Growing up, there were no girls living on McKay Street to be my playmates. For a child, another street away such as Taylor Avenue, was a foreign world to which you did not wander. But McKay Street was a kingdom to explore from after school until time to go home for supper.
My best friend during the early grade school years lived near the bottom of the McKay Street hill. His name was Pat Renz. I still have a photo of the two of us looking very proud, dressed in our First Communion clothes.
We walked to school together, talking about big plans and future escapades. He would come out of his front door in the morning as I reached his house and we would walk the rest of the way downhill onto Lee Street, then up Horseshoe Bend and on up Mercer to Holy Family School and our daily ordeals with the Sister of Charity Nuns who ruled the process of enlightening the young souls under their domain.
In the afternoons we retraced our steps home to change into play clothes and enter our own world of entertainment.
Pat was an only child and the proud owner of a BB gun and every item that could be obtained by sending in whatever box top was needed for any offer mentioned on radio shows. His smug possession of a Tom Mix decoder ring left me in awe and I, of course, thought him very rich.
I recall my mother telling me Ovaltine was too expensive and Ovaltine was involved in many of those mail-in offers. I depended on Pat to give me the secret words the decoder messages presented.
Along with a BB gun, Pat was the proud owner of a Willow Tree. Since both of us were followers of Tarzan, the Willow tree became our jungle and we began most of our afternoons by practicing the horrendous howling sound that our Tarzan hero used to strike terror in the hearts of wrongdoers before he swung down from his forest home and sent them running.
On more than one occasion Mrs. Renz asked us to “Stop all that racket” which brought our dramatic afternoons to take a more down-to-earth adventure rather than swinging on willow tree vines.
While I am thinking of it, envying Pat’s BB gun sent me on a quest of my very own. Along with denying me an Ovaltine advantage, my mother in a sincere tone told me I could not have a BB gun. It was for boys.
Seeing no harm in taking my problems to a higher power, I wrote an appealing letter to Santa Claus. In the meantime, while waiting for A Christmas delivery, I made numerous trips to Beasley’s Hardware Store located about half a block away on Sherman Avenue.
At Beasley’s was a Red Ryder BB gun just like Pat’s. Falling asleep at night I imagined myself riding with Tom Mix or the Lone Ranger, holding the reigns of my horse with one hand while carrying my Red Rider BB gun aloft in the other.
Needless to say that Christmas taught me my mother had more power than Santa. Near the tree were Jean and my dolls with new dresses, sitting at a little table, ready for a proper tea party.
Somehow I recovered from the traumatic neglect I had been rendered. After all, in an alternate plan, I could borrow Pat’s Red Ryder BB gun and I could still dream of riding the range. Santa and my mother had no hold on Tom Mix and the Lone Ranger and Heroes never abandon their courageous followers. Not when those followers live on McKay Street.