12
The young Norman Rockwell once said, If it isn’t a
perfect world, it should be. Rockwell went on to spend a
lifetime only painting life as it should be. Frieda Avenue in St.
Louis would have given Rockwell a plethora of idealistic
scenes to paint.
All the children in the neighborhood played together.
There was an empty lot on the corner of Morganford
and Frieda where we all played ball. The Long School
playground was another gathering place, little kids
swinging, big kids skipping rope or climbing jungle
gyms.
Front porches were the playing fields for
jacks. In the daylight hours, small feet trampled
lawns and small bodies squeezed into unnoticed
spaces behind shrubs and sheds seeking the perfect
hideaway for Hide and Seek. Dusk was the time to
huddle together and whisper ghost stories.
There was a tobacco tree behind the fire
house. We all tried to light the pods and smoke the
tobacco. I never could get one to light.
When Florence finished the eighth grade at St. John
the Baptist she was ready to leave school and go to work.
Mother said I had to do my first year of high school.
If I felt the same way at the end of the year we could