Page 70 - People & Places In Time

Growing Up In Exeter
Out the east facing window stands the water tower with ‘EXETER’ in large block letters on two sides of the large tank at the top; this iconic landmark has re- mained a visual symbol for Exeter for over ninety years. As a young boy I did start to climb it, but retreated shortly after reaching the first cross member, the climb is scarier than one might think at first.
Beyond the water tower is the Exeter Union High School where I would spend four awkward years. Those years transitioning from boyhood to manhood; but this is a story for later. Looking toward the west is the small, three cornered, Joyner Park laying just across ‘B’ Street. It’s here that I would hang out for hours near the only fireworks stand in town, anxiously anticipat- ing the coming 4th of July celebration. At the west end of the park is a memorial to my friends, my classmates that lost their lives in Viet Nam, and once again, this is another story.
I can look down on people in their cars along Main Street; themselves making memories that can span a lifetime. Mostly, I’m looking down on my childhood, though so long past . . . still it remains as clear in memo- ry as if it were happening just below my feet, as I stand here watching.
Downstairs is the Exeter Art gallery, where I’ve been curating and hanging the displays for the past few years. The art gallery is in the former municipal court room, the same room where I had stood before Judge Freddy McKenzie in 1962 or 63. I can’t remember why I appeared in court, standing with my father most likely a traffic violation of some kind. I’ve no memory of the outcome except that I was definitely not a young boy who got into trouble. Still the irony of this building and my connection to it through sixty years is not lost on me.
Alleys are no longer part of city planning and this shortsighted thinking is presented as progress, though for me it’s just another example, that further diminishes the concept, that “change is good”.
I remember once, while making the rounds up and down my alley, finding a set of deer antlers that my grandfather mounted so beautifully for me. I kept those mounted antlers for years and would have them to
this day, except, that my wife decided it was time they should go. These days I wonder, where in this world that we find ourselves living today, does a young boy find access to the adventure and excitement of discovery, had by me along with my friends, in the safety of alleys found in Exeter during the 1940’s and 50’s? Come to think of it, when I was a young teenager and not explor- ing alleyways as I had, my dad helped me set up a pole vault pit behind our back fence, along the alley as a budding vaulter I would later take the skills perfected in the alley to high school and the track team.
As I put these thoughts to paper there is one final name from our neighborhood that remains curi- ous to me; this came from the other side of the Coble family home. Jack Carry lived here between the Coble home and the mortuary, the house faced ‘B’ Street and of course, backed up to our alley. This man and his home intrigued me because I couldn’t just walk into
his yard and he didn’t seem particularly friendly toward inquisitive boys. On the alley side was a corrugated metal sided shop with what seemed to be always closed doors, along each side of his lot it was either fenced or bordered with tall thick landscape. What did catch my attention, and still does to this day, was the brick work on his house and the porch surrounding it. His yard was paved with brick and the large covered patio along the south side was made of brick. All that I ever saw, was him in his overalls pushing a wheelbarrow or laying brick. Perhaps eccentric but a very talented craftsman; wish that I could have known him.
Perhaps the next best option to alleys would be vacant lots (pg, 52). Such as the one found at the north end of our alley, across Palm and next to the Foster family home. This was a large vacant lot that we could shape to our fancy. Here mostly during springtime, the weeds grew several feet high, and of course, for me that would have been up to my waste. By crawling into, around and throughout this field of green grass (weeds) we could create an extensive maze that would fill our entire afternoon with planning and execution. Later when my parents moved us to our new home on Lenox Ave. I had the luxury of a vacant lot right next door. Digging holes became for my neighborhood friends and
me a full-time occupation, until dad decided it was safer to fill them in. Given some time though, we would dig
it all up again and inevitably, the same fate awaited our efforts.
It’s not always possible, for every young boy to dig tunnels and build forts in the dirt, and from the ram- parts of these forts, to engage in fierce dirt clod battles. To build a club house from discarded casket crates, or create a labyrinth in the tall weeds of a vacant lot. To those boys I’m sorry for to be covered head to toe in dirt without scorn, to create a fantasy world from found junk is an inalienable right, inherited by all young boys.
It’s accepted that we live in a world today that’s not safe, not in the same sense as 1950’s Exeter; I think it’s much the same in other communities as well. As a young boy I could roam without consequence through- out our neighborhood, between my parents’ home to my grandparents’ house and beyond. One of those places was Wolever’s Creamery, across Palm street from the Waterman house, in the middle of the next block to the west, between ‘C’ and ‘D’ streets; a great spot for an ice cream cone in the summertime. The son Jerry Wo- lever had converted an old bicycle to support a freezer holding dry ice on the front of the bike. He would ride around town selling ice cream during the summer
while not in high school. He had a bell mounted on the
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The Exeter movie theater