FORMOSA AVENUE ANTICS

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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 jumped on our bikes, and pedaled into the street, and rushed headlong into the poisonous, choking white cloud. When it was "all said and done," we all managed to come out of the experience relatively unscathed. 

And then, there was the allure of what we referred to as the "picture show." I still recall the title of one B movie which apparently had quite an effect on my young self. "The Angry Red Planet." However, in order to get there, my friends and I had to walk down an old dirt road which bordered Bartow's oldest cemetery. I still remember the little tickle that ran up my spine as I made my way back home in the early evening. I could just imagine Jacob Summerlin's ghost rising up to greet me. Suffice it to say, my time elapsed was several minutes faster on my return trip from the picture show.

from "Snapshots." The autobiography of William McDonald, PhD