Mischief in the old Bell Elementary Neighborhood

A couple of years ago, Tyler ISD opened the new Henry Marsh Bell Elementary School.  It is built on that dusty old clay and sand playground of the original school where  I spent most of my childhood... riding bikes, going to baseball practice, flying kites, playing football, getting run over by the Man Child (previous blogs), and planning all kinds of mischief.  Even later in life I found myself going  back over to Bell for softball practice, to hit golf balls, to throw the football around with my brother and shoot baskets on the outdoor basketball court.  Growing up near a school with a playground was a good thing for me.

As an appraiser I note amenities of neighborhoods in my appraisal reports.  As I look back at the old Bell neighborhood it seemed to have all the amenities a young boy could desire.  In addition to the playground, the neighborhood had two creeks, a crawdad hole, Dean's Lake, snakes, trails for mini-bikes, a gas station to air up the tires on your bike, train tracks to squash pennies, a hamburger joint (Tiki Burger), a hotdog joint (Der Wienerschnitzel) and places to buy gum and candy (Keep Happy and 7-11 on 5th street).  There were a lot of kids in the neighborhood, most of them great to do things with... a few bullies to avoid (I won't mention any names).  Within 20 or 30 minutes we could always drum-up enough kids to play football, basketball or baseball at the Bell playground.  This all sounds very nice and Leave it to Beaver, doesn't it?

Now... I cannot speak for later generations, but as for my generation, it's about around the age of 9 or 10 when the mischief gene kicks in.  The gene that takes young boys down a wayward path of disobedience and trouble.  Some of us in the Bell neighborhood got a jump start with our mishievous genes when key personnel moved there.  Instead of laying pennies on the train tracks, it became more fun to wait for the train and throw rocks at the engineer.  That creek that provided turtles and crawdads became a hiding place and mode of escape when cars hit with water balloons and eggs were chasing you down.  Double Bubble, Now-Laters and Pixie Sticks were replaced by Red Man, Skoal and Sweet Garrett. 

Beaver Cleaver transformed into Eddie Haskell... maybe Bart Simpson.

A natural progression in a young boy's life is becoming proficient at throwing.  Early on... throwing a football or baseball was my dream.  Then I learned I was pretty good at heaving dirt clods and water balloons.  Egg throwing in my neighborhood was seldom done, mainly because of economics... a dozen eggs were more expensive and didn't last as long as a bag of 100 balloons.  In season, hard, green pine cones became a staple of the young blossoming arms of the Bell neighborhood.  We pegged cars, the train on Troup Highway, each other and anytime possible the kid down the street who would go on to be drum major of the Robert E. Lee Band.

The only problem of throwing well was... once you hit a car, you had to be able to get away quick.  Being the... uh... hefty kid... okay... the fat kid of the bunch.  Well... I didn't run as fast as some of the other guys, so I learned to hide better than them.  The chaos of three or four boys running from a pursuing vehicle provided ample opportunity for the fat kid to hide in the sewer pipe or blend into the bushes.  I also learned it was less tiresome.  While my friends were staying fit running from trouble... the fat kid was adapting to the environment for survival.  Whether breaking bottles on the back of Fifth Street Automotive or lighting a firecracker in the Tiki Burger... the fat kid learned to avoid the radar and just blend in... I had become a virtual urban chameleon. 

Sometimes I was hidden within feet of people looking for us.  I think sometimes our pursuers looked at me and thought... "There's no way that fat kid gambled his hamburger and fries to light that Black Cat in here."