The Color of Money

The summer of 1970, I think between 6^th and 7^th grades, we lived in an unincorporated area called Oakland. It was a small lush bowl of real estate between Webster Groves and Kirkwood.  We had a beautiful 2 story house you couldn’t see through the trees. I was able to jump to my tree house from my 2^nd floor bedroom window.

It was an idyllic life for an urban transplant like me.

I had a summer job as a caddy at Algonquin Country Club. I found out my dad used to take the bus out here from the city to caddy when he was a kid. He worked at the Westboro Country Club too. I had to walk through that golf course to get to school.

I remember walking through it coming home from Nipher Junior High School in 7^th grade. I smoked my first cigarette without any friends to share the experience with. This made me a real smoker and very cool in my mind.

My friends and I used to hide in the woods, run out and steal golf balls as they landed on the fairway. Sometimes we’d set up a limeade stand on the last green. We discovered if you ask for donations instead of posting a price you made a lot more money.

I was only a B caddy at Algonquin being younger than the others. It was really hard carrying those huge golf bags, especially if they went the full 18 holes. The course had a policy of no tipping so I only made money off the guests from out of town. When I got back to the caddy shack I’d lose every cent I made pitching quarters at the never ending game out back.

In those days kids ran wild until around 10:00 at night. A neighboring township called Glendale had an old fashioned pharmacy. (There’s a fire station there now.) It had a large soda counter with stools and a comic book stand. The owner let us read the comics as long as we bought something. I remember having a chocolate soda that consisted of seltzer and chocolate syrup. I was able to nurse this until I’d read every book. He kicked me out at 10:00 (closing time).

I was probably 2 miles from home walking on a poorly lit sidewalk. I looked down as a street light cast a round spot light on 2 folded fifty dollar bills. My heart stopped.

I did a quick scan of the dark silent neighborhood. Not a soul in sight. Not even a lit window. I grabbed the two bills and ran for my life.

Fantasies of an electric guitar, lessons, maybe a studio and a tour bus grew in my mind. A hundred bucks was the same as a million to me.

It felt like hours of running through deserted streets. I made it to the golf course. At the other end I came to a hill. Train tracks ran across the top. There was an old arch stone cave with a keystone at the top that read 1927. I ran through the creek that ran through the cave. My legs were cold and wet but I made it to my house.

I ran up to my room, hit the light switch, shut the door, jumped into my bed and pulled the two bills from my pocket.

I unfolded them and read, “Tired of throwing your money away on taxes?” “Vote for Dr. John L. Gaskanett.!”