A Story of Friendship, Bullies, and One Lost Tooth
It was the summer of 1968, and I had just turned thirteen. I was still a wimpy kid in most folks’ eyes—especially after the year I’d had. A year and half earlier, I’d spent time in the hospital with Huntington’s Chorea, what the old folks called St. Vitus Dance. It had left me shaky, jerky, and worst of all, unable to do the simplest thing most kids take for granted—tie my own shoes. That stayed with me until I was about fifteen. It was a humbling thing.
That summer, though, was supposed to be the start of something better.
School was going to change soon. Back then in Leeds, we didn’t have middle school. You went from seventh grade at Leeds Elementary straight over to the high school across town for eighth grade. It was a big leap. Everyone whispered stories about the upperclassmen and how they’d torment us—wedgies, ear thumps, ripping the locker loops off your shirts. I only ever got a few good ear thumps, but still, I wasn’t exactly eager about the change.
But before high school, there was still summer—and we planned to make the most of it.
Bart Mitchell, Dennis McGee, and Jeff White were still my best buddies, but they didn’t live in my neighborhood. I had to deal with the neighborhood bullies on my own. It seemed like every time we built a fort or a treehouse, they’d find it and either tear it down or take it over. So that year, we decided to stretch our boundaries.
My sisters and I had passes to the Leeds city pool, but you can only swim so many hours in a day. When we weren’t at the pool, we explored the woods. Back then, where Pinecrest Apartments stand now, it was all wild land—stretching from Highway 78 to Valley View Baptist, from President Street to Carolyn Street in Cahaba Hills. A kid could get lost in there all day.
That’s where we planned our next great treehouse—hidden away from the road and far enough from Rew Development to keep the bullies at bay.
I had started hanging out with Jack and Gary Meacham, and together with my sisters, we set out to build the ultimate treehouse. Valley View Baptist was building a new education wing, and it provided a steady supply of scrap lumber—no piece too small. We’d haul off what we could and spent weeks working on that thing. It was our clubhouse, our hideaway, our castle in the trees.
Jack and Gary didn’t come out much once the building was done, but one of my sisters’ friends, Terry Penny, visited now and again. For a while, the treehouse felt like the safest, most comfortable place in the world. Maybe too safe. I got careless and told a few too many people about it. Worse, I invited a couple to help finish it up. I won’t name names, but that turned out to be a mistake.
School started back in the fall, but after school, we’d still hang out there, adding little touches and just enjoying the space. Then one day, Jack and I decided to check on the treehouse—and found it ruined.
It was completely destroyed. Lumber was scattered everywhere, and some of it had ugly words scrawled on it—leaving little doubt who was responsible. Turns out, one of the people I’d trusted had gone to his buddies in Cahaba Hills and told them about it. They brought in a couple of the regular bullies, and together, they tore the whole thing apart.
I went home that day feeling sick and betrayed. I figured that was the end of it.
But Jack had other plans.
The next day at school, he was fired up. He was determined to call out the guys who’d done it and make them pay. Now, when I say “pay,” I mean a good old-fashioned fistfight. You see, we all rode the same school bus, and except for one, we all got off at the same stop—Rowan Springs.
Word spread fast. By the time the final bell rang, it seemed like half the bus knew about the fight and got off to watch.
Now here’s the thing: the treehouse was mostly mine. I was the one wronged. But I was also the wimpy kid. I’d only been in one fight before, and I got the “dog crap beat out of me,” as the saying goes. Knocked down over and over until a bystander took pity and broke it up.
So there I was that day—just an onlooker again. But Jack stepped up.
Funny thing is, Jack hadn’t even cared all that much about the treehouse. But he saw the injustice, and that was enough for him. He called out one of the guys—not even the ringleader, just one of the crew who helped tear it down.
The fight started—and what a fight it was.
They went at it for what seemed like an hour, both landing punches that would’ve made a prizefighter proud. The crowd was roaring. Then, near the end, Jack took a hard punch right to the face. He stood firm, but the other guy howled and said he’d broken his hand. That ended the fight.
Later, we figured out why—he’d actually broken one of Jack’s front teeth. Jack never fixed it. He wore that chipped tooth like a badge of honor from that day on.
Jack and I stayed good friends all through high school. After that, life scattered us. I spent most of the next forty years living in other states. Jack built a business not too far from Leeds. Whenever he visited his folks, he’d stop by my parents’ place and ask about me.
It was always a rare treat when I happened to be home at the same time. We’d sit and talk for hours about the old days.
Then one day, visiting my dad’s grave at Lawley’s Chapel Cemetery, I noticed another familiar name—Jack Meacham. He’d passed in 2019 at just 64.
A good friend, gone too soon.
If your car ever got hit by a snowball on President Street during one of our rare Alabama snowfalls—that was probably me and Jack. Mischief-makers and treehouse builders, just trying to make a summer last forever.
