My last post got me thinking.
And missing.
My home city.
My home neighborhood
of Midtown
Memphis.

I lived on 12 different streets
in my 20+ years there.
I got to know it well.
Midtowners tend to move a lot,
but never far.

Trading up
for hardwood floors
from just down the street.

Many move to Midtown,
but being raised there is something.
Something different.
For better or for worse…

I was addicted to coffee by the age of 10
thanks to the Seessel’s on Union Ave
who put their fresh brewed pots
by the free butter cookies.
With sprinkles.

Witnessed my first shooting
while I was in junior high.
Saw a drive-by
by the time I was in high school.
A woman shot a guy
in the butt.
At the Mapco on the corner of
Cooper & Central.

Speaking of school,
Mine was across the street from the
Memphis Zoo.
At the time it seemed normal to hear
monkeys while in class.

My parents were hippies
who played music at the P&H.
Tagging, dragging along
my six-year-old self stretched out in the booth
fighting sleep
staring up at the scary cartoon characatures
painted on the ceiling.

Fifteen years later,
I sat in the same booth.
Drinking beer.
Listening to my friends play
instead of my dad.
No need to fight sleep.
But still creeped out by the paintings above.

Discovered punk rock at age 15
with my best friend.
Too young, but together
we took flyers for shows
like they were golden tickets.
We’d get dropped off by our moms
outside of Barristers.
And just hang out
hoping there was a show.
Often there wasn’t.

Late night robberies.
Matched by late night runs to
Video Magic and Baskin Robbins.
There was a bullet hole in the glass
that always caught my eye
while I sat in my pink chair and
ate my sugar cone.

Piggly Wiggly parking lot.
And the graveyard ’round back.

Barefoot in the riverwalk on Mud Island.
Face painted with primary color balloons.
Stubbing little toes
on the ridges of the Mississippi replica.

Summer camp consisted of
the stage at Playhouse on the Square.
Instead of cabins and canoes.

Now-n-Laters for 10 cents
from the Barksdale 8 till Late supermarket.
Hard as a rock.

Saturday mornings spent
hiding in the record shelves at WEVL
while my mom did her storytelling radio show.
Only coming out to read PSAs
on air.

Pre-school mornings at Cooper Cottage
complete with field trips to the Midtown Mini-Mart.
Afternoons spent with my dad
at the Morris Garage by the train track
overpass on S. Barksdale.
Eating pork rinds
and drinking Coke out of glass bottles.

The cold smell of books
in the old library on Peabody.
The giant tree bench in the children’s section
kept me company after school.

There’s a dogwood tree
on Meda Street in Cooper Young.
My parents planted it there
when I was born.

There’s a parking lot
just a little further down.
Where a friend of mine was
shot and killed
years later.
While delivering pizza.

Little holes torn in the tarp of the tunnel
on the Libertyland Log Ride.
Letting way too much light in.
And letting the scariness out.
One year it caught fire
and it made the news.

In 6th grade I discovered I needed glasses
while at Lupe & Bees Mexican Restaurant.
Across the street from what would become
the Lucero Warehouse.
Of which, I saw a lot of.

Summer days at Overton Park.
40s bought by bums.
If you bought them one too.

Milkshakes at Wiles-Smith.
Grilled cheeses at Dinos.
Toothpicks at Hueys.
Homework over bad coffee at CKs.

Most of these memories have been replaced
by adult ones.
On the same streets,
in the same places.

Either way.
Midtown,
I am yours.
For better or for worse.

My grandma Dorothy
and grandfather Ransom
in Midtown.