The summer of 1974, we moved from 4910 S. Rose Street to 8431 S 117th Street in unincorporated King County. The new neighborhood was filled with kids. I could wander the neighborhood, now going into 3rd grade, my mother didn't care. There were two corner grocery stores, nearby, a diner, a barbershop. I could ride my bike to get a haircut, get candy, or even go to the diner for breakfast alone, which I did a few times. It was Mayberry, except with the racism out in the open.
That summer, while walking home from the elementary playfield, I walked past a house 4 houses north of mine where Willie, my 17 year old next door neighbor, was being harangued by his girlfriend out in the yard. Willie always had a basketball with him, and dribbled it as he walked between his house and the home where I heard thr haranguing. My bedroom in our 800 square foot home, was above the unfinished garage (spider stories would chill you to the bone), and had a window facing north. I always had it open. Regardless of where I was in the house, when I heard the hollow ringing noise of the basketball on the sidewalk, I would bolt upstairs to my room to sing (perhaps bellow is a better word, but can an almost 3rd grader really bellow?), Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone. This went on for weeks. I'm not sure why I did this. Willie never mentioned it, but I was singing at the top of my lungs, so I wasn't chanting into the void. Weird kid, I was.
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