At dusk, low dark clouds would scrape my ears;
And shards of lightning tore the skin of my back…
I grew up 90 feet from McLain Rogers Park, right behind the Granot Lodge. At the time, Tracy Reines was my best friend. His mom and ‘uncle’ ran the dilapidated motor lodge, and I spent a few Friday nights in the manager’s apartment behind the check-in desk, sleeping on the floor. Drunks, drug addicts, and prostitutes roamed the premises. Empty beer cans. Broken bottles of cheap wine. Used needles and condoms. Porn mags in the weeds.
This in Clinton, a town of 6000 gently nestled in a prairie valley upon the banks of the Washita River. From the time I was six — ’til the time I was nine — McClain Rogers was where I learned life and explored the universe.
It was a magical place. An old-fashioned swimming pool that cost 25¢/day, $9 for a season pass. The pool was straight out of a Country Time Lemonade commercial: slimy concrete showers, metal baskets that served as lockers behind the entry counter, a concession stand/hut, and a huge rectangular pool that started at 3’ and ended at 10’. Massive filter pumps sat beneath the spectator bleachers.
There were 3 lifeguard stands, usually manned by high school- and college-aged women. (An extra treat was that a few were quite attractive. Shout out to the Oklahoma girls who knew how to take care of themselves.) I didn’t mind when they blew their whistles and pointed at me to ‘knock it off’ or ‘I’d be thrown out’. I collected more than a few warnings.
I must have spent two hundred days at that swimming pool. Taking swim lessons. Playing underwater tag between the poles that held up the giant shade covering the middle of the pool. Laying out on the lawn next to the concession stand. Jumping into the deep end and paddling desperately back to the ladder.
I watched bombing parties off the high dive tower. I ate Laughy Taffy and Marathon Bars and drank ‘suicides’ made of Coke, Sprite, Root Beer, and Orange Fanta. I became friends with kids from the other elementary schools (Southwest and Washington).
I loved the pool; it and the rest of the park was my sanctuary. I was one of the lucky few allowed total freedom during a golden age. Both parents worked, so I wandered. Endless summer days plus countless hours after school just ambling around McLain Rogers, playing and imagining to my heart’s delight. Huckleberry Finn, but with less responsibilities.
Climbing up the 30’ tall speaker towers to either side of the Eggshell (what we called the abandoned amphitheater in the park.) The towers were easy to climb, but hard to descend. Spooky high for a 7-year-old. I fell off twice. Lucky I didn’t break something.
Behind the Eggshell stage was an empty backstage building. It smelled of urine and vomit, and sometimes had human feces smeared on the floor.
Nasty.
However, I loved ‘skip jumping’ the circular stone seats ringing the stage. And climbing in the cedar trees. And throwing dirt clods from the back row towards the stage.
There were large picnic lawns to the east and west of the Eggshell. Beyond the western lawn was a playground with swings, see-saws (teeter totters), and a polished sheet-metal slide that burned your skin if you were stupid enough to go down it wearing shorts. It even scorched through blue jeans.
There was also a baseball field. Great for building snow forts and having wicked snowball fights in the winter. Full-tackle football games in the outfield (until the Jr. High coach chased us off). We even played baseball there. Imagine that: playing baseball on a baseball field.
Just east of the swimming pool was a miniature train track with a train big enough for kids to ride on. It ran in a circle around the horseshoe pits. On one part of the track, there was a long artificial cave. That’s where they stored the train during the winter.
I spent a lot of time breaking into that cave.
And a lot of time recovering from spider bites and wasp attacks suffered while frantically trying to break back out.
As fond as I am of those memories, one area was sacrosanct; the tiny creek that ran east of the Junipers beside the train track. It started on 11th Steet and went under the park road that dissected the park.
When you are 6-, 7-, and 8-years-old, racing a twig down a creek filled with rocks and chunks of concrete is astounding. Pretending the stick is a pirate ship, or a galleon, or just a motorboat being thrashed against a jagged coastline. Throwing in several pieces of straw and following them all the way downstream, trying to pick who would win an imaginary competition.
In that slender creek, the rest of the world disappeared. I loved hiding there as the giant storms rolled in, cooling the parched land. Rumbles of thunder. Comforting breezes. Raindrops softening the earth, then gathering in cement gullies that emptied into the stream. Watching the water rise and splash between the narrow banks of my fantasy river.
On a few exceptional evenings, right as the sun set, low dark clouds gathered quickly with no warning. The dusky orange sky swiftly descended into deep maroons and blacks. Soon, the sting of ozone would fill my nostrils, the air cleansed of the red clay dust hanging in the summer air. Within minutes, thick drops soaked my clothes and skin.
Suddenly, a huge flash of light filled the sky. It struck a nearby tree — just yards away — charring it. The explosion knocked me down, my ears ringing, vibrations tingling deep into my tiny childhood bones.
I closed my eyes.
Clouds scraped my ears.
Solid glass shards of lightning tumbled down my shirtless back.
**********
Once in a while, my mind goes back to those precious, boundless, innocent evenings…
…
…a time when the world was unblemished…
…
…my body was unbroken…
…
…and I was pain-free.
…
For a time, (one that now seems a mere moment)…
…
…I was more alive…
…
…than I would ever be again…
