John, Jr. Leaves a Hole in the Heart of the Camille Street Gang

 In 1967, when I was 10 and he was 15, John Jr. was the closest thing to a BIG MAN ON CAMPUS that we had on Camille Street.

Camille Street in Senatobia, Mississippi – Hometown USA.  A whole passel of kids ranging in age from six to fifteen growing up in the 1960’s in a small town in the deep South.  Possibly the last generation of totally innocent children who played outside, had a mother who worked at home, went to church on Sundays, and got our behinds whipped when we disobeyed.  We played in each others' yards; ate fried Spam sandwiches at each others' tables; and dreamed big dreams together.  We are lifelong friends, just like family.  No amount of time or distance changes that kind of kinship. 

This week we lost one of our family members, leaving a hole in our hearts.

John Jr. was in the top echelon of the Camille Street gang.  He was the elder statesman of the neighborhood who pretty much ignored the rest of us.   Oh, occasionally he would slap his little brother, Mike, across the head and make him cry or make fun of his sister, Charlotte, just to get her to yell for her mom.  Mostly, he worked on his old 55 Chevy and hung out with his friends.  

 At 15, he was a working man who got up at the crack of dawn every morning to deliver the Memphis newspaper to Senatobians who wanted news and enlightenment.   When Charlotte, Ricky, Kathy, and I were in the elementary school building at Senatobia City Schools, he was on the high school side of the campus.  How we longed to be on the high school side. 

I guess all of us neighborhood girls had a little crush on John Jr.    With his curly brown hair, sparkly eyes and dimples as deep as the Coldwater River, he was cute in a big brother way.  As we got older, Kathy was, by far, the most enamored with John.   With her red hair and fair skin, Kathy lived up to all the legends about red-heads.  She was feisty and full of fire with a quick temper, the face of an angel and a kind heart.  John had a girlfriend in high school – a black-haired beauty, the daughter of a local judge. At that time, Kathy was just a neighborhood friend like the rest of us.  A friend of his little sister. 

As time went by and our group became teenagers, John Jr. became a busy college guy and we rarely saw him.  We moved on to high school life – different friends and boyfriends – and he moved on to college life.    I saw John when he came home on the weekends and sometimes in the summer time. He was the first one of the Camille Street gang to leave our safe little nest.

In the summer of 1974, something changed.  I started seeing Kathy come across the street to talk to John while he was working on his old Chevy.  Next thing I knew, they were getting married.  Everybody’s big brother from the south side of Camille Street married the red headed, freckle-faced girl-next-door from the north side of Camille.  A perfect union based on a foundation of lifelong friendship.   They built their careers and raised their children in Oxford.  Over the years, they made trips back to see their parents on Camille Street.

This week, I joined Kathy to say goodbye to her husband; Charlotte’s & Mike’s brother; my lifelong friend.  Looking around the room, I saw pictures of John with his kids and grandkids.  His brown curls had turned as silver as moonlight; his eyes sparkling and proud as he posed at his daughter’s wedding.  There was a picture of his old 55 Chevy, still his pride and joy, which sits in a garage in mint condition. And, a shot of him with his first grandchild.   In the pictures, I saw the lifetime of happiness and family that two of my oldest friends shared.

I saw faces from 1967.  Friends and school mates, family and several members of the Camille Street Gang.  My mind was filled with memories that I had not thought of in years.  I was once again reminded  that life is a mere second in time.  Seems like just yesterday, Charlotte, Kathy and I were sitting under the tree in front of Charlotte’s house on a hot July afternoon gossiping about boys, telling secrets and planning big, fancy lives.   Today we gathered for a much different reason - to honor one of our own. 

As I stood with John’s brother, Mike, talking about old times in old places, my eyes were drawn to a young man in the corner.  He had light brown hair and his eyes – even in sadness – were sparkling like a new penny.  He was surveying the room as if looking for someone.

 “Who is that young man,” I asked Mike. 

“That’s Little John,” said Mike. 

Eventually I caught his eye and he smiled at me.  And, I noticed that his dimples were as deep as the Coldwater River.