My Pal, Danny

MY PAL DANNY

We were born within days of each other. My Birthday, was June 16, 1941; his, was July 7, 1941. I was just three weeks older than Danny, but he was a big baby, and I was a runt. We lived in houses that were practically back-to-back, just an alley apart. It was obvious we were destined to be fast friends.

Our neighborhood in the 1940s was a haven for kids like us. Highland Park in Louisville, Kentucky was a special place to grow up. It was once a city, with a history dating back to the late 19^th century, then it was later annexed by Louisville. Those early years in Highland Park were the beginning of the railroads across this great country, and the Louisville and Nashville railroad, the “L&N,” was born in the late 1890s. With it, came Highland Park; it was just one mile from the L&N trainyard, and the little neighborhood grew as L&N grew. It was full of kids, as young men brought their wives and families to the neighborhood and got a job on the railroad.

Danny’s father was a railroad man, as was mine. I dare say, most men on our street worked there, doing one job or another on the line, and in fact, practically the whole neighborhood was railroad men and their families. It was something all of us kids had in common, and we imagined someday we would be railroading as well.

Danny and I went to the same schools. Throughout our time in elementary school, we walked to and from it, together. In later years we rode the city bus, going downtown to both our junior high and high schools. We saved seats for each other on the city buses. One of us would sometimes run late getting to the bus stop, but either of us would plead with the driver to “wait just a minute, please,” as we knew our pal would get to the bus stop any second. 

In the summer, when we were young, we camped out in Danny’s backyard, only because he was the one who owned a pup tent. We also talked our mothers into allowing us to catch the city bus and go downtown to the movies, to the Rodeo theater, where the doors had guns for handles, and the features were always cowboy movies. That was something every boy loved back then. Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger and Tonto, Red Ryder, Tom Mix, etc., etc.

Later, as we grew older, we rode bikes all over the city; we especially liked riding about five miles to Iroquois Hill, which was one of several Olmstead-designed parks; this one overlooked the city of Louisville. The city was much smaller back then, but it was a beautiful sight from atop that hill. We struggled as we pumped our bikes to the top, round, and round, up and up, until we reached the “tip-top,” right to the first lookout where we could see the entire city below. It would take us over twenty minutes to get to the top, but wow, when we arrived, it was so worth it. We never stayed long, because we loved coasting down that hill, faster and faster. My speedometer read 25, 30, and 35 mph, which felt like 100 mph, as the breeze hit us in the face on the way down. I still remember the fun of coasting down and praying a little prayer as I went.

Danny turned into a big kid, and he played football in high school, while I played in the high school band. Still, we were buds, and I remember using my Cornet to save him a seat on the bus. That was before he began to drive his father’s old car, and I drove an old one as well, supplied by my sister and brother-in-law. My dad never owned a car; he would just walk to work or catch the Toonerville Trolley to the railyard. Dan and I would meet at the “Ranch House” for a burger, me in my old '40 Ford and he in his '49 Chevy. All the kids would drive around and around that place until a parking spot opened. We'd jump in one car or another and order food, so we could harass the girls in shorts, bringing our food. We loved embarrassing them.

Something happened after high school, and Danny and I lost track of each other. I got a job and started classes at night at the University, and he started his own business. While I was busy working on an accounting degree, he was already growing his own business. We both married, way too young, and we both divorced as well. I had two kids, and he was kind of an uncle to them when they were small. I’d see him in the park every now and then, but we quit spending time together. We had gone in separate directions.

Life takes us in different directions, not always to our liking. It was years later when I started thinking I needed to see Danny. I needed to relive those good times, just sit down with him and reminisce, but try as I might, I could not find him anywhere. Then one day, about five years ago, I saw a "sir name" spelled like his. Could this person be related? Yes, he was, it was Danny’s stepson. It turned out Danny and his wife, Debbie, had moved to Florida, where they spent over twenty years. Long since retired, ironically, they were returning to Louisville in a few short days, moving back home.

I’m older now, and I don’t mind telling another man I love him. Life is too damned short, and to let an old friend know you love them is

a blessing. It feels even better when they say it to you. Here we were, two old dudes with our beautiful wives, and a chance to remember old times and make a few new ones, and we did.

We lost Danny only a few weeks ago. His infirmities caught up with him, just like they will for all of us. I feel blessed to have had him near me these last few years, but today, I miss him terribly. Tears come as I write this, but I don’t mind. I’m hoping I can find him once again,  

… someday.