You have not lived a perfect day unless you have done something for someone who will never be able to repay you. Ruth Smeltzer

Your dreams were your ticket out…. John Sebastian

If something is too small to be a prayer, then it’s too small to be a problem. The 700 Club

We can go back home again, if only in our mind. Yours Truly

Introduction

One 12-ounce bottle of Palmolive dish soap.

That’s all it took.

Memories came washing over me as I was shopping for my usual brand of kitchen detergent. Not having any luck finding my favorite sink-sitter of pink, I searched for a replacement that would also smell good and cut the grease.

I came across a familiar, tall, dark, and green liquid that immediately transported me to a time and place that filled my soul. The scent alone reminded me of a childhood spent with my parents and siblings during weekends, school breaks, summer days, and holidays an hour away from my Monday through Friday existence. I don’t recall Mom and Dad ever using another kind of pots-and-pans cleanser. They always had a big bottle of Palmolive on their counter to take care of any messes their big family might make—and make we did.

This sentimental find became the inspiration for this book, a sequel to my first memoir called Kokomo Kid – Reflections of Growing Up in Indiana’s City of Firsts, which shared my experiences of being raised by my grandparents, from babyhood on to adulthood when I moved out on my own at 20. In this little labor of love, I will mainly be sharing my experiences of the places I went, the people I met, and the moments I shared with my immediate family during my visits to their home in Indianapolis’ historic and popular neighborhood of Fountain Square.

As I shared in my first book, I grew up in two places at once. It was a different upbringing, for sure, with me sometimes not feeling like I really, fully fit in with either set of family members. It was not much unlike that of a child of divorce going back and forth from one parent to another, except for me, it was going back and forth between parents and grandparents, a city apart. I will probably never truly know why I lived a dual life as a child, but after so many years have already passed, it really doesn’t matter now, as long as I keep close the fondest of memories that have come out of some of the simplest moments from my childhood.

By the way, I ended up buying that clean-smelling green stuff, brought the bottle home and placed it on my own sink, leaving the tiny plastic lid open so I could smell small doses of memories bubbling up as I walk through my kitchen. I like being reminded of a time of innocence and playfulness and togetherness, of moments spent laughing and growing and sometimes even crying with my immediate family. The years have been memorable. The love runs deep.

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My first Kokomo Kid memoir, photo courtesy of friend and pro photographer Paula Moore Goff

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Paula and me at a Sylvia concert, Kokomo

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My girl and me in front of Murphy’s, circa 1998, Fountain Square

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My girl all grown up at my favorite FSQ antiques shop

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Checking out a new coffee shop called Funkyard in FSQ, August 1st, 2013

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Meeting singer Vienna Teng at Radio Radio, FSQ

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Relaxing on the corner of Shelby and Prospect after a day of walking around FSQ

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Standing under the shining stars in Fountain Square’s theatre ballroom

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With my girl’s best woman (maid of honor) Olivia, my little partner-in-crime, Italian Street Festival

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With my friend and fellow poet John at Calvin Fletcher’s coffee shop in FSQ/Fletcher Place

Walk Right In…Sit Right Down

The title of this first chapter is a line out of an old favorite song of mine from the ’60s which went something like this… Walk right in, sit right down. Baby, let your hair hang down, sung by The Rooftop Singers. It’s my intention with this book to have my readers feel as if they are having a personal coffee chat with me across their kitchen table, especially for those who know me from decades past. I’d like to take family and friends back to those times and places where I would talk with them one-on-one while I introduce unfamiliar folks to my own little yesteryear world of wonder.

This sequel will contain a continuation of my own vocabulary stemming from a childhood and past that was influenced by everyone around me—from those very educated who spoke eloquently and intellectually to those Old School folks who loved to share their own histories and did so with the language they grew up with which still provided them with a sense of place and comfort. I feel that same sense of place and comfort as I write, and hopefully each of you will, too, as I share some images which may pop off the pages.

Let me preface these upcoming chapters so you may better understand where I am coming from and where I am going. Given my oft-times unique way of speaking, writing, and perceiving things, I suggest that readers overlook any run-on sentences, references to myself first before another (e.g. me and Mama instead of Mama and I), endings of some words being condensed or reduced to an apostrophe as if too lazy to finish a phrase or a sentence, or slang shots of objects and subjects that are reminiscent or representative of the times I lived in and the vernacular of my day during the ’50s to the ’70s and beyond. See? Now that was a run-on sentence!

Also, some of my mentions or stories may overlap a bit, originating from my first Kokomo Kid book. That’s okay. I’ve been known to reiterate memories or events on occasion, so I’ll just chalk that up to being true to my own personality of occasionally repeating myself. But I did feel some things were worth sharing again for they were important or relative enough to certain topics in this sequel.

I also want to enlighten readers that my chapters are not necessarily in chronological order. This is a memoir, not an autobiography. These chapters actually can be read as stand-alone stories or one can even imagine them as letters, if you will. Sometimes I may share events, news, and experiences of the day while connecting them to memories and recollections from my childhood and early adult days and nights just as I reflected in my first memoir. As William Faulkner said, The past is not dead. It’s not even past.

I recall telling my daughter during her teen years that what I wanted to instill in her the most was what I believed to be the four most important things for us humans to practice as we live our lives and interact with others. First, strive to be healthy. Be honest. Do not intentionally hurt another, especially for your own gain. And finally, just be happy. The 4 H’s as I call them. I do believe eventual happiness will come as a result of good health, being true to yourself, and not harboring ill will towards another. It’s a packaged deal.

In my chapters between these covers, I am following or trying to follow those same words of wisdom, trying to walk the same course of teachings I imparted to my daughter. If I cannot be real with myself, then I cannot be real with others. If I cannot be authentically Me, then my stories and sharings will not be, either. As my favorite preacher, Charles Stanley, has shared, we should be truthful and transparent, as he believes being honest always works. I agree, although sometimes truth is hard to swallow, either from the giver’s or the recipient’s standpoint.

I also cannot speak for others, only for myself, just as no other can speak for me. My memories are my memories, as Elizabeth Taylor once said about her own personal experiences from her very colorful past in Hollywood. What events and situations I recall, others may have their own versions of, and that’s okay. Their memories belong to them as mine belong to me.

Maya Angelou said that if you’re going to live, leave a legacy. Make a mark on the world that can’t be erased.

Let my words then be the legacy that I leave for those in my own little world – loved ones and strangers alike whom I have touched, and those who have touched me.

The Houses That Built Me

Country singer Miranda Lambert had a huge hit a few years ago with a song called The House That Built Me. I read the lyrics to it and immediately related to the memories we all have made in the home or homes in which we lived during our childhood.

For some of us, including those self-professed army brats, we have lived in many homes that have left us with a lifetime of images – good and bad, that will haunt us gently or fiercely – for the rest of our days and nights.

I was one of those kids who was moved around often but oddly mostly in the same general area of town or in the same neighborhood. I speak specifically of my hometown of Kokomo. My grandparents who raised me changed locations every few years, and I believe it was due to Granny not seeing eye-to-eye with our many landlords. They never owned any properties, only rented. I know that is rare for older or elderly folks who are usually more settled by the time all their children are grown and they become empty-nesters.

My parents, on the other hand, only lived in two homes after I was born at the old, original St. Francis Hospital in Beech Grove. Their first home together with me had been on North New Jersey Street, which is gone now, having been torn down or burned down due to meth drugs being made in that big old house where crime eventually took over the neighborhood. I believe it is being revitalized now and most likely prices of homes are untouchable to most middle-or lower-income families.

Mom and Dad planned to buy a nice home in Beech Grove, but things did not work out as they had hoped. They found a home affordable and ready to move into on Spann Avenue in Fountain Square, so they grabbed it, where they ended up living till they both had passed away. My siblings sold the house after their deaths. My family had lived in it for almost six decades. I hope whomever bought it will be very happy in it. If only those walls could talk….

Grandma and Grandpa didn’t seem to hate moving so often. Granny enjoyed decorating and furnishing every new place we inhabited, and she was very good at it, not to mention the cleanest housekeeper I had ever known. These homes were all new to us but were not new in the actual sense of the word, from structure to design to décor. They were always older homes which needed a lot of elbow grease, and that very elbow grease came from our own elbows along with blood and sweat and also not without some tears involved. We didn’t have the money to hire help but did have plenty of experience doing things ourselves – except for electrical and plumbing work which was usually done by someone my grandparents had known and trusted for years, and of course, those who would give Gramps a decent invoice (within our budget) when their work was finished. Grandma once shared with me that she always longed to live in a brand new home someday, one built just for her—of her own design, inside and out. Sadly, that thirst was never quenched during her lifetime. Hard work got Grandma a long way, but her dreams were never able to take her as far as she wanted to go.

I had lost track of all the homes I had lived in with them when they "took me to raise’ as they would say, from babyhood through my teen years. Even when I was too young to remember having lived in some of these homes, I learned from my grandparents and other family members where I dwelled before I was old enough to form memories.

Let me see if I can recall….

There was South Plate Street south of Markland Avenue, South Calumet Street north of Markland—a green house next door to the great M & G drive-in. Then came East Murden Street, South Plate on the north side of Markland, and East Foster Street just off South Plate and just south of Markland. Given the names of these streets alone, repeatedly, you can see the boundaries in which we lived, whether intentional or unrealized. We did not venture far from the familiar. With my grandparents, it most likely had something to do with income level of the neighborhood, not necessarily based on desire or preference. They knew their limits financially and worked within them. We knew we would never end up finding an affordable home in my favorite housing neighborhood in Kokomo which was west of downtown called Forest Park. Many of my high school friends lived there. Lack of familial income did not stop this girl from dreaming.

Grandpa, Grandma, Uncle Ronnie, and I eventually stretched our firmly-planted eastside selves a bit farther and moved from East Markland to a little bungalow off of West Markland near a gravel pit and the steel mill (where Gramps had worked during his younger years). From there, my last home living with family before I moved out into my own apartment (ironically back to West Markland near the intersection of South Washington Street) was on North Courtland Avenue where I lived during the last seven semesters of my high school years.

No matter where I lived growing up, there seemed to be a gas station or a church – or both – on every corner. Nowadays, there seems to be a brewery popping up on every corner, at least every other corner, not always combined with a church, no, but often with a new restaurant or eatery nearby, sometimes new to the city.

A lot of moving for a kid from one to 20 years of age, but it lent itself to so many fond memories made from so many homesteads that I still miss from time to time. With every uprooting, I left behind carvings in woodwork of my growth in height, memories of front porch visits with neighbors and friends, and visions of birthday parties with classmates from first grade on.

I may not have been able to take each home with me as I moved on to the next, but oh the pictures and memories I have collected. Nostalgia can be such a comforting companion.

The Ties That Bind

It was rather obvious to me that Mama had her favorites when it came to her own children, and they were Lil Sis and Baby Bro. I was alright with that.

Dad seemed to treat all of us kids the same, though I did feel he might have been a little closer to Lil Bro and I, at least in our younger years. Big Sis had her own daddy from Mom’s first marriage along with his mother whom she was very fond of. She often talked about her love for her daddy, especially. I could relate to that strong daddy love myself.

Given I lived in Kokomo most of my time, of course Granny and Gramps and Unc were at the top of my favorites list, too, well, if I had possessed such a list. There existed a large number of family members who I considered closer than what they actually were—cousins like siblings and distant relatives who felt like much closer kin to me.

I don’t feel that each of us in this big ol’ world need to share the same parentage or follow along the same bloodline in order to be considered as family or to consider others as family. I have grown up with best friends who became my sisters and brothers in my daily doings and especially in my heart. Many if not most I saw even more often than my immediate family.

I think those close non-familial bonds contributed to my considering every stranger as someone I knew, every acquaintance as someone I loved–or could love. Of course, those idealistic thoughts and feelings probably didn’t help me much when it came to me being taken advantage of at times, but I discovered that being myself, being open to all and loving unconditionally, was the road to my own personal happiness which brought me unexpected blessings in abundance. At least for this friendly gal who never met a stranger—a comment I’ve often heard about myself throughout my lifetime, and on occasion not meant as a compliment.

I think I got that trait from my parents, even though growing up distanced in proximity, and I am very grateful. Mom and Dad as well as my four siblings have all been quite friendly and outgoing to strangers as well as generous to those they knew. They would even lend a helping hand to whomever needed it, whether it be in the form of fixing a flat tire, giving a ride across town to a doctor appointment, or handing over a few bucks for a cup of coffee and a burger.

It just goes to show that sometimes blood IS thicker than water, and that the ties that bind are held together by very strong threads, whether we realize it or not, and that our familial connections run deep and have always been there and always will be, even in death. Heredity has proven to me to be more of an accurate indicator of personality profiles and health status over time than any other form of measurement.

I received a very special greeting card in the mail decades ago, for no apparent reason or special occasion, which came from my first love, who at that time was a thousand miles away. It arrived many years after we had broken off our relationship yet had remained close friends from a distance…and just weeks before his death. The greeting read, It doesn’t really matter how far apart we are. What matters is how close we will always feel to each other.

Amen.

I have always felt that this sentiment applies to both those we are related to as well as to those we are not. All paths leading to the heart are really the only ones that matter.

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Patricia Keenum, my very first childhood friend and the photographer for this book’s cover photo

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Uncle Ronnie, Aunt Sharon, and me at their home in Kokomo

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First Fountain Square family photo, minus Big Sis (living in Germany then)

Edith & Archie

Mama used to refer to herself and Daddy sometimes as Edith and Archie Bunker. It was applicable because of the way they often acted or communicated with one another. Even I have used those names describing hubs and me sometimes because we two sound and behave so much like those two crusty couples on occasion that it makes me laugh, and wonder a little, too. Simply terms of endearment, of course.

Mom and Dad together would sometimes take just me on little shopping sprees, given they didn’t get to spend as much time with me as their other four kids. I loved the attention and loved the goodies even more that they got me. My first record album was bought by them, at Murphy’s right near home in Fountain Square. I remember us three rummaging through the rows and rows of albums they had looking for one by the ever-popular Monkees during that time. We found just the one I wanted, so they got it for me. I still have that LP in my den record cabinet, which holds my vintage-looking stereo that Mama got me years ago in my adult years so I could keep on playing those old favorites of mine long after my little portable green and white record player conked out on me. Mama also got me a little jukebox that sits on a table or stand, a replica of the real thing that we used to see in diners and dance halls. I still have it proudly displayed in my home and use it, too.

Mom and Dad didn’t have a lot of discretionary income, so to me, for them to buy my high school class ring was a very big deal, a cherished gift and one that I still have, a little worse for wear for I wore it always in high school, never removing it. It took some hits and beatings (along with my fingers and other body parts) as I played volleyball and basketball and baseball and softball and more while proudly displaying it. How ironic I bought Dad a class ring honoring his beloved Alices of Vincennes in his later years. I hadn’t known till he told me that he never got one as a kid for his family never had the money. I wondered why I never saw one on him but just assumed he didn’t wear it due to working at the bakery as he did for decades. He only got to wear his gift from me for a few years, then it either got lost or stolen (Dad’s guess was it got stolen), so I replaced it as soon as I could. He never would take off the second one. I also surprised Daddy with a NAVY ring that he was so proud to wear. I have those rings now that he ensured I got before he passed. I got Mama’s wedding ring, too, just like Grandma gave me hers before she left this earth. All I keep close to me, even closer to heart.

My grandparents didn’t have a lot of money, either, but they made sure I had the braces I so needed. There was always someone to provide what I needed as well as what I wanted. Uncle Ronnie was big on providing the toys and games and books when I was little. As a teenager, Unc and his wife, Aunt Sharon, would buy me so many gifts at Christmas that I often felt overwhelmed with the embarrassment of riches, but I sure was appreciative and felt blessed. Mom and Dad also saved up their coins from their pockets and coin purses, respectively, coming up with a surprising amount of money to gift to me in a big plastic baggy for my 10th birthday, September of 1966.

Mom and Dad stayed by my side through every moment of my labor for my only child. My baby came almost three months early, so my call to Mama startled her. She and Daddy drove immediately upon word to my hospital where I had just arrived myself. They stayed with me the entire time, meaning over 24 hours. That was a long stretch of time for both of them, with Dad sitting in a chair in the corner throughout (and not that comfy of a chair at that) and Mom alternating between sitting and standing next to my bed, warning me of the next big contraction coming at me. She felt she was helping me in some way, bless her heart, but it only made me more nervous with every expectation.

Of course, as luck would have it, those contractions started coming closer together soon after hubs reluctantly went home to check on our three dogs as well as to get him a bite to eat after nothing for almost a day. He was worried the baby would start coming out if he left the hospital, and that he might miss