Mars Avenue

My kids have been swimming and catching lightning bugs with big melted popscicle smiles. It makes me happy to watch them have fun with the same things I loved as a kid. My mind wanders back to the street I grew up on, Mars Avenue. Surrounding street names were Star, Neptune, Saturn and Solar since the airport was just across the way. It wasn’t a rocket launch base, so I’m not sure why they went galactic with it and named streets after the solar system. Had the street developers thought more relevant, my family may have resided on Window Seat Way, Carry-On Court or Ear Popping Point.
Our neighborhood was small, well taken care of homes with lots of kids to play with and we knew our neighbors well. There’s always those neighbors though, who stand out from the others…
An older woman named Ruby lived at the dead end of the street who drove dangerously fast. We always rode bikes on the sides of the street because there were no sidewalks; besides the fact that bikes are not meant to be ridden on sidewalks. My Mom and Stepdad, Bill, knocked on her door and asked her to slow down. She said kids shouldn’t be riding bikes on the street and she won’t change her speed. Isn’t that darling? So they called and talked to a police officer and asked if he could advise her, strictly for the safety of the amount of children in the neighborhood. He said no, unfortunately, it’s a city street and she can go up to 30mph without any violation. My Mother graciously thanked him and told us to stay out of the road and be cautious.
Mother has always been excellent with arts and crafts. She also wields a strong sense of justice and to take action when there is a quandary. Taking into account said qualities, that night she created a sign of poster board and rhinestones that read in bubble letters “Go Ruby Go!” The Dad of one of the families stood watch at the end of our street and gave us a signal when it was her coming. My Mom, Stepdad, brother and I held the sign up as grown-ups and kids lined the street cheering “GO Ruby GO!” as she zoomed down. Then Mom hammered the sign by our mailbox, angled just right so Ruby could see it when she left again the next day. It didn’t make a difference. In fact, we think her speed increased. We thought for sure rallying the townspeople with artwork and mockery would set her straight.
Bike riding continued on throughout the summer. When we got really bored, I’d go into the “packet drawer” of the kitchen. Ketchup, mustard, jelly, soy sauce, honey, etc. My brother and our friends would throw them on the ground and ride our bikes over them, seeing if we could pop and splatter them all. The street in front of the house was covered in squashed packets with hot oil and blacktop covering them. I never sneaked out of the house or tried drugs. But I can’t say I’ve never reigned supreme champion at a game of Packet Splats.
At the end of the street was a yellow house with a large trampoline in the front yard. The three adults that lived there were, how do I say this without being a hypocrite since, I too, am a plump individual…They were beefy. And all three of them would lie down on the trampoline like slugs, barely moving — right there in the front yard. Sometimes they would turn over on their side or bellies. While driving past them in the minivan, I would pepper Mom with questions: “Why don’t they jump on it?” “What are they doing?” “Can we go jump?” Mom replied “I don’t know, Emmy. No, don’t go over there.” My brother said in a sarcastic pre-teenage boy tone “They’re just testing the elasticity.”
There were some girls my age that lived further down the street, Samantha and Charlene. They were some of my best friends growing up, I loved them. They lived with their Mom, Linda, and their Grandma, Irene. Linda had long blond hair, was very pretty and always welcoming. Irene had short reddish hair and a Scottish accent, she was so cool. One summer we had a lemonade stand set up for about 4 hours and made over $86.00. So if you’re looking to make some extra cash in a pinch…just know there’s high demand for citrus fruit juice in the community.
Our next door neighbors were the bane of my Mom and Bill’s existence. I remember thinking in my innocent, content 9-year-old thoughts “Why does Mom not like them? They’re nice and just poor.” Now that I’m an adult, homeowner, neighbor and parent I completely understand her frustrations. They were known to us as “The Bumpus’s” in reference to the 1983 movie A Christmas Story. The front yard had no grass because they kept animals with noticeable mange tied to a tree. The ropes would drag, not letting grass grow. There was loud music playing from their radios in the driveway all day and night. The parents would scream and cuss at each other often, with sounds of glass crashing and doors slamming which would make the dogs howl. More than once, we would come home and see their kids jump out of our swimming pool in their dripping wet jeans, laughing, and hop the fence over to their backyard. The backyard was a mystery to me because of the tall privacy fence we had. But one summer Bill and my Grandpa built us a very tall tree house and the Bumpus backyard mystery was unveiled once I climbed up. The grass, weeds and poison ivy was tall and overgrown. There was a broken down car with no windshield, 2 more dogs wandering through the 3-foot-tall grass, a swimming pool of their own with a small amount of dark green water, ripped down liner and various objects floating around. The house was approximately 1,000 square feet with 7 different people we saw regularly coming and going. One night an ambulance pulled up and an older lady who looked about 100 was pulled out on a stretcher. “Kelly, come here” Bill said, waving my Mom over to the kitchen window. “Who’s she?” he asked, pointing to the woman being hoisted into the ambulance. No one had ever seen her before!
One of the teenage sons was arrested and taken to jail twice one summer. I had strict instructions to not, under any circumstances, go to their house.
I wandered over one time because they had a box of puppies on their front porch. I sat there for a long time with puppies laying in my lap. The following night there were flea bites all up and down my legs. The itching became so severe I couldn’t hide it anymore and showed my Mom who took me to the doctor. He said it appears as insect bites, fleas in particular. My stomach dropped. I denied having any pets or being around animals. Then Dr said “I can’t understand what else it would be.” I went through a terrible lying phase and this was just in the prime of it. My Mother could give me a look that stripped away all confidence and rehearsed alibi’s. She could ask a question in an icy, convicting tone. Side effects of all this was immediate regret, dry mouth and nausea. “Where did you get flea bites, Emmy?” she implored. “From the Bumpus’s.” Her top lip turned into a disgusted expression, like Lucille Ball. The doctor looked confused, looked at me, then Mom and said “Annnd…who are the Bumpus’s?” Then a short explanation was given.
The house we lived in was always very well taken care of. The lawn was nice and green, beautiful plants, bushes and lattices with flowery vines. Christmastime found the house completely covered in colored lights and a nativity scene. Each year the baby Jesus got stolen, so Mom took one of my Water Babies and swaddled her for the display. The day after Thanksgiving she would say “Emmy, go get your Water Baby” and that meant it was Christmastime! One Winter Break, my brother Donald and I were old enough to stay home alone but not old enough to drive. We made a big Snowwoman and gave her two large snowboobs. You know, to prove she was a woman, not a man. This was in the front yard. Mom thought it was really funny and took pictures of us with our creation(s). Then made us take the boobs off because what if the preacher of the small church we went to came over?
The house was 1000 square feet, 3 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, living room, kitchen and hallway. It was small, but plenty of room for shenanigans. I was doing homework at the breakfast bar in the kitchen one night and Bill was sitting on the couch, so I could see him from my chair but he wasn’t paying any attention to me. I ate 4 Oreo cookies and a drink of water so my tongue wasn’t stained, but the black was packed down tightly into each molar: upper and lower. I took a flashlight into the living room and said with a pained look on my face and pitiful voice and holding my jaw. “My tooth hurts in the back, could you look and tell me if you see anything?” He shone the light in and his expression went from serious inspection mode to complete dismay and terror. “Oh Em. It’s black, all your teeth are…rotten.” I laughed so hard and told him what I did. He was relieved and said “You know that feeling you get in your gut when you go over a small hill? That.”
April Fool’s Day, I was 7 and Donald was 8. He woke me up and said “Emmy, we have to play a joke on Mom, come on.” He laid down on the middle of the living room with pajama pants on and took his shirt off. Then he squirted a bottle of ketchup on his chest, smeared it around and gently placed a butter knife across his chest. “Now” he said “go tell Mom I’m dead.” I went to Mom’s room where it was dark and she was fast asleep. Shaking her awake, I said “Mom! Hurry! Donald’s dead!” She gasped and while jumping out of bed she screamed “What?! Whaaat? Donald!” while running down the hall, looking for him. All the while I chased after her saying “It’s a joke, it’s not real! Don’t be mad!” We arrived to the living room where my brother was just where I left him, only his eyes were closed and his mouth quivering, trying not to laugh. Mom. Was. Furious. “Donald! Get up!….” and the rest was obvious lessons and points a mother would make to her kids after an episode like that. But I guess it kind of worked because she was a little bit fooled at the beginning? Not really.
I began this piece as reminiscent of my childhood joys of summer, but all I’ve shared with you is the time I got fleas, the fat people on their trampoline, trying and failing to stage a death, faking an outrageous tooth decay and crazy neighbors. Geez. Sorry if this path is not the one you hoped I would take you on. But it’s real and chock-full of facts! Maybe in the Autumn, we’ll talk more sweetly of life’s sentimental moments in the old neighborhood.
