Everyone seems to enjoy sharing their best “Throwback Thursday” photos on the Internet. I do, too, but this time, I wanted to do something a little different — dig in a box of old photos not yet organized (shame on me!), pull out a random one, and write the next post about it.
Well, the first random photo was so badly deteriorated, I decided to cheat a bit and flip through a few more. Then, these little jewels appeared… from life on Mosby Drive in Greensboro, NC.
That’s me and my friend, Lloyd, whose last name escapes me right now. I’m guessing we’re somewhere between 4 and 5 — about 43 years ago. We had this thing about getting into costume and doing impromptu parades around the complex. That costume I had on, along with the boots, were my Momma’s. The costume she wore when she was probably the same age, and the majorette boots she wore in high school. I loved them and really wish I had them now. They made the best “clomping” sounds when I marched, and it made the performance all the more convincing — we were serious marchers.
Oh, and any of you hard-core Hardee’s fans from the early 1970s recognize Lloyd’s Speedy McGreedy t-shirt? Killer.
The next one is of me and Marcy. She lived in that building directly behind her. The greatest thing about the “Ghetto” was that it had a super cool playground and a huge yard. It had a couple of see-saws, this climbing bar, and a swingset with a slide that must’ve been about 12 feet tall. You know, the kind that, when it was the middle of summer, would stick to and burn the back of your legs when you tried to slide down it? Marcy had a younger brother who everyone called “Bubba.” Actually, his name was Stoney. I remember that he used to come barreling out of his front door, wearing nothing but a diaper. I’ll bet he grew up to be a biker dude. Or a pro-wrestler.
Life in “the Ghetto” was great. I always remember my parents referring to the complex that way. Back then, it was a relatively safe neighborhood. People from all walks of life lived there — attorneys, nurses, hippies, semi-pro golfers, cemetery managers (my Dad), and all my friends — we were white, black, Native American, mixed-race, but the great thing was, back then, none of that mattered. We’d gather out on the front stoop in the early evenings, put some charcoal in the Hibachi, pull out the lawnchairs, and have jam sessions. The only bad times I remember were when someone was arrested for driving drunk around the complex and the day that Marcy and Bubba’s dog had the mange and their parents washed him in creosote to get rid of it (somehow, I just don’t believe that was safe). The dog got loose and took off through the complex, stopping at each door to shake off that awful stuff. I remember my Momma trying to corral us all inside and shut the door before he was able to get inside the apartment. We thought it was funny. The adults didn’t seem to see it the same way. To this day, it escapes me whether that dog was finally caught or how many front doors had to be scrubbed down.
We moved from Mosby when I was about seven — to a nice new neighborhood about 5 miles away. The really neat thing was that several of my friends’ parents moved to the same place. Made for a much easier transition. Years later, the neighborhood deteriorated, and crime around the surrounding area increased. As much as I wanted to check in on how it looked, I never could force myself to go there.
The Internet can be a wonderful tool for those of us who are nostalgic but a bit “chicken.” I looked up the address on Google Maps… and there it was… 
This photo was taken about two years ago, and I’m amazed at how good it looks, given its age. Still looks the same — our apartment was in that middle building (can’t remember exactly which one it was).
Looking at this photo immediately takes me back to those carefree times, and I wonder where Lloyd and Marcy are these days. Does Bubba still have the urge to run wild and free in his tighty-whities? Did that poor dog ever recover from the trauma of the creosote bath and everyone running away from him? It’s getting close to a half-century since those days (gulp).
Although it now has a sign, labeling it as “Mosby Oaks,” it will always be my beloved “Ghetto.”
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