The Original Weed-Whacker

When I got that F on my English paper, I wanted to run away. I was in the fourth grade, and Old Mrs. Crabtree had just handed back our first paper of the year. If you’d asked me before the red F showed up on it, I would’ve told you it was rather good.

Mrs. Crabtree said we could write about anything so I decided to write about the big Halloween party Preston Weston III had at his house. Preston, or Money Bags as we liked to call him, always had a party for Halloween, Christmas, his birthday, or just anytime he wanted. He had a big house over on The Duke of Gloucester Street — that’s where the rich kids lived.

With all of their swimming pools and tennis courts, the kids from The Duke didn’t have much in common with (or much to do with) the kids from Flamingo Street. Which was fine with us - we didn’t have much to do with them either. Except Preston. He was different. He used to be one of us. Money Bags was like any kid from Flamingo Street – except for being rich, of course.

To say that his family had a lot of money was an understatement. They were loaded. Seems his dad was some kind of inventor. He was driving around town one day and saw Goofy Steve doing what he did best — acting goofy. Goof was hitting tall weeds over at the vacant lot next to Thomas’s house with a stick as he walked from the DQ. It was a hot July day, and he was well on his way to a headache from a lemon-lime-brain-freeze-ice cream float. When Preston’s dad slowed down and asked Goof what he was doing, Goof answered, “Oh, just whacking weeds, sir.”

To hear Goof say it, a light went on in Preston’s dad’s head, and he got so excited he ran up on the curb. “Thanks, son! You just made me rich!” It wasn’t too long after that that Preston and his family moved from Flamingo Street over to the biggest house on The Duke.

We lived on Flamingo Street for seven years with Mom and Dad just scraping by trying to raise the five of us. Dad always had a huge garden out back, down by Cripple Creek where the dirt was black as soot pots. With the extra vegetables he grew, we’d make trips to the Farmers Market every Sunday after church and trade for stuff we needed. We didn’t think we were poor; we just knew we weren’t rich like the kids over on The Duke.

During the long walk home from Mt. Olive Elementary School, I had come to the conclusion that there was just no way to survive showing Mom “The English Major” an F on an English paper. Much less what Dad would do to me when he found out I flunked something. I decided the best course of action was to run away. But first I had to get permission.

When I told Dad about wanting to run away, he didn’t call in counselors or even try to stop me. To my surprise, he said I could go at anytime – but first I would have to take off all my clothes. I would be leaving the house the same way I came into the world. Naked. That just about took care of any thoughts of running away — that and missing out on Mom’s home cooking.

To my surprise, Dad then told me that he, too, had failed at a bunch of stuff in his life. He even got an F on a math test in high school! “Son, you’re going to fail at a lot of the things in your life. Most people do. But just remember, you’re not a failure ‘til you start blaming someone else for your shortcomings.”

You know, the older I get, the smarter my dad gets. Guess in another 20 years or so The Boy will think I’m the smartest person on the planet. Well, it could happen.

We weren’t rich by any means when we lived on Flamingo Street. All we had were a street full of friends with strange nicknames, shared bicycles, tools and toys. All of us played baseball in the vacant lot next to Neighbor Thomas’ house. Street football we played down in the cul-de-sac in front of Old Mrs. Crabtree’s house. Every summer we swam in the Blue Arctic Plunge, a swimming hole in the bend of Cripple Creek. Every winter we rode the Metal Disk of Death down the icy slope of Flamingo Street. And all year long we tried to dodge Bully Brad and his gang.

If you asked any of us back then, we would’ve told you that we weren’t by any means rich. But a backwards glance through forward-looking eyes shows me otherwise. I see now that we all were richer than anybody who lived over on The Duke, even Preston Weston the III.

Money will come and go; trust me, this I know. But it is the childhood memories of that time – memories which will stay forever – that made each one of us truly rich.