Life is defined as the condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter. The capacity or ability to grow, reproduce, and be active are the key characteristics of life. Death is seen as the final characteristic that defines life.
We define the world we live in as binary, using yes’s and no’s, 1’s and 0’s. Consequently, we categorize an individual’s life as either good or bad.
Confusion is the lack of overstanding by an individual regarding the true nature of life. The selection of life events and circumstances before incarnation is long lost to their soul’s memory. This causes them to identify a life experience as being “good” or “bad.”
The Beginning of Life
Life usually begins as the result of two parent organisms contributing DNA to create subsequent organisms. These organisms possess the traits and characteristics of the parents.
Sometimes, the non-physical traits, characteristics, and parental predilections, pose an obstacle to the very life of the offspring. These obstacles result in poor judgment and decision-making when passed on to the offspring.
Most noticeably, among humans with unresolved or repressed traumas, parent organisms will produce offspring without intention. They are prone to lack the resources, or proper knowledge to guide their offspring on an advantageous life path.
The offspring’s social skills and interactions in relationships are then likely to be a product of unresolved and repressed traumas. These traumas are passed on from their parents. In addition to their own accumulated traumas, they also carry the traumas of the people they encounter and interact with.
Life’s Fleeting Nature
Life, when we are attempting to understand it instead of overstanding it, can be fleeting. In fact, I was a month and a half away from my 17th birthday when the first time I almost lost my life.
I was cruising around the city alone, listening to music and smoking a Black & Mild cigar, while it was a warm, semi-humid summer night.
The glow from the green numbers on the digital dashboard display of my mom’s 1989 two-toned Antelope Cadillac Sedan Deville permeated the smoke from my cigar.
I melded into the translucent gray currents of smoke that hung in the taupe leather-upholstered cabin.
Outkast’s 1996 album, ATLiens, melodically set the mood; consequently, the ‘lac (Cadillac) seemed to operate on autopilot as it effortlessly floated me back to the south side of my city and, ultimately, back to my ‘hood.
All-black families occupied College Downs, a closed, sprawling neighborhood of about 150 cozy, three-bedroom, one-bathroom brick homes. The neighborhood was established in the 1960’s as a planned neighborhood by the City of Rock Hill. One of my childhood friend’s stepmother was the only non-black person to live there.
College Downs
Like many other low- to mid-income neighborhoods throughout the South, College Downs was bordered by railroad tracks. There were multiple stores within walking distance that sold everything from toilet paper to hard liquor.
The neighborhood of College Downs can be seen as a point of origin. My earthly existence and for my knowledge of all things worldly began here.
Both my mother’s and father’s families moved to College Downs from other areas of Rock Hill in the early 1970’s.
According to my dad, my parents began showing an interest in each other after he defended her on the school bus against some of the other guys from the neighborhood.
The home that my parents purchased in 1976, a year after the birth of my older sister, was located a little over half a mile away from Adams’ store.
The store sat at the peak of a Y intersection that marked the entrance to College Downs.
Squire Road
The vertical arm of the Y was a separate, larger neighborhood called Crawford Road. Coming down Crawford Road and veering onto the left arm of the Y would take me into College Downs.
Veering to the right would take me over the railroad tracks that ran directly behind Adams’ store, across Ogden Road—another separate neighborhood that served as a city limit border—and down Squire Road to my childhood home in Squire Estates.
Immediately after leaving College Downs, crossing the railroad tracks and crossing Ogden Road, stood a large white cinder block building.
When I was around 10 years old, I began to ride my bicycle the half-mile from Squire Estates to College Downs.
When I exited my neighborhood, I would make a left turn to get onto Squire Road. After riding for about 600 feet, I would cross a bridge that ran over the southern end of Wildcat Creek, and about 600 feet later, I would come to the McCullough house on my left.
The McCullough house sat at the beginning of a deep, gradual 130-degree curve. Everything except the shingled roof and the top of the side door of the brick ranch house was hidden from the road by a smooth, even mound of well-manicured earth.
The gravel driveway cut through the mound of earth as if it were a hot metal hanger that had been pressed onto an ice cube.
There was also a row of intentionally planted evergreen trees running parallel to the road, sitting at the top of the mound.
The McCullough Dogs
As I approached the McCullough house, I would instinctively take a few exaggerated inhales of the thick, oxygen-saturated wooded troposphere.
My heightened senses would make the temperature of the air around the skin over my orbital bones feel cooler, and my adrenaline would begin to ramp up my heart rate.
Not only was the smooth, even pavement of Squire Road ideal for people who wanted to safely exceed the posted speed limit of 45 miles per hour, but the half-mile-plus stretch of moderately wooded road between my home and College Downs was also a gauntlet of free-roaming dogs.
The McCullough house, at any given time, would have no fewer than four small- to medium-sized mongrel dogs.
The still, fragrant air carried hints of geosmin from the sloping wall of red clay located on the vacant lot across from the McCullough house.
The pungent scent of the sentinel-like evergreen trees atop the McCullough hill acted as a subconscious cue for me to zero in on the incoming sound of vehicle tires grinding against the pavement as they hugged the oncoming high side of the declining slope of Squire Road.
When a vehicle was approaching, I would have an easier time getting past the McCullough dogs undetected due to the masked sound of the mechanics of my bicycle.
I would shift into a lower gear of my black $100 mountain bike and stand while pedaling to build up momentum.
I would approach from the oncoming lane closest to the McCullough house because, even though I was approaching from downhill, the lane closest to the house was higher than the lane closest to the vacant lot.
A Temporary Respite
If the pack of dogs that the McCulloughs kept heard me approaching, I would hear the barking alarm of the charge leader. The pack would spill over the mound from between the evergreen trees and the driveway.
The dogs would have the advantage since they were charging from the top of the hill, and I would have to also take advantage of the slope as I moved to the far lane, away from the house, as they got closer to my bicycle.
When the dogs made contact with the road from the edge of the grass, the frequency at which their nails scraped against the pavement would let me know when they were giving up on their futile pursuit.
The McCullough dogs’ momentary barking and chase only lasted for a distance of about 150 feet but were not without consequence, as they would alert the next pack of loose dogs to my impending arrival.
The imaginary barrier, or predetermined distance that they had agreed not to go beyond, provided a brief respite for me to take a few deep breaths and begin the process of flushing the excess carbon dioxide from my lungs.
After the first wave of canine assailants fell back, I would sit on the stiff seat of my all-black 12-speed Huffy mountain bicycle with my back straightened and my hands on my waist. I would allow the bicycle to coast while I zeroed in and focused on the positioning of the trailer dogs.
The Trailer Dogs
The trailer dogs were a group of about five or six mongrels that resided on a lot where two single-wide mobile homes sat lengthwise, short end to short end, perpendicular to Squire Road.
The mobile homes sat on the right side of the road on a lot adjacent to a sloped wall of red clay dirt.
A dilapidated 5-foot-tall chain-link fence ran along the frontage of the lot, while the sides and rear of the lot were open and unfenced. A gateless opening in the fence served as an entry point for the gravel driveway.
The people who lived there were older, and I did not have any interactions with them. However, a young man who was a few years older than my sister lived there.
(When I was 13 years old, my father purchased a used Kawasaki Ninja 1000 SX from a man at work.
My mother was not in agreement with the purchase. My father took the brief opportunity to test the capabilities of the motorcycle a few times on Squire Road. He sold it to a young man who lived in one of the mobile homes soon after.)
Evading Danger
As I approached the trailer, my previous encounters with the McCullough dogs would have already heightened my senses. The adrenaline coursing through my body prepared me for the second wave of potential canine attacks.
The trailer dogs were not as aggressive or organized as the McCullough dogs. Their sheer number and unpredictable behavior posed their own challenges.
I would begin to pedal harder as I approached the lot. My eyes focused on the gateless opening in the chain-link fence.
It was through this opening that the trailer dogs would emerge, barking loudly and running toward the road.
The gravel driveway scattered loose rocks under their paws, making their pursuit less coordinated than the McCullough dogs.
By this point, I had mastered the art of anticipating their movements. I would keep my bike at full speed. I veered slightly into the opposite lane to maintain as much distance as possible from the charging dogs.
Their barking would echo through the trees. The open spaces around the mobile homes created a chaotic symphony of sound.
Much like the McCullough dogs, the trailer dogs had their own imaginary boundary. Once I reached the midpoint of the stretch of road past their lot, they would stop abruptly and turn back. They barked in frustration as I sped away.
Some days, the trailer dogs would be napping or off exploring the woods beyond the mobile homes. This was my assumption when they didn’t confront me. On the days they were ready to play their game. They would stand on either side of the road, sometimes on both.
As I approached, I would stand and pedal hard to rebuild momentum. By then, I was out of the 130-degree curve, and the pavement had leveled off.
Retaliation
The trailer dogs would attempt to broadside me as I pedaled vigorously. Consequently, accelerating beyond their snapping jaws near my feet and back tire.
Unlike the McCullough dogs, the trailer dogs pursued me farther. Sometimes they chased me up to 300 feet beyond the mobile home driveway, up to Wildcat Creek Road. They claimed a larger territory and were more persistent in their chases.
By the time I turned 13, the constant confrontations had become tiresome. My mother bought me a used moped for $100, which provided a swifter means of escape.
However, before I fully abandoned my bicycle, I decided to fight back. Armed with a Daisy lever-action BB gun I had received for Christmas years earlier, I devised a plan.
I would collect glass bottles or large rocks from the roadside before crossing the bridge near the McCullough house. Riding slower than usual, with the BB gun cocked and the butt tucked under my left arm, I prepared for an attack.
When the McCullough dogs charged, I hurled a bottle or rock at the pavement, aiming for a ricochet that would strike the lead dog. The sharp sound of breaking glass and the yelps of the startled dog would usually scare off the others. If they persisted, I shot at them with the BB gun, relying on my accuracy to drive them away.
The trailer dogs were trickier to handle, given their proximity to the mobile homes and the potential for witnesses. Still, I used the same tactics when necessary, careful not to draw too much attention.
The Final Stretch
After navigating past the trailer dogs, I would enter the final stretch of Squire Road before reaching College Downs. This part of the road was less wooded, with more open fields and fewer homes.
The air seemed lighter here, and I would allow myself to relax slightly, knowing the most challenging parts of the ride were behind me. As I approached the entrance to College Downs, the familiar sights and sounds of the neighborhood would welcome me.
Children played outside, adults chatted on porches, and the aroma of home-cooked meals filled the air. Starkly contrasting the tension-filled ride along Squire Road, a reminder of the sanctuary of College Downs.
Passing the Cinder Block Building
Once I cleared the trailer dogs, I continued down the road toward the intersection of Ogden and Squire. Here stood a 3,000-square-foot cinder block building with large plate-glass windows and a single garage bay in the rear.