A Memory: The Apartment at Windy Hill.

Just after the first divorce.

Imagine an enormous complex of apartments for as far as the eye can see. This was affordable housing in 1970’s suburban Atlanta.

Our apartment was wall to wall shag carpet. Each room had thin sliding windows that froze in the winter and let in all the sounds of summer. It had two bedrooms. I’m guessing it had two bedrooms — I don’t remember ever seeing the second bedroom, but my Dad didn’t sleep in our room.

The main room of our tiny place was filled with exactly five things. Three bar stool seats, one milk crate, and a 19" colour television. The bar stool seats were just that, seats—no legs. The seats were proper 70’s interpretations of the captain style — in black pleather. The bolts, for screwing into the missing base of legs, just jammed into the carpet.

I don’t remember anything ever being in our cupboards. When you are 9 years old and the cupboard only holds white rice, two cans of Hormel chili and a box of Tuna Helper — it really is empty. My dad hated sweets.

My dad worked hard to support me and my two brothers.

I remember he had guns for biceps — huge. He used to pick me and one of my brother’s up at the same time — using his massive arms. I thought they were cool. I thought he was just a strong dad. I didn’t know his arms were the result of sweeping out houses and toting lumber 10 hours a day.

Best thing about this apartment complex?

The pool.

We lived there for part of the pool season and I remember spending everyday at the pool. My blonde hair turned green and my brown eyes — red.

My first girlfriend — April, lived upstairs. We used to dance a lot to Chic’s Le Freak. I loved slow dancing to Peaches and Herb. Don’t get any ideas — I was 9 years old.

And I remember sitting at the table. I’d call it a dining table, but we only had one table. I’d sit at that table for two reasons: (1) I hadn’t finished my damn lima beans, or (2) I had to awake with my dad at 5am, in the pitch dark, to rewrite my english paper he had graded the night before.

Lima beans are the devil’s food.

I can still see those damn lima beans — wax covered disgusting legumes. I had to sit there for an hour after dinner, because my dad was intent on me finishing my veg. Are lima beans even a veg? I’m still not sure. The english papers weren’t so bad — I just employed too many ‘and’s in my one page essay.

The table reminds me of my dad’s cooking. It consisted of three entrees and one breakfast platter. My dad was awesome at making pancakes. He pretty much sucked at making dinner, unless you think marmalade covered baked bone-in chicken breasts or chili pie are culinary delights. I’m not going to mention tuna helper — it’s a reportable offence.

What’s chili pie you say?

Simple. White rice, burned. Spread on a plate. Make a hole in the rice on the plate. Dump some Hormel Chili in the hole on the plate. Voila! Chill Pie!

Nice, huh?

Oh, there were the spankings, and my dad’s rings. But, I don’t think I want to remember those — and you probably don’t want to hear about them.

That’s Windy Hill Apartments for part of 1978.