The neighborhood where I grew up was the area between the intersection of Jupiter Road with Northwest Highway, though it never looked like a highway at that particular section of town, and Garland Road. Located in East Dallas near White Rock Lake and even closer to the border of the city of Garland, a border which seemed invisible because you could never tell when you actually left one suburb and entered another, the neighborhood looked just like all the other middle-class areas of the time, though now it looks decayed, a shell of its former self and a place that has seen better times and witnessed the last of its glory days. It was a neighborhood which looked safe and clean, filled with a balanced combination of nature and concrete. The streets themselves weren’t crammed with house leaning against house, but with large, green spaces between them. Sometimes, there might even be entire stretches of land without any houses, apartments, or other abodes settling upon the land. And it was a maze of delight, with parks, lakes, creeks, and fields littering the sides of the meandering streets. Easy to get lost, it provided the perfect sense of fun and adventure for the youthful at heart, not afraid to discover new realms waiting to be explored. There were mansions, tiny houses, and two-storied homes, not to mention all kinds of secret trails and alleys, only known to those who dared to go off the beaten trail. One would never realize this all existed, just driving down Jupiter toward Garland or Northwest, depending on the destination. Just a bunch of streets stretching outward into the main thoroughfare, filled with cars going to and from places, whose passengers would never know the wonders of the small world which resided between the two major pathways through East Dallas, and would never know because of the tendency of mankind never to slow down, or stop, or to take a quick look. And more often then not, that passenger, so determined to arrive at the destination, would not even notice there was even a neighborhood hidden behind the facade of street names.
But names were not important, especially to a young boy growing up, just trying to get from one place to another, not paying attention to the streets to the left or right, but on the sidewalks below. For the sidewalks were not the typical smoothness associated with new pathways of fresh cement, nor the well-kept grounds of the uptown neighborhoods, or the heavily-maintained thoroughfares of Disney World. Instead, the sidewalks were old, worn out, and neglected, suffering from cracks of all sizes. Plants and grass sprouted through the crevices, sometimes making it seem as though the pavers had decided to stop at point A, move two inches, and start again at point B. At other places, the concrete slabs had been moved up or down, making way for whatever tree roots had decided to traverse the landscape, forcing the pedestrian to walk up a step as though climbing a ladder. Other times, the path would take a sudden slant like it was going down a hill, except there was no hill, not even a hump. All this made walking difficult if you didn’t watch out where you were going, and even more hazardous if you decided to go biking on a particular day. For I have lost count of the number of times I had been forced off the seat or sent over the handlebars because the wheels encountered the features already mentioned. So you had to keep your eyes on the sidewalk, keeping your focus on it, all the while making the right kind of swerves at the right moment, or else attack the obstacle at full force while holding onto the handlebar with a deathgrip. And while the latter usually worked, it usually meant having to suffer from a burst of pain and a sore butt, which meant that you would have to get off and walk the bike while your buttocks recovered before mounting your steed once more. But the one thing you never did whenever approaching another street that emptied into the road, no matter how tempting it may be, was to press straight forward. Doing so meant dropping off the curb and getting punched in the privates by a sudden jolt shuddering through the base of the seat, often causing that seat to launch into an upward angle. And so you would have to get off, struggle to balance the seat the best you could, then get back on. To avoid such mishaps meant having to take detours into the adjoining streets, find the nearest driveway, traveling across the street into another one, and get back to the main sidewalk, ready to continue the journey to wherever the destination may be.
Of course, the best way to circumvent the whole obstacle course was to bravely go down the danger zone of death, known as The Gutter, which traveled along the right-most lane of Jupiter Road. It was the area between the white line and the sidewalk curb, where the long, thin drains took the occasional streams of water left behind after a lengthy summer storm. I dared not to travel down the middle of the third lane, fearing that drivers would run me over, side-swipe me, or worse. I had heard how crazy drivers could be, and I didn’t want to take any chances that the person behind me wasn’t one of them. Even as I drove my bike along The Gutter, I feared some sort of terrible accident might happen, especially during those times when the cars seemed to be bearing down on me, waiting to strike their next victim. When the right lane was empty, I sometimes ventured into the middle, always checking behind me to see whether or not a possible maniac was approaching. It was during these times that I hustled on my bike, standing up and pumping the pedals, trying to go as fast as I could to make the most distance. It was the few times when I was free from worrying about cracks, bumps, and detours. And so I would try to make the most of these situations. Of course, whenever I saw the slightest hint of metal coming my way, I dashed into the nearest street, slowed down and rode over the sidewalk curb, or moved into The Gutter.
While traveling along Jupiter, I found myself going past neighborhoods within the neighborhood. I lived in the section of town resembling the regular middle-class suburb. Further down, on the right side heading toward Garland Road, there was the posh section, or so it seemed at the time, filled with perfectly cut lawns and manicured bushes. The houses themselves weren’t fancy and two-storied, but rather one big house serving as a duplex. And to me, those duplexes meant money and wealth, though I never could figure out why anyone would want to share the same address.
Across the street on the left side, trees grew wild and untamed, providing sinister, dark shade along the streets they inhabited. Going back down toward Northwest Highway near the middle, there was the rural neighborhood, where trees were sparse, fields were large, and streets were wide. And in this area was a small, white church. For the most part, it looked completely abandoned and unused. There was no parking lot, unless you wanted to count the thick layer of gravel as a parking lot. There was even a small wood fence around the supposed parking lot. It wasn’t the traditional fence with the planks that stood up like the picket fence. Rather, it looked like the type you would find at a ranch, where boards would substitute barbed wire. They were thick, square logs connected together to form the barrier. And whenever you passed the church, even on Sunday, the place was almost always empty. There were maybe one or two cars, but that’s all I can remember seeing. The building itself had one story and looked like it only had one room for the worship service, though there may have been more inside, for I never stepped inside it. Though there were times when my curiosity made me wonder what it was like, I never found out, and I never will. For when I returned from college, someone had arrived on the scene and transformed it. The building was the same, but there was also a garage with a basketball hoop on it. In front of it was a concrete basketball court. I saw kids playing on the premises at times, and I witnessed other activity as well. And for the first time, I saw more than just a few cars. But when I passed it as a kid, the place was empty.
Further down the right side, near the intersection of Northwest Highway, was the bad neighborhood. In this area, there were no streets. Just houses lined next to each other facing Jupiter, and their driveways leading into the road. There were barely any trees, the grass always looked dead or diminished, and the sidewalk was exceptionally bad. Tales and rumors propped up from time to time, detailing crimes and misdeeds, most of them involving drugs and other illicit activities. Not to mention stories of robberies and murders. And so, this area was to be avoided at all costs, even during the daylight hours. For who knew what might try to snatch you unawares. And pity the weary traveler who dared to pass when nightfall approached.
Along this patchwork of neighborhoods, the street I lived on was located near the center on the right side, halfway through the middle-class area. The center wasn’t exactly a good place to be, at least as a biker, because the landscape sloped upwards on both sides. It wasn’t enough to force the rider to stand up and pump the pedals to keep the bike going, but it was enough to give you a short workout.
For the most part, I never ventured much on the left side of the street, preferring to stay on the right, mainly because that was the side that our house was situated on. Our next door neighbor on the left side was a woman named Beverly and her husband Bill. I barely knew her, but my parents spent a considerable amount of time with them by talking to each other over the backyard fence which separated the two properties. And sometimes, they got together while I played in the front yard. But as far as I knew, my parents rarely entered Beverly’s house until much later in my life. Across the street from my home was a neighbor who my parents knew, but I didn’t. They met with my mother and father even less than Beverly and Bill. In fact, I don’t ever remember seeing them, though I did get to see their daughter on a few occasions. Next door to the right of my house, the grandparents on my father’s side of the family lived. The place quickly became my second home, for I sometimes spent more time playing in their house than I did my own.
Further down at the midpoint of the street was a famous home, at least to me, because it was so unique compared to the other houses. It was a small, square abode with a white picket fence around it. There was a gate at the front that stayed open most of the time, but no one dared to enter and walk along the path leading to the place. I can’t remember the reason. Regardless, the front lawn was covered with statues, figures, and other decorations. The most prominent, and the only one I remember, was a large donkey pulling a wagon. I can’t remember what it was made out of or what color it was, but it seemed to dominate the scenery. When I inquired as to who lived there, my parents didn’t give me a name. They just referred to her as the German Lady. That was it. No description. Nothing. Just the name. And so the German Lady was always a mystery to me, and still is, for I never saw her once in all my years living on the street. She did have a son, though I remember being told by someone that he was just a boy who liked visiting her. Though another source, whose identity I can’t recall told me that he was a relative of sort. I saw the boy every once in a while, but it never occurred to me to approach him and end the mystery of the German Lady once and for all. Maybe I did, but even so, I didn’t have the courage to confront him, probably because his origins were as mysterious as the woman’s identity. And maybe, some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved. For who knew what kind of person the kid might be, or what terrible secret lay inside the house, where the answers to all my questions awaited me. I never tried to enter and didn’t want to. There were some things that were best to be left alone.
It was at this point that the street made a sharp decline. Before the midpoint, it was just a gradual decline, where you could barely notice it, but only if you really paid attention. But once past the German Lady’s house, the street dipped downward into a slope until it reached the end at Sunland. It continued onward and upward till the next intersection, but for me, it always ended at Sunland because that was where the decline stopped. On the right side before the intersection was an empty space of prairie land. There were no slides, swings, or playground equipment. There were no picnic tables either. Just a grassy plain. It could have been a spot planned for a small park at one point in the past, but which had long been abandoned. And yet, the area stood like it was all through my childhood without any changes. The grass was yellow for the most part, though at times it was green in places. It could be tall or short, depending on the frequency of the city department that handled all the mowing. The open space provided plenty of room to play outdoors, uninhibited by boundaries such as fences, houses, and the like. But more important than this was the fact that it provided easy access to one of the many creeks in the neighborhood area. But you had to be careful when going down the bank, mainly because most of it was a sheer drop going straight down, though there were plenty of hand and foot holds to grab along the way. You just had to be careful to make sure you had a firm grip, or it was a long way down. Of course, there was the alternate way. This meant grabbing onto one of the outgrowing trees, then going down via the many bushes cropping out on the side. The third option, and the best one in hindsight, was walking along to the very edge near the intersection, where the ledge led into more of a slanted slope than a sheer drop. It was still dangerous, especially if you lost your footing or balance, but it was sure easier than the other methods. There were other creeks to play in, far more interesting and dangerous, but this one was the closest to home and the easiest to get to. The street came to an end after passing this entrance. It was one I remember well, for it served as my home for eighteen years.
But names were not important, especially to a young boy growing up, just trying to get from one place to another, not paying attention to the streets to the left or right, but on the sidewalks below. For the sidewalks were not the typical smoothness associated with new pathways of fresh cement, nor the well-kept grounds of the uptown neighborhoods, or the heavily-maintained thoroughfares of Disney World. Instead, the sidewalks were old, worn out, and neglected, suffering from cracks of all sizes. Plants and grass sprouted through the crevices, sometimes making it seem as though the pavers had decided to stop at point A, move two inches, and start again at point B. At other places, the concrete slabs had been moved up or down, making way for whatever tree roots had decided to traverse the landscape, forcing the pedestrian to walk up a step as though climbing a ladder. Other times, the path would take a sudden slant like it was going down a hill, except there was no hill, not even a hump. All this made walking difficult if you didn’t watch out where you were going, and even more hazardous if you decided to go biking on a particular day. For I have lost count of the number of times I had been forced off the seat or sent over the handlebars because the wheels encountered the features already mentioned. So you had to keep your eyes on the sidewalk, keeping your focus on it, all the while making the right kind of swerves at the right moment, or else attack the obstacle at full force while holding onto the handlebar with a deathgrip. And while the latter usually worked, it usually meant having to suffer from a burst of pain and a sore butt, which meant that you would have to get off and walk the bike while your buttocks recovered before mounting your steed once more. But the one thing you never did whenever approaching another street that emptied into the road, no matter how tempting it may be, was to press straight forward. Doing so meant dropping off the curb and getting punched in the privates by a sudden jolt shuddering through the base of the seat, often causing that seat to launch into an upward angle. And so you would have to get off, struggle to balance the seat the best you could, then get back on. To avoid such mishaps meant having to take detours into the adjoining streets, find the nearest driveway, traveling across the street into another one, and get back to the main sidewalk, ready to continue the journey to wherever the destination may be.
Of course, the best way to circumvent the whole obstacle course was to bravely go down the danger zone of death, known as The Gutter, which traveled along the right-most lane of Jupiter Road. It was the area between the white line and the sidewalk curb, where the long, thin drains took the occasional streams of water left behind after a lengthy summer storm. I dared not to travel down the middle of the third lane, fearing that drivers would run me over, side-swipe me, or worse. I had heard how crazy drivers could be, and I didn’t want to take any chances that the person behind me wasn’t one of them. Even as I drove my bike along The Gutter, I feared some sort of terrible accident might happen, especially during those times when the cars seemed to be bearing down on me, waiting to strike their next victim. When the right lane was empty, I sometimes ventured into the middle, always checking behind me to see whether or not a possible maniac was approaching. It was during these times that I hustled on my bike, standing up and pumping the pedals, trying to go as fast as I could to make the most distance. It was the few times when I was free from worrying about cracks, bumps, and detours. And so I would try to make the most of these situations. Of course, whenever I saw the slightest hint of metal coming my way, I dashed into the nearest street, slowed down and rode over the sidewalk curb, or moved into The Gutter.
While traveling along Jupiter, I found myself going past neighborhoods within the neighborhood. I lived in the section of town resembling the regular middle-class suburb. Further down, on the right side heading toward Garland Road, there was the posh section, or so it seemed at the time, filled with perfectly cut lawns and manicured bushes. The houses themselves weren’t fancy and two-storied, but rather one big house serving as a duplex. And to me, those duplexes meant money and wealth, though I never could figure out why anyone would want to share the same address.
Across the street on the left side, trees grew wild and untamed, providing sinister, dark shade along the streets they inhabited. Going back down toward Northwest Highway near the middle, there was the rural neighborhood, where trees were sparse, fields were large, and streets were wide. And in this area was a small, white church. For the most part, it looked completely abandoned and unused. There was no parking lot, unless you wanted to count the thick layer of gravel as a parking lot. There was even a small wood fence around the supposed parking lot. It wasn’t the traditional fence with the planks that stood up like the picket fence. Rather, it looked like the type you would find at a ranch, where boards would substitute barbed wire. They were thick, square logs connected together to form the barrier. And whenever you passed the church, even on Sunday, the place was almost always empty. There were maybe one or two cars, but that’s all I can remember seeing. The building itself had one story and looked like it only had one room for the worship service, though there may have been more inside, for I never stepped inside it. Though there were times when my curiosity made me wonder what it was like, I never found out, and I never will. For when I returned from college, someone had arrived on the scene and transformed it. The building was the same, but there was also a garage with a basketball hoop on it. In front of it was a concrete basketball court. I saw kids playing on the premises at times, and I witnessed other activity as well. And for the first time, I saw more than just a few cars. But when I passed it as a kid, the place was empty.
Further down the right side, near the intersection of Northwest Highway, was the bad neighborhood. In this area, there were no streets. Just houses lined next to each other facing Jupiter, and their driveways leading into the road. There were barely any trees, the grass always looked dead or diminished, and the sidewalk was exceptionally bad. Tales and rumors propped up from time to time, detailing crimes and misdeeds, most of them involving drugs and other illicit activities. Not to mention stories of robberies and murders. And so, this area was to be avoided at all costs, even during the daylight hours. For who knew what might try to snatch you unawares. And pity the weary traveler who dared to pass when nightfall approached.
Along this patchwork of neighborhoods, the street I lived on was located near the center on the right side, halfway through the middle-class area. The center wasn’t exactly a good place to be, at least as a biker, because the landscape sloped upwards on both sides. It wasn’t enough to force the rider to stand up and pump the pedals to keep the bike going, but it was enough to give you a short workout.
For the most part, I never ventured much on the left side of the street, preferring to stay on the right, mainly because that was the side that our house was situated on. Our next door neighbor on the left side was a woman named Beverly and her husband Bill. I barely knew her, but my parents spent a considerable amount of time with them by talking to each other over the backyard fence which separated the two properties. And sometimes, they got together while I played in the front yard. But as far as I knew, my parents rarely entered Beverly’s house until much later in my life. Across the street from my home was a neighbor who my parents knew, but I didn’t. They met with my mother and father even less than Beverly and Bill. In fact, I don’t ever remember seeing them, though I did get to see their daughter on a few occasions. Next door to the right of my house, the grandparents on my father’s side of the family lived. The place quickly became my second home, for I sometimes spent more time playing in their house than I did my own.
Further down at the midpoint of the street was a famous home, at least to me, because it was so unique compared to the other houses. It was a small, square abode with a white picket fence around it. There was a gate at the front that stayed open most of the time, but no one dared to enter and walk along the path leading to the place. I can’t remember the reason. Regardless, the front lawn was covered with statues, figures, and other decorations. The most prominent, and the only one I remember, was a large donkey pulling a wagon. I can’t remember what it was made out of or what color it was, but it seemed to dominate the scenery. When I inquired as to who lived there, my parents didn’t give me a name. They just referred to her as the German Lady. That was it. No description. Nothing. Just the name. And so the German Lady was always a mystery to me, and still is, for I never saw her once in all my years living on the street. She did have a son, though I remember being told by someone that he was just a boy who liked visiting her. Though another source, whose identity I can’t recall told me that he was a relative of sort. I saw the boy every once in a while, but it never occurred to me to approach him and end the mystery of the German Lady once and for all. Maybe I did, but even so, I didn’t have the courage to confront him, probably because his origins were as mysterious as the woman’s identity. And maybe, some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved. For who knew what kind of person the kid might be, or what terrible secret lay inside the house, where the answers to all my questions awaited me. I never tried to enter and didn’t want to. There were some things that were best to be left alone.
It was at this point that the street made a sharp decline. Before the midpoint, it was just a gradual decline, where you could barely notice it, but only if you really paid attention. But once past the German Lady’s house, the street dipped downward into a slope until it reached the end at Sunland. It continued onward and upward till the next intersection, but for me, it always ended at Sunland because that was where the decline stopped. On the right side before the intersection was an empty space of prairie land. There were no slides, swings, or playground equipment. There were no picnic tables either. Just a grassy plain. It could have been a spot planned for a small park at one point in the past, but which had long been abandoned. And yet, the area stood like it was all through my childhood without any changes. The grass was yellow for the most part, though at times it was green in places. It could be tall or short, depending on the frequency of the city department that handled all the mowing. The open space provided plenty of room to play outdoors, uninhibited by boundaries such as fences, houses, and the like. But more important than this was the fact that it provided easy access to one of the many creeks in the neighborhood area. But you had to be careful when going down the bank, mainly because most of it was a sheer drop going straight down, though there were plenty of hand and foot holds to grab along the way. You just had to be careful to make sure you had a firm grip, or it was a long way down. Of course, there was the alternate way. This meant grabbing onto one of the outgrowing trees, then going down via the many bushes cropping out on the side. The third option, and the best one in hindsight, was walking along to the very edge near the intersection, where the ledge led into more of a slanted slope than a sheer drop. It was still dangerous, especially if you lost your footing or balance, but it was sure easier than the other methods. There were other creeks to play in, far more interesting and dangerous, but this one was the closest to home and the easiest to get to. The street came to an end after passing this entrance. It was one I remember well, for it served as my home for eighteen years.