I was re-reading Sarah Bird’s The Boyfriend School when a section about the character’s unreliable boyfriend somehow set me thinking about life in Waco, Texas, when I was in my early 20s. In particular, the flea market, near the traffic circle, home of the Health Camp, home of the milkshakes that I saluted in In Big Trouble.
I bought Fiestaware at that flea market, among other things. Still have most of it, too, except for the inevitable breakage. It was always hot, hot in a way I don’t think I could survive anymore. (I drove a brown Ford Escort WITHOUT air conditioning my first four years in Texas.) We roamed the dusty pathways among the stalls, filled with that twenty-something certitude that stuff, the right stuff, could change our lives. Fiestaware. Antiques. Old metal signs. Bowls. (For some reason, I loved mixing bowls. Still do, although I seldom cook.) A themometer shaped like a bottle of orange soda*, although I found that in Gatesville, Texas, not the flea market. It hangs on my kitchen wall, along with a sign for Foremost Ice Cream, which includes a menu of flavors, including the still-mysterious (to me) Holiday Pudding.
And this somehow brings me to an interview I did with the newspaper at a local juvenile detention facility 10 years later, the too-much-in-the-news-as-of-late Hickey School, when it was part of my beat. The young reporter pressed me on the reason for my visit to the school. No reason, I said. Just looking about.
This appeared in print as: “When asked what she was looking for, Ms. Lippman could give no answer.” That sums me up as neatly as anything written by any journalist, anywhere.
*(The themometer advertises Suncrest Soda, although I could not have told you that without going downstairs to look, any more than I could have listed all the flavors on the Foremost sign, nor repeated the slogan: “It’s not just good, it’s Foremost.” But I remember the shop on Avenue B in San Antonio where I found the sign, remember Avenue B in all its alley-like, shadowy glory, and the strange little amusement park at the foot, the dusty wonders of the second-hand bookstore, the restaurant smells drifting over from Broadway. It was another place I ‘trolled in my young life, looking for myself.)
Laura, your post made think not of flea markets, but of Charles Hickey, the man for whom the Hickey School is named. I first came to know Sheriff Hickey when I was about 11. I can remember thinking then that he was one of the coolest adults I had ever met.
Sheriff Hickey and my father graduated together from Sparrows Point High School in 1945. Much to my regret now, I never talked to my father much about his youth. In these post “Saving Private Ryan” and “Band of Brothers” days I can only wonder if the boys of the class of ’45 were thinking about invading Japan when they accepted their high school diplomas.
Eventually, Charley Hickey became a police officer, and worked his way up to become a major in the Baltimore County Police Department. Physically he was huge. I can’t remember his height, but his girth was considerable. And he shaved his head, way before it was fashionable. And he always had a smile on his face. I can’t remember him ever not smiling.
In 1969 and 1970 my father and Major Hickey were on the reunion committee which planned the 25th reunion of the Sparrows Pt. High Class of 1945. That’s when I first came to know him. One or two meetings were held at our house. Later, in the summer of 1970, my family hosted the reunion committee and their families to a picnic at a cabin we owned on the Susquehanna River. Major Hickey and his family attended. He made quite a splash when he jumped in water, and he enjoyed playing with the kids. I remember Major Hickey talked to my older brother as an equal when my brother inquired about the investigation of a hit-and-run accident in Dundalk. The accident had claimed the life of a young man named Warren Harding. I don’t think that accident investigation was ever solved.
In 1974 Major Hickey left the County Police force and ran for Sheriff of Baltimore County. Although it’s an elected position, the Sheriff primarily runs the jail, guards the courthouse, and serves legal papers. They don’t really do police work in Baltimore County. But for years before then the sheriffs had acted like they were Texas Rangers and wore Stetsons. Mr. Hickey’s campaign slogan was “No More 10 Gallon Hats.” We had some of his ugly green bumper stickers, which we called “Hickey Stickeys.” He won in a landslide, and kept getting re-elected until cancer finally brought him down. I have a wonderful news photo of my father at a Baltimore County campaign event. Sheriff Hickey and a host of other local candidates are mugging for the camera. While my father is trying to get out of the picture, Sheriff Hickey is pulling him back in. He was the kind of guy who wanted everyone to share in the fun.
Sheriff Hickey cared greatly about young people, and he could connect with them as few adults could. That’s why the Youth Facility is named for him. It’s a damn shame they have so many problems there. Maybe if the staff had known Charley Hickey, they would do a much better job.
Sean, I knew none of this, much to my chagrin. Again, I feel almost humble about the stories and details people are bringing to this pseudo-blog.
This has been such a rotten month for Baltimore-area juveniles. The shooting at Randallstown, the murder trial in Howard, the scandals at Hickey and other facilites, the twins who died while in the “care” of their teenage mom, whose own life had been beyond chaotic. Oh, and don’t forget the hauntingly beautiful 3-year-old whose picture has been all over AOL since her father abandoned her here.
“No More 10 Gallon Hats.” Which a priceless bit of Baltimore political history.