Buckets of Marbles and the Path to Town
In 1952, the world was changing, but in the old Jim Miller house, time seemed to stand still. I was only three years old when we moved in, and while the memories of that house are few, one image remains as clear as a mountain stream: the buckets of marbles tucked away under the porch. They were a child’s treasure chest, left behind by a previous life, waiting for me to find them.
Life on that hill was a rhythm of simple necessities. We didn’t have electricity or indoor plumbing, but we had the land. I remember the chickens pecking at the dirt, unaware they were destined for our Sunday table. By 1957, we moved "down below" to my grandparents’ house. We finally had the luxury of a light switch, but the water still came from a neighbor's pump and the warmth still came from my mother’s hands.
My mother was the heart of that home. She was the one who built the fires in the fireplaces and coaxed life out of the heavy iron cookstove every morning. Long before I left that house in 1968 to join the Marines, the smell of her biscuits and gravy would drift through the neighborhood—a scent that meant home to me, and a legendary meal to everyone else in town.
The Loyalty of Blacky and Brownie In 1962, my Dad brought home two puppies that would become my constant shadows: a black-and-white one I named Blacky, and a brown one I named Brownie. Wherever I went, they went. Even when I tried to go to town alone, they would stealthily trail behind me. I’ll never forget the day my older brother Paul found me and said, "Jerry, your dogs are sitting right out front of the Homeland Market." I had no idea they’d followed me all that way, but there they were, waiting patiently.
Sadly, that era of childhood innocence had a painful end. Blacky was hit by a car and killed—a moment that stands as one of my heaviest memories. I remember carrying him all the way back to the house down below, crying with every step, until I finally buried him in our backyard. Brownie stayed by my side for years after, living until 1975, but a piece of that 1962 magic stayed in the ground with Blacky.
By the time 1968 rolled around and it was time for me to head off to the Marines, the "house down below" wasn't just a building anymore. It was the place where I’d learned about hard work from my mother, loyalty from two dogs, and the weight of saying goodbye to the things you love.
"I left that house in 1968 with nothing but a sea bag and a lifetime of memories. Those humble beginnings didn't define me; they refined me into the man I was about to become."
"The discipline of the Marines took me around the world, but the lessons of my childhood stayed in that backyard with Blacky and Brownie. I write to honor where I came from."
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