The Secret of Youth is Ignorance

 The Secret of Youth Is Ignorance

We did some downright foolish things when I was a kid—not just silly, but truly dangerous. I’ve already told the story about Ardell, Jethro, and the dynamite, but that was only one chapter in a long book of questionable decisions.

Take, for example, one of my high school classmates who learned the hard way that you don’t rest the muzzle of a loaded shotgun on the toe of your shoe and pull the trigger. It’s hard to walk with swagger when you’re missing your big toe.

One of our earliest stunts involved the rain-swollen drainage ditch that ran from Cahaba Hills and cut a path across Greenbriar Acres. After a couple days of heavy rain, that ditch turned into a frothing, muddy river. At fourteen or fifteen, that was an irresistible playground. We’d jump in right where it emerged from under Greenwood Lane, letting the current sweep us across the field toward Brierwood Lane.

Here’s where the stupidity came in: the ditch disappeared back under the road through a narrow pipe—small enough that if you got sucked into it, you weren’t coming back out alive. The only way to stay safe was to climb out before the road. But being the tough guys we thought we were, we dared each other to see who could stay in the current the longest. The bravest—or dumbest—was the one who got closest to the culvert before scrambling out. Looking back, it’s a miracle our names aren’t carved on headstones.

One of my proudest acts of idiocy took place my senior year at Leeds High School. If you’ve ever been to the stadium, you know the light poles on either side are enormous, with the home side poles standing well behind the bleachers. Those poles require a bucket truck for maintenance, but Mickey and I figured we could use them for something far more important—hanging a giant “Class of ’73” banner.

Our plan was simple and stupid: climb the stadium steps to the top row, leap from the railing to the light pole, scale nearly to the top, tie off one end of the banner cord, then jump back to the bleachers and repeat the process on the other pole. And that’s exactly what we did. We stood back and admired our work, sure we’d be legends the next day.

By noon, the wind had ripped the banner loose on one side. It hung like a wounded flag, flapping wildly until nightfall. Then came the Friday night football game. The stadium lights kicked on, the heat poured out, and our masterpiece went up in smoke—literally. By kickoff, there wasn’t so much as a thread left.

We also found ways to risk life and limb on the school bus. Back then, buses had to stop at railroad crossings so a “runner” could hop off, check for trains, and wave the all-clear. Our driver, Mr. Timmons, was one of those rare grown-ups who didn’t mind bending the rules. A few of us turned it into a contest—jumping off the bus while it was still moving, sprinting across the tracks, and waving the driver on. Each day, the bus slowed less and less, until the challenge became who could leap off at the highest speed without face-planting.

I made several clean runs, but I think it was Eddie Gosnell who set the record. Eventually, even Mr. Timmons decided enough was enough—probably worried that one of us would break a leg and he’d be out of a job. We moved on to other amusements, which I’ll get to later.

Looking back now, I can’t decide whether we were fearless or just too ignorant to know fear. Maybe that’s the real secret of youth—thinking you’re invincible, right up until the moment you’re not. And maybe the secret to getting older is realizing how many times you got lucky.

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.