It has been well over half a Century since I first slid open that green Dr. Pepper Machine and asked Mr. Bateman for a Baby Ruth to go with my Dr. Pepper. Sometimes I'd tear open the cellophane corner of a package of nuts and pour in a whole bag of salted Lance or Planter's Peanuts, something Dr. Woodruff my Nephrologist would frown on today. Everything good was there in that drink box, three different brands of root beer, including Frostie; there were NuGrape, Sunkist Orange and Strawberry, Lemon, Nehi Peach, R.C., Coke, Pepsi, LottaCola, SunDrop, and a new one they were advertising on the radio and TV called Mountain Dew.
In the winter the main feature of the store was the old Pot-bellied Stove. Even after all these years I can still smell the woodpile with its musty old newspaper for kindling, split oak and hickory had their own separate smells; the burnt matches with their sulphur and phosphorous, and even the half empty coffee can cuspidor had an aroma all its own, if not quite so intriguing as the split hickory. Bagged onions and potatoes added to the ambiance and flavor as well as whatever meat Mr. Bateman happened to be slicing. The atmosphere was indeed intense, especially if one of the potatoes had gone bad.
The old men backed their overall clad backsides up to the old stove and rubbed the heat in where it seemed to be needed the most. Chairs were provided for the regulars to hang out and trade stories. A couple of creaky rockers, a few cane bottom chairs leaned back against posts, or the woodpile itself.
A few of the men were farmers, but most were retired from toiling at the old Wrape Head Mill so their stories included the spin of the huge circular saw, logs and frogs, chains and trains, mules and one-time duels and such. Some chewed plug and some an ugly old twist which very few boys my age could stomach. And then there was the smell of Prince Albert and Half and Half. Between the Stove and the pipe smoke; all the food including my Baby Ruth smelled a little funny but we all loved it anyway.
Many of the old men used canes, and a couple of the grouchier ones could flick an imaginary fly off the back of a young boys head from 20 feet it seemed if the lad was a bit too loud or the least bit disrespectful. One man they made room for was John Smith. John was laughed at by some but not in our neighborhood. John directed traffic with a flashlight at all our Bulldog Football games. The other old men made room for him around the old stove. He had earned his place around the fire over the years.
I learned my first official Cuss Word from Dennis Janes out on the front porch while drinking a Lemon Soda and looking for lost coins through the cracks between the boarding. I remember Jack Stafford and sister Joan liked those things called Bit-O-Honey but I stuck with Snickers and Baby Ruth, maybe an occasional Zero. I don't remember what Bill and Larry Shaver, Sherrel Johnson and the rest of the ball players preferred, seems like they did like Hostess Snowballs, but our ball lot was right beside the store and we provided our share of Mr. Bateman's business.
We could buy cigarettes and say they for our Dad, but Mr. Bateman knew when we were lying cause I was usually the one they put up to asking and my dad smoked Pall Malls, while we kids always asked for filters or those new menthols. He'd give us that look and sell em to us anyway.
There weren't enough kids in the North End for us to have ball teams without choosing girls. I didn't mind so much that most of the girls could outrun me, but it was embarrassing if I got chosen last for the team. An old Sycamore tree was our combination catcher and backstop. Fortunately there wasn't any factory traffic behind us on Vance Street in those days. Not till 5:00 P.M. when the Shoe Factory let out, but even then we could hear the traffic coming across the board slats on Eight Mile Creek Bridge. I used to lay in bed at night 4 blocks away and count traffic on that old bridge. The only time it surprised us kids much is when were fishing under it and a speeder came along and ran the stop sign. As long as we didn't hit any parked cars or the side of the Store Mr. Bateman never complained about our baseball goings on.
Eight Mile Creek didn't have a very good swimming hole, but Mr. Shaver was real good about loading up his car and taking us to Reynold's Park and the new pool out there. He'd race the car up the gravel hills on Country Club road and give those in the back seat a thrill as the car springs bottomed out. Mr. Shaver was well liked by the North End kids.
A few years later, right before my dad left on a construction job, I asked him if we could build our own swimming pool? He laughed all the way into the car and out the driveway, saying; "sure, you dig the pool and we'll concrete it in." "Har, har, haar!" Dad thought I was too lazy to do it but less than a minute after he left for Baton Rouge I was on the phone to Bill and about ten of the guys, and we started our own construction project. We had a couple of garden tillers to loosen up the soil, then packed it on the sides. Soon we had a 50 foot pool with a shallow end and one end deep enough to dive. I can still see dad's face when he pulled back into the drive the following Friday and saw the gapping hole in the backyard. But he was faithful to his promise to concrete it in; he did some quick figuring and called the concrete truck for the next morning, then we ran to the lumber yard for wire reinforcing and spent the rest of the time before sunset wiring it together. He even built a sand filter out of pipe and 6 concrete blocks.
Suddenly our backyard was the center of activity for the entire North End. Only trouble was my Sister Nancy and Calvary Baptist Church sorta kinda took over, and in between my sisters friends giggling and swimming, and Sunday afternoon Baptizing's, I spent all my spare time on Saturdays scrubbing the dad gum pool and mowing the grounds.
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