Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton got it right when they sang “You can’t make old friends.”
My old friend and I share the same grammar school alma mater. We met on the playground of Orange Street Elementary. The campus—created for us baby boomers—has long since been bulldozed.
In my nostalgia stash, I have one of the jumbo bricks that were a part of the flat-roof school built after World War II But most of all, I have the friendships made on the corner of Orange and Sixth streets. One of those old friends—and I’m not talking about age—called to ask a question.
“I can’t remember the name of the fella who used to sell peanuts in Jesup.”
“Oh, that was Peanut Strickland.”
That’s how my conversation with Randall Aspinwall began.
But that was just the start.
Of course, we had to reminisce about his parents’ restaurant, The Pig, catty-corner to the city cemetery on the Savannah Highway. Before I noticed girls, I was smitten with barbecue.
Sitting on a stool at the counter, I watched the pork sizzle in the open pit. Seven decades later, I still judge all barbecue against what I first tasted. The Pig—same as our school—is gone, but not the memories.
“Randall, do you remember Roy Lee Arbuckle?”
“Yeah, I do. We used to get into rock fights on the railroad trestle.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me either.”
“Maybe someone can help us,” I said.
We talked about the Strand Theater. Randall thought it was a quarter to get in back then. Once, I begged my mother to let me go barefoot to a Saturday matinee. I didn’t ask again. I could barely walk because my feet kept sticking to the floor.
Randall laughed, “If they had turned the lights on, we might not have sat anywhere in there.” We agreed that today’s version of The Strand is a downtown gem.
We also remembered hearing the billiard balls clicking in Elmer’s Pool Hall above the theater. “I wanted to go up there,” I admitted. “But I never did.” Ditto for my old friend.
Next, we were talking about haircuts.
“I got mine at Jack’s Barber Shop,” I said. “Ralph Grantham was my barber, until he retired.” Then it was Herbert Dent, who gave me my one-and-only barbershop shave. At 16, I thought I was grown.
Inside Jack’s, I got my first business rejection. At 7, I wanted to be the shoeshine boy. Mr. Jackson said, “Sorry, son, I already have one.” For my 40th birthday, my folks bought his 1900-vintage barber’s chair. Big Dink restored it for me.
“I went to Odom’s Barber Shop,” Randall said. Barney Odom was the head barber. His son, Merrill, had a chair. Merrill’s son, Pee Wee, picked up the skill, too. Randall remembers Pee Wee giving him a flattop.
Pee Wee and I were in the same First Baptist Sunday school class. His dad took us to the Altamaha River to teach us how to water-ski. I did learn, but not on the first try. When I fell, I didn’t turn loose of the rope. I didn’t want to get left. After drinking a quart of brown river water, I finally let go. Mr. Odom got a good laugh about that. On our phone call, Randall did, too.
Of course, we had to talk about the Dairy Queen on the corner of Pine and Macon streets. In the 1960s, the Dairy Queen was the axis for the social lives of teenagers to revolve around. And then there was the Dairy Ranch. “How about those Dairy Ranch French Fries?” I asked.
A convoy of semi-tanker trucks couldn’t hold all the Crisco that the Dairy Ranch used to fry those sliced and battered potatoes and chickens. Averon Moore earned the nickname “Chicken Box” because he ate so many. Randall laughed, again, because he had eaten his share of chicken boxes, too.
Yep.
Kenny and Dolly were spot-on.
You just can’t make old friends.
Right, Randall?
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
