The youngster raced down the steps of the two-story house. It's barn-style roof made it appear larger than the homes on either side. Slinging his belted books over his shoulder, the young boy took the stairs two at a time, youthful energy bubbling from his small, wiry body. If you could have looked into his large, hazel eyes you would have seen a glimmer of mischief lurking behind his innocent smile.
Halfway down the street, he stopped to adjust his knee-length socks which never stayed tucked inside his knickers when he ran. Wool tweed knickers, long black stockings held up by garters that always seemed to be too tight or too loose, black high-top, lace-up shoes, white shirts and bow ties were standard school attire for boys his age. Jack hated the baggy pants and itchy socks.
At the corner, he turned right and ran the short side block to the school yard. The school and playground took up an entire city block with the front of the school facing the residential street Adeline and the rear and playground backing up to State Fair, one of the busy city streets that bounded the State Fair Grounds in Detroit, Michigan.
The large playground contained swings and slides in several locations. However, he had no time for play. The first bell was ringing as he entered the massive wooden doors on this side of his school, Grayling Elementary. He was seven years old and in the second grade. The year was 1919.
* * * * *
The little girl jumped down the steps of the small bungalow-style house she shared with her mother and father. Her large, expressive, hazel eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and her small slender body seemed charged with energy as she bounced her way down the steps, one at a time.
Her long dark brown hair was parted on the side with a big red bow and curled in the Shirley Temple ringlets that were a popular style of the times. She was wearing a red, white, and blue gingham dress, smocked and gathered in the front, with white collar and cuffs, sewn on her mother's new sewing machine. Red tights and sensible brown Oxfords completed her apparel. The dress was one of many lovingly hand-made by her mother.
At the bottom of the stairs, she began skipping and singing her way down the street. Reaching the corner, she turned right and ran the short side block to her school, Grayling Elementary. She was seven years old and in the second grade. The year was 1945.
* * * * *
Serendipity. Life is full of it. That little boy and girl? Each spent almost ten years of their childhood on the same street albeit twenty-five years intervened. Big deal. So what . . . unless you know the little boy became the father of the little girl. Serendipity.
Of course a lot of things happened to the young boy known as little Jack Hopps between the years 1913 and 1945. By then he had married and fathered a child--the little girl--who he adored almost as much as he did her mother. And in 1945, he was about to become a proud father once again, this time of a son.
His daughter certainly thought it was unusual that she and her parents lived just a few houses down from her father's childhood home. Unfortunately, she didn't learn this until she was grown and long gone from her childhood neighborhood.
As a child living in this community, she had always been especially drawn to the two-story house a few doors down from her own. At the time, she thought it was because of it's Dutch roof. Anything that looked like a barn or smelled like a farm always drew her attention. That's because her mother's father had a farm in Tennessee and every summer they would spend a couple of weeks with him. She loved visiting Grandpa Roberts on his farm. Although he sold the farm and moved to town when she was still a little girl, throughout her life, the smell of barns and horses and hay would always be to her the best smell in the world.
As far as the barn roof house is concerned, maybe it was something else that drew her attention; that beckoned her. An aura perhaps, a presence, of the laughter, the tears, the sorrows, the joys of the people who had lived there 25 years earlier.
Whatever it was remained a mystery. She never knew the people who lived there during her childhood well enough to be invited inside. And never had the chance to heed the beckoning of the house by venturing inside. Years later, when she learned it had been her father's childhood home, she remembered the emotions the house had stirred in her. And wondered. And desperately wished she could have gone inside and seen--"experienced"-- the rooms where her father and his parents had lived a portion of their lives.
When the girl was just thirteen, her paternal grandmother died. And her paternal grandfather moved to California long before she was born. In fact, she only saw him twice. Being in the house where they once had lived would have enriched her memories.
But the essays I'm writing are not about the little girl. They are about the boy. And some of the significant and serendipitous events that took place in his life between the years 1913 and 1945. Events and circumstances that shaped him into the man he was to become. A man of responsibility and integrity and scrupulous honesty. A man who respected the authority of his parents, his church, his community, his country. A man of peace who nevertheless stood firm for his principles when confronted with conflict or controversy.
The little boy became a man. The man became my father. One of my heros . . . . except I’ve never told him so.
If he reads my essays, he'll know.
Sarah Barnes
June 1996
