I just got home from vacation in Sarasota and was lucky enough to talk my wife and kids into taking a trip down memory lane with me. Do you want to go to?

From the ages of eight through eleven years old, I lived in Tampa, Florida. My parents moved us there from Atlanta, I’m not sure why, but I was excited to make the move this time because I thought Florida was where Hollywood was at. I had just recently seen Fonzie jump the shark and I wanted to go, now.

My little boy’s dreams were dashed when I discovered the truth right after moving into a shitty apartment complex right off of USF’s campus. The inhabitants mostly seemed to be cockroaches, and I don’t believe they paid any rent at all. The rest of the story is just blah, blah, blah for a little while. My parents separated and divorced, and then my Mom punched the time clock of single mom, while my little brother, who was four, went to a neighbor’s house everyday. I settled into the role of parent-less brat who runs all over the place, knocking on doors and running, looking for alligators in the woods to throw sticks at, and setting the forest ablaze with fireworks. It was a dark time for me and the community at large.

My mother wasn't destined to stay single for long though, because she was a pretty red-head, and started dating the guy at the barber shop, Eric. I know I have mentioned Eric before in one of my other ramblings, but just a refresher: John Oates look-a-like, played guitar, younger Italian, rode motorcycles, and could cut and style my Mom’s hair. That should sum it up for you. If you still don’t get it, stop here and go read “Understanding Women for Dummies” and get back to me.

Anyway, those two fell in love and bought a house in Tampa. It was an old Stucco aberration that had a full finished basement that was accessible by a trapdoor in my bedroom. How cool is that?

So sets the stage for memory lane. This particular period in my life was one I look back on with a great deal of enjoyment, because of many things.

First stop on memory lane is my old house.   That was a neat old house. We had grapefruit, orange, and tangerine trees in the backyard, and well full of sweet water. There was a front stoop of concrete stairs that snakes just seemed to love to "habitate" under. The house is still there, but now it looks as if refugees live in it. Keep moving, nothing to see here. The adjacent lot is all fenced in now, but the old tree that had one of our forts in it is still there. I wish I could get closer and see if any of our old tree house is still in it. We drive by the Harvey’s old house, but it’s gone. I used to mow the yard for Mr. Harvey for three dollars, which really didn't seem like even enough back then, but Mom made me do it anyway. It was a big old farmhouse with a field and a barn, but all that is gone now, replaced with what looked like Tony Montana would have built to live in after retiring, but the current real estate crisis shut down that project, so it’s all boarded up and fenced in.

Down the road and across the street is the elementary school I used to attend from fourth through fifth grade, before being bussed across town for sixth grade and middle school. It used to have a wide open campus, with covered walks to the different grade level buildings and cafeteria. There were and still are the old sprawling oaks with Spanish moss hanging from the limbs in courtyards relative to the walkway’s intersections. All of this is encased by a high fence with locked gates now. The entire perimeter is sealed from the outside by a wire cage, meant to keep out those who would do wrong. I am a little offended at first. This is mine, I want to walk the place I once played and wasn’t concerned by mortgages, health insurance, the welfare of my family. Back then, my main concern was how to get on that roof so I could throw water balloons at my friends.

I am able to walk to the front and look in at the front office, and it’s like a time warp. I swear I see little Johnny, sitting in a chair, swinging his legs back and forth while his mother goes about the task of enrolling him in this new place of learning. I tear myself away from the vision and admire the flagpole that we used to swing from in the afternoon after school. It was so much fun to gather the rusty chains in a sweaty fist and get a good run around the pole, finally getting your feet off of the ground for a revolution or two.

There was a house next door to mine and directly across from the school that was so overpopulated with kids in my childhood that it must have seemed like “Boys Town” on steroids. Those kids were diabolical and together we dug pits that had interconnected tunnels, then covered the pits with boards, then sand and brush. We could the access our caves by the tunnels, and we called them our “VietCong Hideouts”. We could build forts in trees, on the ground, in old campers that were laying about the place, didn’t matter. Ramps were built that could make Evel Knievel blush. If there was a body of water in it’s natural state, we would be in it, on some sort of homemade raft, looking for alligators to torment. We found some occasionally, and if it was small enough, pretended to wrestle it. We also chopped down a lot of trees, to make forts of course, and that’s when I noticed the little tree I got to plant on the school grounds for Arbor Day was gone. Probably a victim of building needs after I was gone. Sigh.

I had earlier driven by the Big Four cycle shop where Eric used to take me on the weekends when I was a kid. There was a guy named Ralph Smith who used to own it. Ralph used to do wonderful things with motorcycles, namely Kawasaki's, and his greatest claim to fame was building a twin engine KZ1000, that was just the terror of the drag-strip.

There was a bigger building on the property and it was all fenced in when I had passed it prior to going to the old neighborhood, but it was close, so I swung back by. I had looked on the Internet before going back, but couldn't find much on Ralph and the “Big Four” cycle shop. I assumed he just wasn't around anymore, a ghost from the past, but when we drove by the second time, there was a tall, grey-haired man standing inside the fence, and the gate was slightly open, so I turned around and drove up to the lot. Cooper and I got out, leaving the girls in the A/C, and walked up to the man who had his foot propped up on the rear tire of an old T-bucket rat rod with a Ford straight six in it. He looks a lot younger than his grey hair belies, and he listens to me quietly as I ask whatever happened to Big Four Cycles and Ralph Smith?

“well, Big Four closed doors a long time ago, and I’m Ralph Smith.” Holy shit.

Now begins an honest to goodness trip down memory lane with someone who was there and remembers some things. He and Eric taught me how to ride on an old CR70 over there under that tree, I say, pointing it out to Cooper.

“It was a CT70, a black one”, he corrects me, “same one I taught my kids to ride on.”

We talked for a good long while. He doesn't really mess with bikes anymore. He builds custom cars and rat rods, with a tendency to do it exactly the way they did it in the sixties, he stresses. None of that new fangled bullshit. One of his cars he’s building is one the old tub style dragsters, like the one “Big Daddy” Don Garlits used to race. One thing about Ralph, he’s got the right stuff when it comes to building a custom anything.

Finally, we said our goodbyes and we piled into the car, leaving Ralph to his projects. My wife and daughter had gotten out at some point and were tripping down the lane with us. Everyone was excited because finally we had been able to experience something from Daddies past!

One of my main goals on this trip was to visit the old church that Mom used to drag my brother and I to every Sunday. It was called Grace United Methodist Church, and he and I were acolytes. I had “Googled” the church, so I knew it was still there, and I really wanted to take the family back to what I remember as my first real church home.

We parked out front and for a moment I felt like looking at the rental car, so I did, then I kicked the tire, turned around and headed up towards the front door, family in tow. I think my wife actually opened the door when we got there, and we went from hot and humid, bright Florida sunshine , to not as hot and humid, muted Florida sunshine through the stained glass windows. There was an elderly black woman sitting in a wheelchair handing out the church bulletins, her daughter and another man sitting immediately inside. They welcomed us enthusiastically and made sure we each had a bulletin. The family sat down, but I got into a conversation with a man by the last name of “Wisher”, who I vaguely recognized, and he recognized my mothers name, but couldn’t place our faces, since I had probably changed a little in thirty years. I met some more people, who I believe were genuinely interested in my “trip”. I spied the acolytes candle lighter. They looked so old, they had to be the same ones my brother and I used. I wanted to ask if I could light the candles today, but that would have been silly.

The service was kind of long, but I didn’t notice. I was to busy looking at things and remembering.   Cooling themselves furiously with little handheld fans attached to wooden handles, the congregation was a virtual hodge-podge of culture. There were black, white, latino, and even an old German woman named Gerta, who I swear I remember, and she claims to remember us. She speaks with a heavy accent, but is easily the most patriotic person at church today. She is completely bedecked in red, white and blue, and even carrying a little flag. At some point she mentions that she was a little girl living in Germany during WWII. It’s no wonder she loves the United States so much. I wish I could spend more time talking, but we slowly filter to the door. I start looking at the brass plates on the end of each pew and find one with the Harvey’s name on it. It’s like visiting their graves.

We all pile into the car, and punch the address for Skipper’s Oyster Shack into the gps. It’s not “Oyster Shack” anymore though, it’s “Skippers Smokehouse” It’s vaguely familiar when we get there, until we park on the side. The back area still has corrugated metal that is nailed to trees that must go twenty feet in the air, effectively making a castle wall that I remembered from the good old days. I mention Skipper’s because this is where I bought my first motorcycle, so I wanted to see it again. It doesn’t look much like I remember though, even though it does look really fun. I can’t really describe it honestly, so I will tell you what I told my wife.

“It looks like a bunch of kids started building a fort thirty years ago and it just grew into this.”

They have a stage for bands to play, and apparently have achieved quite the status as a music venue for jazz and blues. The night before we got there, a group called the “Red Elvises” had played, and the “Vodkanauts” had opened for them.

The food is incredible. They had a Grouper Cuban sandwich that is to die for, and their Gator Sandwich is friggin’ awesome. Add to that the ambiance of sitting in what amounts to be a large gardening shed with ceiling fans and concert posters stapled to walls and apparently you have a winning combination. I can’t wait to come back for a concert.  

My trip down memory lane was short, but fun. I especially enjoyed sharing it with my family, and now you, my friends. Ralph told me a joke right before we left his shop that I would like to share with you. It has something to do with Italians moving into Ybor city, which is traditionally Cuban.

What does a flat tire say when driving through Ybor City?

Wop, wop, wop, wop……..