Monday, February 4, 2008

Growing Up on Gretta

I originally meant this post to be a positive reminiscence on my childhood and adolescence, but my first attempt rapidly devolved into a wallow in self-pity and a litany of regrets; therefore, I'll try it again.

My parents moved in 1955 to their home on Gretta Street in northeast Albuquerque, and except for college and my church mission, I lived there all my life (from my birth in 1959) until I got married in late 1984. (My mother still lives there, along with my sister and her husband.) It was, and still is, a working-class neighborhood full of rough-cut people, and, given the relative lack of indoor diversions in those days, I spent a lot of time outdoors with various kids in the neighborhood. I attended McCollum Elementary, which was just a short walk away from our house, in grades 1 through 6. I had an agonizing start in first grade, being change-averse even at that age and having a less-than-sympathetic teacher; as a result, it took several years for me to start enjoying school. But eventually I came into my own, socially and academically, and now I look back on fifth and sixth grades as very good years. (This picture of me, minus the glasses that I so hated, was taken in the fall of 1969, when I was in fifth grade. Note the Converse Chuck Taylors, which in those days probably cost $6.00 or $7.00 and could only be purchased in sporting-goods stores.)

I didn't have many close friends as a child. My closest friend was my cousin, Randy Baca, whose family lived across the street from us most of the time I was growing up. Randy, however, was two years ahead of me in school and had his own circle of friends that continually took precedence over me. (I never held that against him then, but I probably resent it a little now, especially when I contemplate the horrible year I had at Kennedy Junior High in seventh grade and how Randy, who was still at Kennedy that year, could have taken me under his wing and made my transition from elementary school a little easier.) Thus I also spent a lot of time by myself -- shooting baskets, reading, listening to music, and, later on, playing the guitar.

Some of the neighbors I remember, in addition to the Bacas, were the Lowes, the Smitharts (who lived next door and had several daughters whom I came not to care for, particularly, although I'm sure the feeling was mutual), the Dykes, the Mondes, and the Cordobas. (The latter two couples, now seemingly as old as my mother, still live in the neighborhood.) Among other things, I used to like to climb the trees in our yard, ride bicycles, walk down to the drugstore for penny candy, read comic books, play hide-and-seek, listen to my brothers' records, and play on various swingsets and jungle gyms that we had over the years in our backyard.

Probably the greatest day of my youth was when my parents bought me a Honda CL-70 motorcycle shortly after I turned thirteen in the summer of 1972. I had long begged my mother for a minibike or small motorcycle, and to this day I'm not certain why she and my dad finally gave in; however, that little Honda was my salvation for a couple of years, as it gave me both freedom to come and go as I pleased and a ready-made way to alleviate boredom. I shudder now to think of myself as a thirteen-year-old, riding around in heavy traffic or all around the "mesa" east of town -- which essentially doesn't exist anymore, as it's all been developed or turned into "open space" -- but obviously I survived without any major injuries. (After I got my "car" driver's license, I ended up trading the motorcycle to a friend for a cheap little "quadraphonic" 8-track stereo system -- a very one-sided deal, albeit one that my mother, by that time, was happy to make -- but, shortly thereafter, a mutual acquaintance totaled the Honda, and very nearly himself in the process, by following a car too closely and colliding with it.)

After my seventh-grade debacle at Kennedy, I ended up attending a private special-ed school in downtown Albuquerque in eighth grade. (The old house in which the school was located isn't there anymore, as the Greek Orthodox church next door bought the property and razed everything.) Then I attended Grant Junior High in ninth grade, starting out in the special-ed program there but quickly migrating into regular classes; if I'd known that Grant would be such an improvement over Kennedy, I'd have moved heaven and earth to go there right out of elementary school! Finally, I attended the local high school in grades 10-12. I had another rough adjustment during my sophomore year, but luckily I had a new best friend, Ken Foley, who helped me over the rough spots.

I didn't leave home for the first time until my freshman year of college at Brigham Young in 1977. I decided to attend summer school right out of high school to get a jump on things, which in retrospect was a mistake, as I really needed that summer to try to sort a few things out before heading off to college. Consequently, it took all of the following summer and fall to prepare for my church mission.

These days, visiting my mother at her house is like getting caught in a time warp, as the memories come flooding back every time I go there. The tree in her front yard is huge now, and on several occasions I've had to cut low-hanging branches off it. However, the tree bears one unmistakable reminder of my childhood: on a whim, while climbing the tree one time, I folded a small branch back over the larger branch out of which it was growing, and it has since grown massive in that same "folded-over" position. (Ironically, the fact that the branch has thus grown up, instead of out and down, has saved it thus far from having to be cut off.)