“Blackie”

A long time ago when I was a kid, my Aunt Helen had a dog named Blackie. I bet you can’t guess what color he was. He was a black mutt of a dog, but also a huge sweetheart. I liked to pretend that he was mine since we didn’t have a dog.

I loved to visit my aunts and my grandparents when I was little. My two aunts lived together and my Aunt Mamie was widowed and worked at the local hospital. My Aunt Helen was single and had been crippled from a fall when she was two years old. My grandparents lived right next door to them and my other aunt, Eleanor, lived with my Uncle Bill two doors over from them. I loved having family all together like that and I cherish those days of togetherness.

Blackie was an outdoor dog, which was very common back in the early ’60’s. Although my Aunt Helen used to sneak him inside when Aunt Mamie was at work and feed him table scraps. I loved being in on the secret of letting him inside! And boy did he enjoy it, his tail wagged the whole time he was inside. While he was outside, he could usually be found lying on the back patio. It was made of dark gray slate and I’m sure it was either cool or hot depending on the weather.

My Aunt Eleanor was a walker by necessity. My Uncle Bill worked at the steel mill and it wasn’t very far from their house, so he walked to work. The grocery store was just down the hill too, so there was no need for a car, so Aunt Eleanor walked everywhere. She did this well in to her late ’80’s too.

She used to take all of us kids, all my cousins, for long walks from the house on Hill Avenue, across Spring Avenue, and down the steps into Beatty Park. From there, we walked the length of the park, then up the old cemetery road, now a path, and out to Sunset Blvd., then across Lawson Avenue, back to Spring and then home. As a child, this was one of my very favorite things to do. In the park, we walked the creek, picking up stones and rocks to take home. I guess we were easily amused back then! I painted one of those rocks for my Dad once and remembered seeing it on his desk at work. When he died, I was amazed and touched that he still had it.

Blackie would always come with us. He was always in the lead and we followed. It was like he knew where we were going. He never got too far ahead of us and never lagged behind. He was our leader and we followed. Although Aunt Eleanor thought she was the leader, we knew who it really was. He stopped with us when we all got into the itchweed and had to put mud on our legs. He knew when to start out again when we finished. He obeyed without anyone ever yelling or telling him what to do. He was a good dog.

Well, the day came when Blackie died. I don’t really remember what happened, I want to believe it was old age, as he’d been around for most of my younger years. I was 10 when he died and it was my first real experience with death that I can remember. My poor Aunt Helen was a mess. Her dog was her life, as she had no kids and no husband. I remember her crying and moaning outside in the back yard while my dad dug the hole. It was then that I was awakened to real grief. Blackie was really gone, and he left the first hole in my heart.

I’ve been thinking of him for a few weeks and I don’t know why, but I thought I’d share a small part of his life here. He really was a good dog 🙂