A trip down the street of childhood

I am not sure why, today I goggled my address I grew at for the first 12 years of my life. The house just to the right in this picture – seeing my street again decades after leaving this hobbit post WWII suburbia has made for an interesting day of remembering. In physical appearance, not much has changed. This street, in my life holds more ties to memories than being in the house.
I lived for being outside, if the sun was up – it was time to get moving again. The town consisted of 6 streets and 100 homes and across the highway, which is just behind the houses, one truck stop, tavern, post-office, and half a dozen other homes were the roots of the original town. I filled my days on the back of a horse rather than a bike during this time. Summer time would heat the asphalt, which still seems to exist even now in covering the roadways. 
 
If you followed this street down about three blocks, the street bent to the left – leading to the elementary school and old Baptist Church. I remember one summer day, two friends and myself found the side door to the Baptist Church open, with the door leading up into a back section of the front of the sanctuary. A huge curtain divided the pulpit area and this room. Inside was the biggest bathtub we ever saw. At eight, this was the only term; which seemed fitting. Nice clean water, a tub twice as deep than any other, so clothes and all we spent about an hour soaking, before exiting the side door again. I can guarantee what did not occur to us, was worrying about being caught. Soaking wet and back outside, we grabbed our horses we left in the schoolyard and took off. Saints, not us – though the cool bath made a hot summer day much more tolerable. Bless you Baptist church, you made our day. 
 
Three houses down from mine on the right, lived a boy a year older than I. His mother did not allow him to get dirty. He could play, but dirty was out of the question – so a good share of the time he would just ride his bike. I would not say he was obese, just looked like he grew up and kept the baby fat on his arms and legs. I was not his favorite person, I partially understood why. Growing up in this area, we celebrated May Day. At school, the annual May Pole dance was done and returning home mom would have the May baskets ready to hand out. During my eighth-year May Day celebration I started walking up the street to deliver my May baskets and as usual, this boy was riding his bike. I watched as he brought the bike over towards my side of the street riding directly towards me. I remember thinking "does he really think I am going to move for him?" I was never lacking in stubborn. A game of chicken so to speak, he expected me to move, I was not moving and before he could stop the bike – he ran himself and the bike over me right up my center and over my head. A piece of gravel was lodged between my eyes and he was running for his front door. 
 
I could feel the rock in my head, though having no idea what it might look like. Without any pain, I just wanted the rock out of my forehead. Calmly walking in the back door of the house, I spotted my mom in the kitchen. "Mom, Greg ran over me with his bike, can you get the rock out of head?" She turned around and for a moment, I was not sure if mom was going to faint or throw up. Very strange color she had that day looking at the rock in my head. Taking a few deep breaths, which I was not sure if mom was trying to calm her or me? Must have been her – I was fine, the rock was the problem. Mom grabbed the tweezers, oops not being large enough to grab the rock, she ended up prying it loose from one side with her fingernail – bouncing it from my head to the floor. Nice to have the rock taken care of, though I still intended to get even with Greg.
 
Two days later, as was typical of spring; the rains came. What is not hard to notice from this picture is nothing is level. When the rains came, the drainage ditches in front of the houses would fill as well as driveway puddles. What an opportunity. After school on this day, the rains had ceased, though puddles were abundant. Walking past Greg's house, I found him standing at the edge of a puddle going towards his bike. Running as quick as I could to get behind him, I pushed him enough that the puddle just took him in and surrounded him. Then I headed for the side yard of the next house. You see, the only thing his mom tolerated less than dirt was a wet muddy child – and the only choice available to him, was going in the house. I listened for "GREGORY! I'VE TOLD YOU NOT TO PLAY IN PUDDLES!!! YOU'RE GROUNDED! Good enough for me, I went home and Greg and I were once again on an even slate until the next stunt was pulled. 
 
Growing up in this hobbit, life was never dull – a new adventure was always just the next thought, which came to mind. I rode, played, loved and grew up as life took me down this street for a childhood. As life itself, time exist in the memories, which were created. No true beginning or endings, only a continuance being enhanced and woven. Always available to revisit and be a part of once again, in our never-ending thought process called life.