My hair is gray now or, as I try to remember to call it, silver. My hair was dark brown then, as my younger brother Jon’s is now. But at that time, his hair was red. Fire red. Literally. I remember the two of us standing out at the burn barrel behind our house on Wabash Avenue one day in fall, feeling the warmth from the confined blaze as it flared forth its tongues of fire, which crackled and hissed as they licked at the air. Jon was two and a half years of age at the time. I was six.
As I was gazing transfixed at our household garbage being converted into complaining red, orange, and yellow flames, I glanced over at Jon and noticed something spectacular: his hair was the exact same color as the darker flames dancing out of the barrel. Pointing at his head, I delightedly proclaimed this discovery: “Your hair’s the same color as the fire!”
Jon seemed perturbed at what he apparently perceived as derisive mirth, but my laughter wasn’t of that type—it was more the audible expression of glee that involuntarily escapes when experiencing an epiphany. For whatever reason, the sight of my little brother’s hair perfectly matching the hue of the flames affected me as any other wonderful revelation would. The visual harmony of the scene caused a flashing of synapses and a lighting up of endorphins that made my smile of recognition bubble over into exuberant laughter.
Of all the memories I have of living in the house on Wabash Avenue in Eureka, California, in the mid-1960s, that scene at the burn barrel in the back yard is the most vivid. You never know which memories are going to get seared into your brain, or why they made such a lasting impression.
Other memories from that time and place include:
The reserved but friendly old man next door who somehow reminded me of Burgess Meredith.
The Mexican family who lived across the street (I think the son, a playmate of mine, was named Hector) who, when speaking their incomprehensible lingo to each other, made it seem an impossible thing to ever be able to comprehend due to the fact that they spoke it at a rate of upwards of 1,000 words per second.
The tall fence my dad had just erected on the street edge of the front yard being mowed down by a drunk driver in the wee hours one morning. What was most striking about the incident to me was that my dad did not seem to get too upset about the involuntary vandalism—he just wanted the inebriated driver to pay for the damages, and that was that.
Moving into the large Victorian house with a circular “porthole” window in the attic, and my dad converting it from a duplex back to its original design as a single-family dwelling by taking his fireman’s ax to the partition that divided the two halves of the house.
The day a family acquaintance brought a gigantic white shaggy and rambunctious white dog over, hoping we would adopt him. It was clear that the dog knew exactly what was happening and what the stakes were for him. His jubilant jumpings knocked me to the floor. I liked the dog well enough and did want one, but I didn’t really want a dog as big and boisterous as he was. I was looking for a Lassie or a Big Red. Already feeling considerably guilty and unappreciative for ultimately declining the proferred pet, the heartbroken look in the big galoot’s eyes when he was led away exacerbated my downcast mood.
When my other brother (only ten-and-a-half months older than me, he and I were often mistaken for twins) was curious about cigarettes and wanted to try one. Our parents didn’t smoke, but most of our aunts and uncles and acquaintances did. Mom, aiming to nip the budding tobacco fiend’s nasty habit in the bud, allowed him to take a puff from a visitor’s cancer stick. It was a miracle cure. He has never smoked since. After taking a drag, his eyes almost immediately bugged out, and he made tracks for the bathroom, dramatically yelling out, “My mouth is on fire! My mouth is on fire!”
The final memory is of something that probably took place during the early part of our living on Wabash (I’m not sure what year it was or how old I was at the time; it could have predated that period a little). This event didn’t take place at home. We were visiting friends or relatives somewhere and I followed a gang of the older kids up a hill to a treehouse or “fort” they had. I eventually wandered away from the group into a forested area situated between where we were playing and a highway. Once the rest of the kids, not realizing I was missing, returned to the house, the adults noticed I was not among their number. I can recall sitting on the hillside above the highway, watching the cars pass by down below. I don’t really remember feeling too worried about the situation, but my parents, afraid that I might make my way down and onto the highway, got in their car to search for me. Soon I saw an arm pointing out a driver’s side window at me, and then pulling over to the side of the road. It was my dad. He crossed the highway, climbed the hill, gathered me up, and . . . that’s the last I remember of it.