FORMOSA AVENUE ANTICS

Prior to moving to “the country,” my family and I lived on a quiet little street known as “Formosa Avenue,” (apparently named for the island of Formosa, now referred to as “Taiwan").

We were surrounded by working class neighbors with surnames like, “Swofford” and “Petitt” and “Chumney” and “Bragg” and “McCall” and Raiford.” Children were in abundance here, and my siblings and I were never at a loss for juvenile companionship..

A small orange grove was situated behind our house, and it proved to be an excellent place to play. I remember “running the groves” with three or four young neighbors, in particular, including Marianne Swofford, Judy Chumney, and Mike McCall. No doubt, by the time we appeared for dinner, our bare feet were filthy with the dark brown-gray sand of our local grove.

We lived in a small, two bedroom house, and with the birth of my sister, Linda, (twelve years younger than I) we were quickly outgrowing it. Summer found us playing games like “Crack the Whip” and “Hide and Seek.” (No, I never so much as heard of “Kick the Can” until, as an adult, that game was referenced on a  “Twilight Zone” movie I happened to be watching).

Considering all the risks I took, I should have been killed a hundred times. I remember climbing up in a tall mulberry tree which bordered a railroad track, (to which I will allude again later). I had stuffed a paper bag in my pocket, and I greedily stripped the upper limbs of their juicy, black mulberries. For all my efforts I was rewarded with stains on my shirt, (which refused to come out) and the less than satisfying ambiance of a wild “delicacy,” which the birds sometimes left to rot.

And as twilight wrapped its all-encompassing arms around our little corner of the world, and the sounds of nightingales and crickets filled the air

… the mosquito truck appeared, and lumbered down our quiet street. Every boy and girl knew the sound. While the thump of its tires on asphalt, and the roar of its engine were evidence enough, we had acclimated to a different frequency, entirely. At this juncture, almost six decades hence, it is difficult to describe the sound. (Rather like what was referred to as the “Rebel Yell” of Civil War fame. It is said that you would have had to have been there). At any rate, we recognized the sound of the spray, as it forcibly emanated from the tank, and assumed the form of a thick, white mist. Honestly, I don’t know what our parents were thinking, but when “the siren called” eight or ten of us rushed into the street, and ran headlong behind the spray truck.

I think we must have inhaled the majority of what was intended for the neighborhood mosquitoes. (But somehow we survived this weekly ritual, and seemed none the worse for it).

We were blessed with the sort of wildlife that is virtually absent from our local community today. Tiny hummingbirds abounded in our neighborhood, and could be found in various colors and species. I remember my fascination with the little creatures as they fluttered from one blossom to another; their bodies radiant and distinct in the mid-day sun, and wings which were never stilled, and difficult to distinguish for the rapidity of their ceaseless beat. Sadly, the use of various pesticides has reduced the number of hummingbirds in Florida today, (though several years ago my father planted a garden of colorful flowers, and mounted a liquid feeder there, and a few of those delicate creatures installed themselves in that picturesque setting).

I recall a nearby creek, (well perhaps a community drainage ditch) which was populated by minnows and crayfish; the latter of which, as an adult, I have never yet found in similar places. There was a time when I “harvested” a few of these bottom dwellers, and dropped them into a pot of boiling water. Well, my dear reader, I can assure you the resulting taste was, I kid you not, just plain nasty. After that sad state of affairs, I consigned myself to playing with the little critters, rather than consuming them.

A childhood friend and I often walked to the “picture show” on a Friday or Saturday evening at a time when it was safe for ten and twelve year olds to walk the streets at night. The Ritz Theater was a mile from our tranquil little neighborhood, and it took very little time to walk there. But unless we took a much longer route, we were forced to walk past an old

… cemetery

which was situated directly behind my friend’s house.

The sun was low on the horizon as we trudged down that old dirt road which bordered the graveyard. No reason for alarm or thought of our safety. We laughed and talked about a hundred things, and wondered whether “The Angry Red Planet” was worth half our weekly allowance.

As we took our places in line, and as I’d done a couple dozen times or more, I began to analyze the lady behind the ticket counter. (Even then, I was analyzing people). “Doris,” (I only learned her name a couple months ago) might have been 40, but of course she seemed old to me. During that time period, even my teachers seemed old, though their average age was closer to 35. (Their clothing and horn rim glasses contributed to their “mature” appearance). Doris was the most heavily made up woman I had ever met 'til that time, but she was, nonetheless, a beautiful woman.

I only remember one movie title from that era, (and I revealed it to you earlier). As I recall, this particular film was an early 3D “B” variety jobbie, (and the only thing innovative about that “special feature” was the red and blue celluloid glasses). But our enjoyment of the movie was influenced by our temporary independence, and of course if you asked us, we would swear it was the greatest cinematic production since “Gone With The Wind,” or “To Kill A Mockingbird.”

Gene and I always dreaded the walk home. By now, darkness had descended on the land. We found ourselves whistling “Old Susannah” or “I Love You Truly” to boost our confidence, and there was little idle chatter. The most anxious part of our walk home was, (you guessed it) the perimeter of the old cemetery; a distance of several hundred feet. We picked up our pace a bit, and found ourselves walking on the outside edge of the dirt road, (which in hindsight seems a bit strange, since if indeed ghosts do exist, no limestone wall or width of road would have deterred their agenda).

And here was another instance of the rich and almost sacred wildlife which we took for granted then, and which has all but disappeared. Tiny twinkling lights behind every headstone and under every fallen log. Lightning bugs by the bushel. A myriad of the florescent little things, yet somehow in this gloom of darkness, they lent an eerie and unsettling aura to what was already an unpleasant undertaking; (no pun intended).

Nevertheless, other than the luminescent insects, Gene and I never saw anything “strange and wonderful” flying, floating, hovering, (or playing marbles, for that matter) in that fearful place. And, thankfully, we ALWAYS arrived home in one piece.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots" Copyright Pending

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