I can honestly remember, as if it happened this morning, the feelings I felt as Leroy (similar to the fine piece of automotive machinery shown below) carried his loving occupants away from the Moseley’s house that morning. I remember thinking that it was just like any other time we had vacated the friendly confines of Big Spring. We had piled into the ultra-seventies, burgundy interior of that silver Monte Carlo at least a million times in my four years on this earth. There’s a better than average chance that number is slightly inflated but the fact that the damn car had a name should tell you we were in the thing pretty often.
The drive from Big Spring to Wichita Falls is about 250 miles. A normal person could most likely make that in just about 4 hours. My mother has many talents but travelling a great distance without stopping every fifteen yards to empty what I can only assume is a very small bladder made of a cheesecloth material is not one of them. Couple that with the fact that there were two young boys in the car and I’m sure that drive took almost the entire day. Not quite the sound barrier stretching speeds at which my dad was used to travelling, but it was the first leg of a journey that would span a lifetime. It was the first of many such journeys the small Giles clan would make across the country.over the next several decades. Hard work, unyielding support, and an inherent sense of adventure would prove to be our family’s greatest assets. The unique senses of humor, all that Zig Ziglar sunshine up our butts, and general curiosity kept us sane throughout the nomadic adventure that would have driven a weaker family to madness.
4600 Sherry Lane – I can’t honestly say that I remember the day we moved into what seemed like a mansion at the time. I don’t remember much about the house in it’s original state, but from late 1976 to the winter of 1983, my mother worked very hard to transform that house into the place in which so many of my childhood memories were formed. Sadly, a lot of those memories involved bright red, six inch, shag carpeting, (Again, there’s a miniscule chance the length and vivid color of that carpet has been slightly exaggerated in my head throughout the years) orange curtains, and wood paneling.
Wichita Falls itself seemed like such a thriving metropolis to me at the time. There were people everywhere and the house we now lived in was on the corner of our street and one that would have seemed like an interstate in Big Spring. A four lane, paved river of constant traffic. We had a tree in our yard that Mom promised me I could climb, and Dad was wearing suits more often. Either we were moving up in the world or dad was going to a LOT of funerals.
1977 – Jimmy Carter took office as the President of the United States. I couldn’t really figure out why that caused my father so much anguish, but it seemed that every time that man’s face appeared on TV, my father would clinch his jaw and turn his attention immediately to something a little more uplifting. I remember hearing my mom and my dad talking one night when I was supposed to be in bed. They were discussing something about ‘pardons’ and ‘draft-dodgers’. Neither of these things meant much to me at the time so I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t think much of it at the time, I should say. It’s amazing how little, innocuous things like a conversation with words and concepts you don’t understand, can have significant meaning later in your life, isn’t it? Anyway, despite the fact that my father seemed to view Jimmy Carter as some sort of nemesis, I remember thinking that there was something soothing about the way that droopy faced man talked. It would be years later when I finally realized that I wasn’t being soothed at all, I was being subdued by the liberal enemy. My dad was impervious to such tactics.
The Church that we attended in those days felt like just as much of a home to me as the structure in which we slept. Going to church in those days was more like a family reunion than a chore. Mom was in the choir, and everybody seemed to know us at Faith Baptist Church. In fact, it makes me pretty proud that so many of my childhood memories, especially the ones that took place in Wichita Falls; took place either at that church, or with people who were fellow members. It was no surprise that we were driving into the church parking lot on a Tuesday night. We were there almost every night it seemed. Tuesday night……not a normal worship night and we’re not catholic, so there was no confession or anything…….must’ve been choir practice. It was raining. I was always lulled by the rhythm of the wipers, and remember being abruptly pulled from my hypnosis by the sound of my mother crying. It was the first time I had ever heard that sound, but it wouldn’t be the last. I had probably heard it before, as I have been told I was a bit of a “nocturnal” baby, but this was the first time I actually remember the details surrounding her tears. Elvis Presley had died.
I know my Mom was a fan of Elvis. She had been a devoted follower long before I was born and the news of his death seemed to upset her in a way that I didn’t quite understand. I knew who Elvis was, but I had never met the man. He sang songs that made my mom happy, but as far as my brain could tell me, Mom was on her way to choir practice that night to practice singing songs that also made people happy. Elvis wouldn’t have given much of a shit it if the roles had been reversed, so at the tender age of four and a half years old, I got my first living, breathing, example of the fact that women are sometimes street-rat crazy for no reason at all. Don’t get me wrong, I now know why Elvis’ death was more of a news story than I could comprehend at the time, but I still don’t understand the need people have to cry when they hear news of the death of a celebrity. Back then though, all I knew was that I loved my mom and if she cried over the death of this man they call The King then I better not question it.
Nineteen Seventy-Seven wasn’t a bad year overall. Looking back at some of the headlines, it may seem hard to remember it that way, but remember……the only memorable headlines are the ones reporting tragedy. The happiest memories are yours alone. I remember watching news of the New York City blackouts. Mom explained to me, in what I am sure was a disturbingly graphic manner, what it meant for that many people to be without electricity. I couldn’t fathom a city the size of New York in those days. Air Conditioning and food refrigeration meant nothing to me. The concept of such a place intrigued me though and that’s why I remember perking up and paying attention when I heard a story about the World Trade Center building and a man known as the Human Fly. First of all, the sheer size of this building was unfathomable to me. Men who could build buildings like that could do anything. A country that could have buildings like that within it’s borders was a country worth protecting. Even more fascinating than the building itself was this man they called The Human Fly. Just the sound in the anchorman’s voice as he read the report gave a sense of awe and intrigue. This man climbed the outside of the building from the bottom all the way up to the top of the 110 story structure. Awesome! Years later, when I stood in the observation deck of The World Trade Center and looked down at the rain covered civilization below, I couldn’t help but think of that man and what it had to have felt like to crest the roof above my head.
The most memorable thing in my life from the year 1977 came when I finally made a real attempt to stop biting my fingernails. Apparently it was one of my favorite pastimes and I remember my dad just saying “Star Wars” every time he would catch me chewing on my fingertips. Not only had I been told that I would not be allowed to go see the movie until I stopped this activity, but I would most likely get some kind of imaginary disease. By the time the movie was actually released, I was so excited I couldn’t help but bite them. For every second that I had not seen that movie was a second I had wasted. I gnawed at those things like a Rottweiler on a hambone. On the day I was finally driven to see the highly anticipated film, it’s hard to imagine that anything else could have made it’s way into my brain, but I distinctly remember my mom buying me my first pair of Nike’s on our way to the theater. They were white, with a red swoosh. I was so proud of those things! The line to get into the movie was all the way around the theater and i was terrified the entire time that someone was going to step on my new shoes.
to be continued……..