Ralfroy Street

I wore shorts in the summer time.  That’s all—no shirt, no shoes.  Well, I had to wear a full complement of clothes to Church on Sunday and when I trundled along to town with mom, she made me dress up a bit more.  But playing all day long in the sun, the only requirement was a pair of shorts.  My feet were calloused, and running in the gravel on the dirt road that circled our neighborhood, was not a problem.

My house was a tiny, red-brick box with a steep roof and perfectly spaced windows.  Standing back, it looked like a big, brown, human face, staring west, into the setting sun. Ralfroy Street ran in a circle among all the houses in our little section of Boise.  Driving in off the big, busy highway that ran along a deep canal, within an instant, you were in our cozy little neighborhood. Surrounded by trees, bushes, and small houses positioned in rows on each side of the street—facing each other—was my ‘hood.

Experts agree that the rudiments of a person’s personality, habits, behaviors, and quirks are learned and engrained within the first five or six years of life.  Thus, all my development that would serve or haunt me throughout my life, had its genesis right there—in a tiny red-brick house—on Ralfroy Street.

Dad was a cop and that scared the hell out of me.  He was also a full-time student at Boise State College. The fact that he was a student was a minor event in my eyes.  There were no sirens, robbers, or Hells Angels in his college classroom.  All those things were out on the road, where dad worked the night shift as a Deputy Sheriff.  And I knew all the bad guys were after my dad and when they found him, then they might come looking for me, my brother Mikey, or mom. To this day, sirens of any kind, especially those that wail in the night, wrench my gut.

Mom stayed at home and did laundry, cooked food, ironed clothes on a squeaky ironing board in the living room, and stood-up for Mikey and me when we picked fights with the neighbor boys.  Rocks were the tools I preferred when the fights started.  I learned that a well-placed rock thrown real hard got a lot of attention in a street brawl.

One day, I zeroed in on a kid down the street. My throw was perfect, but my aim was not.  The rock whizzed left and hit the neighbor’s rear car window.  I knew I was in trouble the moment the glass crackled and fell into the back seat. “Now I'm going to jail! I thought.  My happiness is over! I will have to sit in there with all those robbers and hippies dad told me about!"

I ran into the house screaming, hoping mom would protect me from the police when they came to haul my sorry butt to jail. She assured me she would do all she could, but I could not be consoled.  I knew I would have to go live ‘downtown’ in that jail.  I'd seen it once when I visited there with dad.  And I would have to wear handcuffs...!

There are defining moments in our lives that we remember forever. Having to forgo getting a bicycle in order to pay for a car window was my first. I vowed to become a more accurate rock thrower —to rise to the next level—and never risk residual damage again.

Behind our tiny brick house was a ditch.  And beyond that, a well-used trail that led to a restaurant.  Connected to the restaurant was a small convenience store that sold bubblegum.  One penny would buy a kid enough gum to fill his whole mouth.  It is here that I learned about economics.  “A penny well spent will get you a lot of happiness on a long, summer day.”

One day, I broke into mom’s prized elephant penny bank, made a withdrawal, and headed to the small convenience store.  I figured I had enough pennies to keep my mouth full of gum for weeks.  The lady at the desk was uncertain.  “Does your mom know you are buying 71 pieces of bubblegum?” she asked.

“Of course!  Who do you think gave me the money?” was my terse reply.

She put the gum in a paper bag and I headed out.  On the way home, I saw Mikey ambling toward me.  Crap!  What to do with my loot…?  I dropped the bag next to the building and walked on like nothing happened.  The next day, when I went to retrieve my stash, the gum had gotten wet from an overnight rainstorm, and was no good, thus, my first lesson on monetary incentives, gains, and losses.  Speaking of losses, I lost a lot of play time when mom finally got the truth out of me for breaking her bank and stealing her pennies.

“I work hard to cook your food, clean your clothes, and teach you things.  And this is how you repay me—breaking my bank and then stealing money.  You should be ashamed of yourself, Jeff,” she roared.  My criminal pursuits did not mar my conscience nearly as much as making mom cry.

“Gosh, mom, I know where you can get a whole bunch of gum if it will make you feel any better,” I thought.  It’s only a little bit wet…dang the rain!  However, I kept those thoughts to myself.  Loss of freedom on a hot summer day is the worst form of punishment.  I would've taken a whipping with dad’s police belt if I would've had any choice in the matter.

Directly across the circle of Ralfroy Street, from our house, lived brothers, Robby and Dougy.  They were my best friends.  I did not know their last name.  First names are the only thing important to a kid.  But Robby and Dougy were just like brothers to me.  Our day’s activities were never planned—they just happened.

Spontaneity is the essence of youth. Never having a plan— just going on impulse—defined my days.

The day's activities started with an object—say, a wagon, a stick, a rock, an old worn-out tire, an inner tube, or any other thing that had a use.  I would stow the object in my pocket or carry it over my shoulder to Robby and Dougy’s house, then we would decide what to do from there.  Sometimes the activities we invented bordered on criminal, but to us, that was a concept corralled in an adult arena.  We only knew if we got caught and punished, then it was wrong.  The idea was not to get caught.