Heaven is on Rockmont Road
There was some psychologist years ago who claimed a person’s memory is recorded in the brain just like a tape recorder. Along with the memory are all the emotions and feelings that go along with the experience. He postulated we relive those experiences and emotions throughout our life and they influence our interactions with others. His claim used all those fancy psychology words, but if I get the gist, our memories define who we are and how we act. If his postulations are true, my memories began on Rockmont Road. My earliest pre-6year-old memory involves sunny summer days, roaming the neighborhood shirtless to play with Sonny and Bilbo, also shirtless. I possess a scrapbook as proof. My tape recorder tells me Samson, the family’s all black German shepherd, accompanied me from time to time as a chaperone. Protection never entered my mind, but Mom may have worried a bit. Besides, Samson had good teeth.
If Samson allowed, I would chance crossing the street to the Panagakoses’ house. The Panagakoses were my parents’ good friends. Dad and Jimmy Panagakos worked for Southern Bell and our families remained intertwined because of proximity and collegiality. Jimmy and Florence, his wife, owned homing pigeons and they were used in the parade, released from Noah’s Ark, and flew back home. This was my first miracle.
The times I chose not to cross the street, I played in my sandbox in our backyard. This memory is not so benign because one day some ants were also playing and decided my pants were a good place for a game of hide-andseek. Several ant-bites later, Mom had ushered me to the pharmacy, pulled down my pants and allowed the pharmacist to observe these bites for a proper, recommended medication. I hope the pharmacist recovered from this exposure because I have not. If God formed the earth with his breath, forming me with memories is not so much a stretch. Those memories surface from time to time as I reach across time’s long arc and revisit my innocent and safe days on Rockmont Road. I did not know it then, but my foundation was under construction, preparing me for the journey ahead, a journey filled with sunny days, miracles and yes, raw, exposed “pants down” moments.
Reflecting, my memories make me think there are days I’m OK and you are, too. Other days make me think I’m not OK and all the world is right but me, and then, there are those days I think we’re all wrong. If God allows me eternity in heaven, I wish to spend it on Rockmont Road, so I can walk across the street to spend time at the Panagakos home where there was always a love and zest for life. I wish for shirtless, Summer days with Sonny and Bilbo and Samson. In Heaven, I am convinced all will be OK, roaming the neighborhood, safe and innocent, like Rockmont Road.
Deck Cheatham has been a golf professional for more than 40 years. He lives with his family in Dalton. Contact him at pgadeacon@gmail.com.