My mother has become an avid and prolific user of social media and texting, so I wasn’t surprised when I received a text message yesterday. It was the content of the text that knocked me over.
Immediately, I picked up the phone and dialed her number to hear the news in person.
Yesterday, my folks received a call from the Jones family; the ones who lived next door to us when I was a kid in Memphis. Comparing notes, we figure none of us have had any contact since the early 80s.
Mrs. Jones (Diane) had been thinking of my mother and father recently and embarked upon an effort to get in touch. Finding an old address book that included my parents’ phone number recently, she decided to make the call. But, armed with the old (615) area code, Mrs. Jones kept hearing an error message each time she tried to get in touch.
Bringing her daughter-in-law into the discussion, Diane eventually received the news that the metro Knoxville area was now served by area code (865) and she tried the call again. It went through mid-afternoon yesterday. My dad answered the phone and was greeted by the familiar comment you hear so often “I bet you don’t know who this is…”
He didn’t.
Within a few seconds, however, they closed the loop and before long, my dad handed off the phone to my mother and the old friends were reunited. “The best friends we ever had,” my mother summarized, later, when telling me of the call.
During their time on the phone yesterday, mom and Diane brought each other up to speed about their families. Mom told Diane that “Jeff looks like he always did…” (I added that, maybe, a few gray hairs had grown out since the 1970s). Diane told mom about her four boys, their families, her grandkids and, yes, a couple great grandkids.
The two friends exchanged addresses and phone numbers and they pledged to stay in touch and I believe they will; I’m sure an upcoming visit to Memphis will result in all of us getting together for dinner.
And I’m sure if we do, we’ll talk about old times and our lives as next door neighbors on Fortune Ave. It was a bucolic existence, really, straight out of “The Wonder Years.” It was life in suburbia in the late 1960s/early 1970s; the American Dream personified. While wars and social upheaval raged on in the world around us, we were insulated and happy.
Chasing after the ice cream truck by day and singing along with chirping crickets by night.
Dad got in his car and drove to work every morning and so did Mr. Jones (Mack). Meanwhile, at home, all the kids on our street played morning, noon and night and moms visited each day, catching up on all the latest news.
My earliest memories of playing sports were achieved on this street with the 12 or so boys that lived up and down the block. When we weren’t playing ball, we had our Tonka trucks out in the sandbox behind the house, building some great structure or we were deploying our plastic green army infantry men to stage some big battlefront.
Our flat front yards, linked together, made for a great football field. I played with the Jones boys – Mike was two years older than me, Bobby a few weeks younger – all the time. We entered and exited each others’ homes like they were interchangeable.
In an ironic twist, as an adult, Mike bought our old house once. He purchased it from the folks who bought it from my parents but later sold it to another family.
Sometimes, the families went on outings together. I remember I ate pizza for the first time when we all loaded up and went to Shakey’s pizza or the time the dads took the boys to see the Harlem Globetrotters play at the Midsouth Coliseum.
The families were close, the kids had fun, and life on Fortune Avenue was grand.
You know how it is with old friends. When you are back in touch, a few words melt away the years of distance and before you know it, you’re right back where you started. I believe this is the case for mom and Diane (and my dad and Mack will join the fun).
I’m sure they’ll stay in touch.
And it all started with a phone call…and then a text message.
JG
Originally posted 3/2/2015
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