Turning the Corner at Moreland and Euclid: My Story of Hope and Faith—Lost and Found

By Jeffrey D. Lane

Turning the Corner at Moreland and Euclid recounts the story of the author through humorous anecdotes as a child, an adolescent, and into adulthood. Life was going good until one tragic night, his wife, the mother of his two young children, suddenly died in the arms of their twelve-year-old daughter. The author, as a result of his seething anger, turns away from his faith and God. Over the years, a series of events occur in his life that culminate in a spine-tingling experience as he literally turns a corner on his drive to work one fateful morning. This sentinel event dramatically alters his perspective, vision, and hope for his future, causing his life to turn a corner in a new and fresh direction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973622628

Jeffrey D. Lane

Jeff is a retired law enforcement officer who has seen and dealt with many sad and unfortunate situations throughout his 32 year career. However, nothing he encountered had the foundation shattering effect as the loss of his wife and the mother of his children at the young age of 38. He looked death square in the eyes and through the hurt, panic, and anger, turned from his faith in God only to eventually realize that God was with him through it all. Hes been there and now shares his story of renewed faith. He as two wonderful adult children and two beautiful grandchildren. He is a member of the First Baptist Church of Morrow, GA and serves as a mentor at a local elementary school. He and his wife, Laurie, reside in Stockbridge, GA with their two rowdy and lovable Boxers.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 Jeffrey D. Lane.

Photo on page 383: © Nancy Jo McDaniel

Author Photo: ©Atlanta Headshots/Foster & Associates

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-2263-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-2264-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-2262-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018902958

WestBow Press rev. date: 3/30/2018

CONTENTS

Preface

Author’s Note

Chapter 1 Who’s Leon?

Chapter 2 Just a Regular Kid

Chapter 3 Early Academe

Chapter 4 Elbows and Kneecaps, Zits and Peach Fuzz

Chapter 5 The Dear Old Green and Gold

Chapter 6 Hotty Toddy!

Chapter 7 Here Piggy Piggy

Chapter 8 Son, It’s Time

Chapter 9 The Fates Are Smiling

Chapter 10 An Empty Chair

Chapter 11 A Chasing After the Wind

Chapter 12 Honest Introspection

Chapter 13 Welcome Back, Old Friend

Chapter 14 Honor, Courage, Commitment

Chapter 15 I’ve Been Waiting For You

Chapter 16 Who’s Packing Your Parachute?

Chapter 17 If Ifs and Buts Were Candy and Nuts…

Afterword

Acknowledgments

References

About the Author

To the glory of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ

For Amanda, David, Henry and Andi

Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.

The measure of life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation.

Corrie ten Boom

Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets.

Arthur Miller

PREFACE

What kind of person undertakes the task of writing a memoir? Is it someone with too much time on his hands? Someone who believes that his life accomplishments are so grand and great that they must be shared with the world for the betterment of mankind? Or could it be someone who has a simple story to tell of life’s ups and downs and how he dealt with them? Perhaps a profound event turned his life around and placed him on a new course, and his story may positively impact another person, even in a small way?

I prefer to include myself in the latter scenario. I do have more spare time on my hands since I retired in 2012, but I continue to work every day in my new career, keep up the house and yard, and enjoy spending time with my wife, Laurie, and our two boxers, Lucy and Ellie. My life accomplishments are by no means grandiose or great by anyone’s definition. Like most other human beings living in this world and contending with the vicissitudes of life, I have had my share of difficulties and disappointments—more than some and less that many. So why have I spent my spare time over the past three years writing this memoir? Many times throughout this process, I’ve asked myself that very question: Why?

Three specific events affected me greatly and inspired me to embark on this endeavor. The first was a book Laurie gave me several years ago, entitled A Father’s Legacy. It was something that I could fill out and leave for my kids so they’d know a little about their dad. The book included many topics, ranging from information on childhood, young adulthood, adulthood, to later years. When she gave it to me, I sort of disregarded it and didn’t take it seriously, as I am ashamed to admit. However, it stayed on my office bookcase for years, and each time I noticed it I’d think, I really need to follow up with that. Then I’d get busy on something else and forget about it for a while. But once I finally got off my dead rear end and began to outline the project, it became an indispensable resource.

The second event occurred in the autumn of 2013. Laurie and I traveled to Oxford, Mississippi, for the christening of our grandson, Henry, who was about four months old. My mom and dad also made the trip. After the christening, we all converged at the house of my daughter, Amanda, for a luncheon. The parents and grandparents of my son-in-law, David, were also there, along with other friends. My mom was sitting on the sofa, with Henry lying next to her. She was laughing and talking to him and tickling him, making him laugh and smile. Mom thought that was absolutely wonderful. I was standing behind her while this was going on, and I heard her say to Henry, You’re so precious! It’s sad that you won’t really know me or remember me.

Those words hit me hard. Henry’s little sister, Andi, was born just recently and she, too, will likely know little of her great grandparents. I knew neither of my great grandparents, and to this day I know virtually nothing about them. It is conceivable that the only things Henry and Andi will know about my mom and dad is what I, Laurie, Amanda, and David tell them.

Even though I was very close to my mom’s parents, Memaw and Pepaw, I still knew nothing of their childhood and how they lived—their schooling, their early years, etc. I knew my dad for fifty-eight years, but I understood little about his younger days—his triumphs, his struggles, and the events in his life that molded him into the fine man he was. My children, Amanda and David, certainly have many memories of their mother, but there is so much about her life they don’t know. I made the decision that I wanted my children to know who their dad is and how he came to be who he is today. I want my grandchildren to know their Pawpaw, not just as an old man, but to also know something about his childhood, his growing up years, and the ups and downs along his life’s journey. My hope is that via this memoir Henry and Andi will know something of their Pawpaw other than the old man who spoiled them rotten.

The third event happened in late 2015. I experienced a life changing moment. I don’t wish to sound dramatic, but I renewed a long-broken relationship with the Lord. I wouldn’t call it a mountain top experience, nor would I characterize it as a road-to-Damascus event. I didn’t see a burning bush, nor was I blinded by a bright light that brought me to my knees. Over time, a series of events did occur, however, that culminated in a new, fresh, and deeper understanding of my reliance on the Lord and His love for me.

It is important to me to tell this story, my testimony. I hope that whoever reads it—whether it be just my family or others whom I don’t know—might benefit in some small way, and come to realize that the Lord loves them too and that His faith and goodness endure forever.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book is a collection of creative nonfiction. I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain anonymity, in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and places as well as some identifying characteristics and details. The conversations in the book come from my recollections, though they are not written to represent word-for-word transcripts. Rather, I have retold them in a way that attempts to evoke the feeling and meaning of what was said. This book is a combination of facts about my life and certain embellishments. In some instances names, dates, places, events, and details have been changed, invented, and/or altered for literary effect.

All biblical scripture referenced and quoted is from: THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

CHAPTER 1

Who’s Leon?

It was a cold February Monday and to make it worse, it was pouring rain. I slowly made my way up Moreland Avenue in my little rattle-trap hand-me-down Saturn, heading to my office at 2 Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta. The building where I worked was commonly referred to as just 2 Peachtree. It was a forty-story high-rise in the heart of downtown—one of the most disgusting parts of the city. At one time it had been one of the most beautiful buildings in the city, home to a large bank and law offices. However, in the early 1990s the building had been donated to the state as a government office building, and from that day forward 2 Peachtree had devolved into a dirty, unkempt, mechanically disastrous, depressing monolith.

I finally made it to my parking deck, which made for an inconvenient two-block walk to 2 Peachtree. There were two ways to get from my parking deck to my building: one was to walk at street level outside in the open; the other was to walk underground, in the viaducts. You see, after Sherman burned down Atlanta during the Civil War some parts of the city had been rebuilt over the old, creating viaducts under the new streets. Since it was raining this day, I decided to make my trek in the viaducts, which would eventually bring me to the 2 Peachtree loading dock.

I pulled up the collar of my overcoat, and as I made my way, dodging the sludge and filthy rainwater pouring off the streets above, I gave a weak nod and wave to Smitty, a homeless guy who lived in a cardboard box next to the railroad tracks under the Alabama Street viaduct. I once said good morning to him, and now he thought of me as his best friend.

I entered my building at the loading dock and took the service elevator to the lobby. I stepped off into the daily madness and chaos that inhabited the enormous lobby area. A local bank occupied one corner, and across from the bank was Miss Kim’s coffee shop. The lobby was abuzz with all manner of vagrants, derelicts, bedraggled and disinterested state government drones, people talking loudly, and frightened visitors who had business with one of the several state agencies housed there. The only ones not adding to the din were the dozing security guards.

I need some coffee, I thought. I stepped over a body—hopefully asleep and not dead—lying on the lobby floor and headed across to Miss Kim’s. Miss Kim was a tiny Korean lady who, along with her husband, ran a small coffee-and-snack shop. She was as sweet as can be. On Monday mornings she greeted her customers with her shrill, nasal a cappella aria, Hoppy Munda-a-ay, back to wo-o-ok. With coffee in hand, I went to the elevators to wait with the throng. To enter the elevator banks, one must pass through a narrow turnstile to swipe one’s building access card. We had high level security at 2 Peachtree!

On this day, like most others, it was like trying to run cattle through a chute. I muscled my way into the queue but was promptly bounced out of the line by a woman who had to weigh in excess of three hundred pounds. She was carrying two large Bojangles sacks. She entered the turnstile, and the turnstile arms locked up, allowing no ingress or egress. She was now stuck like a cow in a stanchion. The security guards were awakened by the commotion and began a feckless attempt to free the corpulent termagant as she frantically held fast to her Bojangles sacks.

In total frustration, I opted to ride on another bank of elevators to the twenty-eighth floor, get off, walk up one flight, and catch the elevator to the thirty-sixth floor. Two Peachtree had three banks of elevators, each serving a number of floors. My bank served floors twenty-nine to forty as my office was on the thirty-sixth floor. There were six elevators in my bank; however, only one or two are operational on any given day, which made moving three thousand people a real challenge.

An elevator opened. I immediately got on and tucked myself into one of the rear corners, sort of my effort to be alone. If I’m in the corner in the back, maybe no one will notice me, I thought. As the rest of the sardines pack on, the weight limit alarm went off, and the doors refused to close. I thought, Seriously? It’s just 7:30. Can this day get any worse? Okay, one o’ ya’ll gonna have to get off. Finally another large woman with a pull-along suitcase, a computer bag, a purse the size of Rhode Island, and a large Walmart bag full of assorted snacks and soft drinks, got off. After the overstuffed Walmart bag cleared the doors, they immediately closed, and we began our ascent. The exasperated look on her face was priceless.

At about floor fourteen my head began to ache and my stomach felt queasy. I quickly discerned that my sudden malady was caused by the amalgam of perfumes in which my co-riders had apparently marinated.

There was a woman squeezed in next to me, and as we passed floor eighteen she decided she wanted to chat. I thought, Who are you and why are you talking to me? Ten floors later, I was finally free of Miss Chatty McChats-a-Lot.

In an effort to save money, the brilliant building engineers of 2 Peachtree turned the heat off on Fridays and didn’t turn it back on until Monday morning, therefore, my office was about fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit that morning. I clicked on my space heater and partially closed my door. My office was about the size of a closet, so it usually warmed up pretty quickly. I’d often wondered whether the state was saving any money by shutting off the heat over the weekends. When they turned on the heat on Monday mornings the furnaces ran for two days straight— along with three thousand individual space heaters. I couldn’t imagine that this was more economical than keeping the building at a constant temperature.

I turned on my desk lamp that provided a soft, dim glow and I huddled over the space heater, still wearing my overcoat and sipping my coffee. My office was just across the hall from the kitchen where people heated up their food and socialized—and by doing so, annoyed me. From down the hall, I heard a familiar voice heading toward the kitchen. Where can I hide? It’s way too early in the morning to deal with him. I slid my chair back into the darkness in the corner of my office in the hope that he wouldn’t see me if he looked in.

For some reason, Leon thought I was his friend. Leon was a nice enough fella, but he was incredibly irritating when he was flaunting his latest vacation or his wild fun-loving weekend exploits. He lectured anyone who’d give him an ear about his political and moral views and his surfeit opinions on just about any and every topic. The thing I disliked the most about Leon was that he called me Mr. Jeff. Most people at the office referred to me as Jeff, Mr. Lane, or sir.

He went into the kitchen and began a conversation with an unsuspecting victim, and I heard the microwave come on. After a couple of minutes, I could see his shadow in the hallway and knew he was approaching my door.

Hey, Mr. Jeff. Are you here? he asked as he stood in my doorway, holding his bowl of warm Pablum.

My boss had counseled me before on trying to be nicer to people, so I answered with exasperation, Yes Leon, I’m here.

He began a tirade over a newspaper article about some police shooting, and then he segued into an antipolice diatribe. I was just not in the mood. He knew that I was a law enforcement official, and sometimes I thought he said what he did just to push my buttons and get a rise out of me. I just sat and let him rant.

He began to wind down while I just sat at my desk and looked at him over the top rim of my glasses, my face expressionless. He stopped and asked, Mr. Jeff, are you okay? Are you upset about something?

I took a long sip of coffee, looked up at Leon, and calmly said, Leon, mi amigo, there are four things I don’t like: small talk, Mondays, cold coffee, and most people. But what I really don’t like is making small talk with you on a Monday morning while my coffee gets cold. I thought he was going to cry.

About fifteen minutes after Leon left my office, I got a call from my boss, Ms. Helms, who sounded angry. All I heard was her saying, Get down here to my office.

I walked into her office and she scowled at me, Leon was just in here and said you were mean to him. What’d you say to him?

As I began a feeble attempt to explain and mitigate my mistreatment of Leon, I suddenly heard the ear-piercing sound of a nuclear reactor meltdown alarm and opened my eyes to realize that Laurie’s alarm was going off. I glanced at the clock. It was 5:00 a.m.

Laurie hit the snooze button and I lay in bed for a few minutes, relieved to know that I had just been dreaming and no longer had to contend with 2 Peachtree. As I lay there in a semi-conscious state, I began to feel and smell a hot, sour breath on my face. Suddenly, I was struck on my right cheek and nose by something that felt like sandpaper raking across my face. After the punch, I again, felt and smelled the hot breath. I cracked open one eye and saw Ellie standing with her front paws on the edge of the bed, panting in my face and raising her huge paw to take another swipe. These dogs are called boxers for a reason. Ellie looked at me with her wide brown eyes, from behind a face that only a mother could love, as if to say, Hey, take me out, I need to do my business. And besides, I’m hungry, so get your lazy self up and let’s go. I rolled over onto my back, trying to wake up, and promptly received another shot in the ribs. Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself, Who’s Leon?

Laurie and I got out of bed, took the dogs out, and I fed them while Laurie got ready for work. Afterward, I sat down in the bedroom and watched the morning news while I had a cup of coffee before getting ready for work. I’d retired from my career with the State government a little over five years ago, and I now worked for an Atlanta law firm as a consultant. My office was on the seventeenth floor of a Midtown Atlanta high-rise, overlooking Peachtree Street and historic Ansley Park to the east. It was a pretty view.

Atlanta is famous for many things: Peachtree Street, Coca-Cola, Martin Luther King, Jr., mediocre sports teams, Chief Noc-a-homa, the Varsity Drive-In, the 1996 Olympic Games, being burned down by General Sherman during the civil war, and Gone With The Wind, to name a few. However, two additional things Atlanta is well known for are its horrendous traffic and incredibly poor layout and design. Atlanta’s population hovers at just about 500,000; however during the work day, the population swells to approximately 750,000 due to commuters from the suburbs coming into the city for work (people like me). Interstates 75, 85 and 20 intersect in downtown Atlanta and Interstate 285 circles the city. Every morning and evening these highways become nothing more than parking lots.

Many cities are laid out in a grid design, with streets running north and south and cross streets running east and west. Washington DC and Savannah, Georgia are good examples of this design. For some reason, the City of Atlanta planners didn’t see fit to subscribe to this logical arrangement. My theory on the origin of the street layout for Atlanta involves a mid-nineteenth-century city planner addressing his peers around a large conference table and then dumping a box of toothpicks from a height of about three feet onto the table. He then says to his city-planning pals, There you go fellas—Atlanta’s city streets. He points to a toothpick and says, Let’s name this one Peachtree, this one can be Piedmont Avenue, this one Edgewood Avenue, and this one Pryor Street, and so on and so on. Let’s make some streets with numbers, but we’ll skip some numbers along the way. For example, we can have Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth but no First, Second, or Ninth streets—and pick up again with Tenth Street. And while we’re at it, let’s make some of the streets one-way only streets with no logical purpose, relevance, or expediency—it’ll be like rats in a maze. I can just hear the laughter surrounding these nefarious plans!

A word to the wise regarding driving in Atlanta: if a friend drops you off at the curb and you tell them to just circle the block and pick me back up in five minutes, you may never see or hear from your friend again.

Peachtree Street is the historical and principal thoroughfare through downtown, midtown, and uptown Atlanta. Anytime there is a parade or demonstration march, the route invariably includes Peachtree Street. A while back I came across an article that said it is sort of a joke around the city that half of the streets in Atlanta are named Peachtree, and the other half have five names to make up for it. There is, of course, the one and only Peachtree Street, but you have West Peachtree, Peachtree Circle, Peachtree Battle, Peachtree Industrial, Peachtree Walk, Peachtree-Dunwoody, and the list goes on. The article went on to say that there are seventy-one streets in Atlanta with Peachtree in their name. Still, when someone refers to Peachtree alone, the reference is always to the original Peachtree Street.

In Atlanta, the name Peachtree is somewhat of a paradox. Through the years I have driven on many of the roadways named Peachtree something or other, and I’ve noticed that many of them are lined with a variety of beautiful trees—none of which are peach trees!

When I got to the office, I emailed Laurie to let her know that I had made it. I got some coffee, returned to my office, unwrapped a cigar, and checked emails and voice mails. Caffeine and nicotine, the breakfast of champions. There were a few innocuous emails, but nothing urgently pressing. I then checked the calendar and saw that I had no meetings scheduled. Looked like a slow morning coming up.

My customary routine in the mornings involves four important activities: (1) read the obituaries to make sure my name isn’t there, (2) read my horoscope, (3) read the comic strip page, especially WuMo, Pearls Before Swine, and Get Fuzzy, and (4) read Dear Abby. I find these are all essential elements to a balanced and focused day.

The firm has a copy of the Atlanta Journal Constitution (AJC) delivered daily, and I found it on the table in our kitchen area. I checked the obituaries and found the Ls: Laird, Lance, Landrum, Laney, Lanier. Whew, not there … today. That’s a positive sign. It’s a bit uncanny, but this day, my horoscope was actually right on point. Here’s what it said today for Leo: Give someone a minute to correct themselves before you show them a new side of you; you wouldn’t be so bossy if others knew what they were doing. The earth may revolve around you, but you don’t have to shine on everyone all the time. Quit poking fun at those enjoying the shade; they won’t sing your praises. Good to know.

The comics offered little insight; however, WuMo did hit the bullseye. The cartoon depicted a distraught woman on a sidewalk kneeling over her mobile device, which she’d apparently dropped. She was screaming, Oh, my poor baby! All the while, her unattended child, in a stroller, was rolling across the road where a truck is coming toward it. Sad commentary on where we’ve come.

Dear Abby was priceless. Today’s section included several letters to Abby with questions to which she simply had no response. Here are a few: Dear Abby: Our son writes that he is taking judo. Why would a boy who was raised in a good Christian home turn against his own?¹ Dear Abby: My problem is my husband. He wears false teeth—uppers and lowers—and he thinks it’s real funny to take them out at parties and do a Spanish dance using them as castanets. He thinks he is being the life of the party—but I’m embarrassed to death. Should I keep him away from parties, or should I just tell him that he isn’t funny?² You can’t make this stuff up!

Now that my day was properly on track, I turned and looked out the window. The rain had stopped but it was still very dark and overcast. Before too long, the clouds broke up and the sun came out. My office faces east, so the sun shines in and on a cold morning the warmth feels good. Once again, I asked myself, Who’s Leon?

My office was decorated with several photographs, certificates, and diplomas along with a beautiful rendering of the Lyceum Building. Most important, however were the pictures that adorned the credenza: pictures of Laurie; my son, David; my daughter and son-in-law, Amanda and David; my grandson, Henry; and my beautiful granddaughter, Andi. On my desk was an adorable picture of Laurie at her office; she is wearing Vernon Keenan’s fedora. Vernon Keenan is the Director of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation (GBI) where Laurie works as a criminal intelligence analyst. It has apparently become a tradition within the GBI to get a photo of yourself wearing Mr. Keenan’s hat without getting caught. Mr. Keenan was at Laurie’s office for a meeting and left his hat on a table outside the conference room. Laurie put it on, and her friend Cynthia snapped the shot. That was the second time she’d pulled off this feat.

On my bookcase was a photograph of Amanda, Mom, and Dad made on one of Mom and Dad’s many visits to Oxford. The two of them are wearing matching Ole Miss sweatshirts. Instead of rolling my eyes, I thought to myself, How cute. I sat and stared at the picture for some time, reminiscing about my days in Oxford, thinking about how much I missed my dad and what a wonderful woman Mom was. My mind began to wander, and I found myself standing in the pulpit of Morrow First Baptist Church, eulogizing my father. I recalled the many people who had spoken to me that day, sharing their stories about Dad and telling me what a good and decent man he had been and how much he’d be missed.

I began to wonder, What’ll my kids remember about me? What will friends and co-workers remember? Will Henry and Andi remember me at all? What will they know of me or be told by others? Will I be remembered as a good man—a caring man, a man of character, a man of compassion? Or will I be remembered as a mean, uncaring, unsympathetic cynic? Would my presence on this earth be missed, or would people simply say, "Jeff who?"

I brilliantly concluded that my legacy relied entirely on me; it was squarely on my shoulders. I asked myself, If I died today, what would be my legacy? I thought of those who’d passed in and out of my life and how I’d treated them—some good and some not so good. Can I look back over my life with a sense of pride and satisfaction that I did right by others? I mused.

As I pondered this question, I unexpectedly thought of Leon. I couldn’t put a face on him, but somehow he was real to me. I thought about my encounter with him in my dream. What an obnoxious crank I was! I recalled similar encounters with many people over the years wherein I’d treated them poorly, much as I had Leon. Was Leon real or was he merely a subconscious manifestation of all those I’ve treated badly? I wondered. I felt bad for Leon and suddenly I was ashamed and embarrassed.

I imagined Leon coming into my old office at 2 Peachtree, sitting down and saying, Mr. Jeff, you always seem to be in an ill mood, especially toward me and I wonder why that is? I don’t believe for a minute that you’re mean. I don’t think your bite measures up to your loud bark. Deep down, I know there’s a good person trying to get out. Mr. Jeff, what’s your story? What’re you mad about? In a churlish manner I would respond, Well Mr. Leon, since you’re so interested in who I am and what I’m about, then sit back and listen. I hope you packed a lunch, ’cause you’re gonna be here awhile."

Image31963.jpg

CHAPTER 2

Just a Regular Kid

Mama, otherwise known as Sally, was born to Grady and Mildred Granade in October 1937. Grady and Mildred will be referred to by their proper monikers, Pepaw and Memaw. Pepaw worked for the railroad, and the line he worked on stretched from East Point (a town adjacent to Atlanta) to West Point (a town on the Alabama-Georgia border). They moved from Forest Park to LaGrange, Georgia for a short time, as demanded by Pepaw’s job. LaGrange was a slightly larger city neighboring West Point and Sally was born there; however, the family relocated back to Forest Park a couple of years later.

Forest Park started out as a watering and fueling station for the trains, as the railroad ran through this small town just nine miles south of Atlanta.¹ Main Street was the main thoroughfare through town and was home to Forest Park First Baptist, city hall, Smith Hardware store, the post office, Colonial Grocery store, Witherington Brothers’ Gulf station, Carter’s Cleaners, and Christian’s Pharmacy, along with several other stores and shops. Memaw, Pepaw, Mama, and my uncle Ben lived on Georgia Avenue, just off Main Street, and the neighbors across the street backed up to the train tracks.

Sally was an adorable child, with dark curly hair and chubby cheeks. Her smile was infectious and her eyes bright as diamonds. She enjoyed the things little girls typically enjoy: playing with dolls and helping Memaw with her new brother, Benjamin (Uncle Ben). Graduating high school in 1955, she was an exceptional student. Sally was also very popular in school and in her community. Every weekend she and most of the other kids in Forest Park could be found at the Kiwanis Club roller-skating rink, except during the fall, when most would be at Kiwanis Field, the local football stadium, watching the Forest Park High School Panthers take on their latest foe. Mama said it was always exciting to go to the Forest Park-versus-Jonesboro games. Jonesboro High School was the only other high school in Clayton County and they were—and still are—bitter rivals.

My dad, Chester, Jr. was born to Chester Lane, Sr. and Sarah Tinsley Lane in March of 1933. He, too, grew up in Forest Park and graduated from Forest Park High. After high school, he attended the University of Georgia–Atlanta Division and earned a degree in business. Dad then entered the US Navy in 1954, graduated from Officer Candidate School, and earned the rank of lieutenant. He served until 1956, at which time he was honorably discharged. Chester, Sr. built houses for a living, and growing up, Dad and his younger brother, Joe, spent much of their time helping with construction projects. Otherwise he played baseball with his friends, went to sock hops, and hung around Christian’s Pharmacy smoking nonfiltered Lucky Strikes.

Sally had known Chester since childhood. Even though he was four years older than her, they attended the same church, went to school together, and had many mutual friends. One of Chester’s closest friends was a fellow named Keith. On an autumn Friday afternoon in 1952, Chester asked Sally to accompany him, Keith, and Keith’s date, Joan, to the University of Georgia football game in Athens the next day. The problem was that Keith had no access to a car. That’s how Chester came into the picture; he had access to a car. Sally received Memaw’s blessing, so the four of them headed to Athens on Saturday. Sally had another date lined up with another boy to go to the skating rink Saturday night. When Chester dropped her off at her house Saturday evening, she headed straight to the skating rink. Guess who showed up at the rink? They began dating and as she was finishing high school, Chester went into the Navy. They were able to maintain a long-distance relationship that eventually resulted in their marriage.

Dates consisted of going roller skating, dancing (sock hops), seeing a movie, or just hanging out at the Chicken Haven Drive-In or the Dwarf Grill (now Dwarf House) in the nearby town of Hapeville. For seeing a movie, the usual places to go were in Atlanta: the Loew’s Grand Theatre, the Paramount, and the Fox Theatre. Anecdotally, the Dwarf House is where the Chick-Fil-A sandwich was invented in 1961, and the Loew’s Grand Theatre is where the movie Gone With The Wind premiered in 1939. After high school, Sally attended Georgia College (now Georgia State University) earning a two-year diploma. As Chester’s hitch in the Navy was winding down he proposed. Mama said yes.

Sally and Chester were married in June of 1956 at the First Baptist Church of Forest Park. As I paged through their wedding album, I saw how gorgeous Mama looked in her beautiful wedding gown. Chester was very handsome wearing his dress whites Navy uniform. The anticipation and excitement in their eyes was evident. There is a photo of Pepaw escorting Mama down the aisle, and he has a look of sheer terror on his face. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was on his way to a firing squad.

If you have ever been in the Deep South in the summertime, you’ll know it’s like wearing a wet blanket when you go outside. The heat and humidity are suffocating. On a hot, steamy, rainy morning in July of 1957, at the old Georgia Baptist Hospital, Mama brought me into this world. Mom and Dad had been married barely a year before I was born. Mom was nineteen and Dad was twenty-four. Mom used to say she was a child having a child. We lived in a small apartment in Forest Park consisting of four rooms: a den, bedroom, kitchen, and a bathroom.

The year, 1957 ushered in a lot of change. The Soviet Union launched a satellite called Sputnik into space starting what was called the space race between us Americans and the Soviets, leading to strong political tensions. Eisenhower was president, the average cost of a new house was $18,000, average yearly wages was $5,500, a new car cost $2,100, and a gallon of gas cost .31¢.² Rock and roll music was gaining popularity among the teenagers and terrifying the adults, and the South was in the throes of racial desegregation and the civil rights movement.

When I was about a year old, Mom and Dad built a new house, still in Forest Park. It was a pretty nice house for the late fifties. It was a one-story brick ranch on Hillpine Road, less than a half mile off of Main Street and less than a mile from Memaw and Pepaw’s house. There were several kids on my street and we spent our time riding bikes, playing baseball, spinning tops … you know, just kid stuff.

As a young child I would ride my rocking horse relentlessly. The horse was plastic and was affixed to a metal frame by springs attached to each leg. There was a piece of wood extending through the horse’s head that served as handles. Once mounted, the rider would begin lurching forward and backward to giddy-up. I would rock that nag so hard the frame would come up off the floor and loudly pound the hardwood floor. You could hear the poor springs stressing and singing with every lurch—screech, screech, screech, screech—back and forth.

Mama tells me I was a head banger as a baby. Apparently I would lie in my crib, raise my head and then slam it down onto the mattress over and over. Perhaps that was the result of my chewing the wooden crib that was covered in lead-based paint or drinking from my coffee-laced bottle of milk.

I remember my first bicycle. Chief Hawkins, the Forest Park fire chief, lived across the street from us. He told my dad they had an abandoned bicycle at the fire station and he’d sell it to us for five dollars. Dad and I drove over to the fire station to look at the bike. It had flat tires and was rusty, but I couldn’t wait to take it home. Dad bought it, put new tires on it, painted it bright red, and helped me learn to ride. That thing was sweet and now I could ride with the big dogs, finally shedding my childish tricycle.

Not only was America dealing with changing politics, rock and roll, men with long hair, the Vietnam War, and civil rights in the early 1960s, but the Hillpine moppets were also dealing with change of their own—the coming of the Spyder bike. The Spyder bike was a revolutionary new design of bicycle. It had long, gooseneck handlebars and a low-slung banana seat, not like the triangular seats of old. It came in a variety of bright colors and was the envy of every boy who could ride a bike. The other kids on Hillpine had Spyder bikes before me. I was still riding ole red. I’ll never forget when I finally got my own Spyder bike. I guess I was about seven or eight years old. It was metallic gold with a leopard-print banana seat. The chain guard had Spyder painted on it—I was one bad third grade hombre.

It was a fad to loosen up the handlebars and tilt them outward away from the seat. I’m not sure why; I guess we thought it was cool—not very safe, but cool. We also got playing cards and affixed them with clothes pins to the forks of our bikes so the cards were inside the spokes. They would make a thrumming noise that sounded like a motor. It wasn’t uncommon to hear our mothers yelling at us to bring back their clothes pins when it was wash day. As we got a little older, we would get sets of front-wheel forks off old bikes and attach them to our existing forks, making the front wheels extend out twice as far. You could barely steer those bikes. Here I was on my Spyder, rolling at about fifteen miles per hour, sitting on my leopard banana seat, and reaching as far as I could to hold on to the outward-tilted handle bars, with my front wheel about two feet out in front. Bicycle helmets were unheard of, and we wouldn’t have worn them anyway. We were risks to ourselves and anyone around us, but I guess it just never occurred to anyone back then. We were plain idiots and didn’t know it. I rode that Spyder until I got a car at age sixteen.

Popular toys with the imps of my day were the GI Joe doll (a military figurine in full battle garb), Gumby and Pokey, plastic army men, dart guns, Play-Doh, Tonka trucks, spinning tops, and yo-yos. It’s a wonder any of us from the late fifties and sixties are still alive. Cars had no seatbelts, we played with chemistry sets containing various chemicals ready to burn you, and erector sets had sharp metal pieces and small screws ready to cut or be swallowed.

Girls made crude cakes with a contrivance that resembled a baking oven. The heat source was two 100 watt incandescent lightbulbs. Research suggests that the surface temperature of a 100 watt bulb hovers between 150°F and 250°F. Bear in mind that there are two bulbs in this low-grade furnace, generating surface temperatures between 300°F and 500°F. The cake batter was poured into small circular metal pans, and the pans were introduced through a slot in the front of the oven and then slid out through a slot in the back of the oven. Better have an oven mitt handy.

Another fun activity toy was Creepy Crawlers. What, pray tell, were creepy crawlers? Creepy Crawlers were a variety of insects and arachnids made from heating a substance known as Plasti-Goop which came in a variety of colors. The toy set consisted of several die-cast metal molds featuring the shapes of the insect-like creatures. The mold was filled with the liquid Plasti-Goop and placed on top of an open-faced electric hot plate. The hot plate heated the mold to about 390°F, hardening the Plasti-Goop. After the mold cooled down, the rubbery bugs could be removed. Other than from the burn scars on my hands and fingers, I can’t count the number of Creepy Crawlers we cooked up—and all with absolutely no adult supervision.

Dad worked at a department store in downtown Atlanta when I was a little boy. We only had one car, an old Rambler with a bench seat. Mama and I would drive (actually, Mama drove) from Forest Park down I-75 to downtown Atlanta each night to pick him up. I would be in my footie pajamas, standing on the seat next to Mama and sucking on a bottle. If we had been in a wreck I’d have just been a human projectile launched