Me and Charley

1. July 1963

"Hello, Trey," Mom said as I walked into the kitchen. "Guess what?"

"What, Mom?" I asked.

"I stopped in to see that family that moved in by our lane last week..." She paused.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Their son is just your age."

"Really, Mom? What's he like?"

"He's very polite and he seems pretty bright, too. His mother says he reads a lot and does quite well in school, but he's missing his friends. You should go meet him."

"Do you think he'll like me?"

"Well, I guess that's up to the two of you, isn't it? Anyhow his mother said you'd be welcome to stop by when you finish your lunch, if you like."

"What's his name?"

"Charley McDougall."

"Do I hafta go, Mom?"

"Well, I won't make you, but I think you should."

"Yes'm," I mumbled as I finished my meal. I went out the back door, got on my bike and pedaled up our lane. The day was pleasantly warm, the first of July. A gentle breeze rustled the ancient trees that surrounded our house, the old home place. For more than a century it was the focus of the 400-acre farm worked by my ancestors, until my grandfather retired and put most of the land out for rent. Beyond the broad ring of old trees that surrounded the house, pine woodlands perfumed the midday air as I poked along.

Grandpa had a good eye for the real estate market. Right after World War II he sectioned off ten half-acre lots along the other side of the road that bisected the old farm. They sold promptly. My destination was the first house on the right side of the lane, a brick rancher. I was in no hurry to get there, nor was I real sure I wanted to meet this kid. I was a clumsy, wimpy, fatherless boy, extremely nearsighted although thick glasses corrected my vision well enough. I was an easy target for teasing and worse. What would this kid make of me?

The Smith family used to live in the house I was headed for. Their children were born in the 1940s. By the time I became aware of them they were in their teens. Now all were grown and gone. Mr. Smith had died suddenly the year before. Mrs. Smith and her mother, who had had to be pushed along in a wheelchair for as long as I could remember, went to live with relatives far away. Mom welcomed the news that a family had finally bought the place. She was glad of it since the real estate people didn't take very good care of the property. Maybe this family would.

I turned from the lane into the concrete apron that covered the twenty-five feet to the double garage. The basketball goal attached to the garage sported fresh paint and new netting. I parked my bike by a ramp that led down to the driveway from the front porch. Behind the aluminum screen door the front door stood open. As I pushed the doorbell button I felt the little knot in my belly that always came when I had to meet new people. A silhouetted figure approached the door as I rehearsed my little speech. Then there stood a lady, not too tall and just the least little bit stout, with the kindest deep brown eyes I'd ever seen.

"Hello Ma'am," I said. "I'm Trey Ross. My mom was just here."

"Hello, Trey," she replied . "Please come in. I'm Rhoda McDougall. I imagine you've come to meet Charley." I shook the hand she extended, a bit too hard perhaps, as she continued, "Your mother tells me you and Charley are nearly the same age."

"I was nine last New Year's Eve, Ma'am."

"Well, Charley's just a little older than you, he'll be ten on September 30," she responded. I could not manage more than a shy smile in response. "I'll take you to his room. He has to rest his back for an hour every afternoon. He decided to do that now so he could spend the rest of the afternoon with you if you came. I'm so glad you did come. Your mother says you're a little shy."