Your Daily Dose of Nonsense

Thursday, August 20, 2015

A Culture Long Past:

When I was in grade school about from the 2^nd grade for the 3^rd time (a long story for another time) until the first half of the 7^th grade we lived in St. Louis. We had moved about quite a bit and there were many addresses that I never had time to memorize. It wasn’t an especially rough neighborhood; it was sort of a ragged edge between good and evil. When I was in the 5^th grade the Gypsies began to move in along one of the main streets a few blocks away. They were both scary and fascinating for a 10-year-old kid. They came aboard old rattletrap stake trucks, pick-ups, and old converted busses; all painted with the gaudiest trim imaginable.

Soon about a 6 block stretch of Easton Avenue was filled with Gypsy shops and stores on both sides of the street. Lord, what a sense of color they had. Everything was painted or decked in the brightest purples, pinks, yellows, fucias, magentas, and scarlets. I didn’t know the names of those colors back then but I loved them. I would ride my bike through that section and just be consumed with the colors. The kids never showed up in our school, but there were plenty of them. They ignored any overtures of friendship by just shaking their heads and saying, “Go.” There never seemed to be any trouble and you could see locals going in and out of their shops, even though everyone said they were thieves and worse. They openly flaunted the law by having live goats and chickens in their homes and shops, but the cops just ignored them.

I never knew where they came from or where they went, but after about a year they were gone as quickly as they had come. Those were the last Gypsies I have seen, and I’m sorry I didn’t look a little closer.