The Summer of ’68 and the Great Treehouse

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.

Treehouses, Cows, Swisher Sweets, and Playboy

 My adolescent and teenage years were spent in the Rew Development. When we first moved in, our street didn’t even have a real name—it was just called County Road. No number, no directional suffix, just County Road. It sounds odd now, but that’s how it was. Eventually, someone decided that wasn’t good enough and renamed it President Street, which sounds much more official, even if it didn’t change anything for us kids.

Right across from our house was a wide-open pasture with a small herd of cows. That field became one of our favorite places to fly kites. The cows usually stayed out of our way, meandering off to the far side of the pasture like we were more trouble than we were worth. Most of the time, anyway. I say that because one day I was cutting through the field on my way to my best friend’s house when I must’ve done something to offend the herd. Maybe it was the way I walked, or the sound of my lunchbox, but whatever it was, those cows suddenly took notice—and then took off after me.

There were maybe eight or ten of them, and when they started charging, I dropped everything and ran like my life depended on it. And maybe it did. I barely cleared the fence before they caught up. That little stampede kept me out of that pasture for quite a while. Eventually the cows were sold off, and the field became “ours” again. It was filled with broom sedge—some folks call it broom straw—a tall, rust-colored grass that grew about three feet high. It was perfect for playing hide and seek. You could drop flat on your stomach and disappear from sight in an instant. On the rare occasions when it snowed, that pasture turned into a snowy battlefield, the site of epic snowball fights that left us soaked, frozen, and grinning like idiots.

In time, the family that owned the land sold it off, and someone built a log cabin directly across the street from our house. One by one, more houses went up on that side of the road. For most people, that kind of development might seem like the end of the fun—but for us kids, it was just the beginning of a new kind of playground.

We made a daily habit of pestering the construction workers for scrap wood. Most of the time they were good-natured about it and would toss us whatever odds and ends they had lying around. We used every board, nail, and piece of plywood to build treehouses in the woods. When the workers left for the day, we’d sneak into the unfinished houses to explore. We’d climb through the rafters, crawl around under the foundations, and scavenge for anything useful to add to our forts. I swear we knew more about those houses than the people who eventually moved into them.

When I was in seventh or eighth grade, the Nelms brothers—who were a few years older than me, built the ultimate treehouse in a big oak tree right near the Leeds water treatment plant. That’s where the Leeds Memorial Park is now. Their treehouse was legendary. It sat high in that tree, just off the road that led to the sewage plant, and we knew it was off-limits. But that didn’t stop us from sneaking in when they weren’t around.

Me and a couple of my buddies would keep an eye on that treehouse like it was a military outpost. As soon as the Nelms boys rode off on their bikes or disappeared for the day, we’d make our move. We weren’t interested in the treehouse itself—we were after their stash. Swisher Sweet cigars and Playboy magazines. The holy grail of pre-teen rebellion. We thought we were living large: puffing on cheap cigars, flipping through glossy pages we barely understood, and laughing like fools.

One of my buddies even brought a bottle of English Leather cologne with him every time. After our little smoke session, we’d splash that stuff on like we were getting ready for a date with Raquel Welch. We genuinely believed the cologne would mask the smell of cigar smoke. It didn’t. But our parents never said anything, so either it worked—or they just figured there were bigger battles to fight.