600 (604) Macon Ct.
I was driving past the Saturn V rocket and some sort of stealth bomber, forever grounded, bolted to the earth for picture opportunities, entering Huntsville, Alabama for what would be a special weekend. The space center, a place I had visited as a child, signaling your entry into Huntsville proper, a celebration of man's triumphs against the black vacuum 50 miles straight up from the concrete.
It was here that a memory entered my brain. Cocksure and definite. An address. 600 (maybe 604) Macon Ct. It wouldn't go away. It tugged at me. 600 Macon Ct. maybe it was 604. No zip code. Just a name. Rosemary Smith.
//
In the summer of 1981, the summer between my 5th and 6th grade years, I went to swim camp outside of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The camp was called Pinecrest and it was my first trip alone. The flights uneventful, I arrived and settled in. On the younger side of the group, I was quickly adopted by a girl named Beth from New Jersey. Beth was 15-16 and had a crew of girls she led around between practices. I was always girl crazy and this arrangement worked well for me.
The days were spent waking up early for practice, battling unsuccessfully to get it called off due to heat lightning and being told, "we will cancel it if it hits the 3 meter diving board." Ah, the simplicity of the 80's. After practice and breakfast there were long hours in between the next practice. We spent those hours playing cards and goofing off around the campus of the camp. There were kids from other parts of the world as well as a couple more from the south. Bobby Koob, from St. Louis and Rosemary Smith, from Huntsville, Al.
I fell immediately and absolutely in love.
//
I'm not sure if it was an 80's thing or what, but for as much as we worry about kids today and their access to information and being advanced, my generation seemed to start falling in love in maybe the 5th grade, a social hierarchy of "going together" fully formed in the 6th grade. My father, ever on the cutting edge of dad jokes would without fail say "going together? Where are you going?"
I can vividly remember the ache of love that I felt for all of my elementary school crushes. Terry Haller, she 15 or 16, me, 7 or 8. Her sweetly taking time to roller skate to Blondie’s, Heart of Glass with me at the swim team party. Me, convinced we could somehow work it out. Lesley Thornton, a year or so older than I. Utterly uninterested. Deborah Lehr, the coveted girlfriend of popular bad boy, Carly Smith, Green Acres Elementary School's "it" couple.
Unrequited love, born in 1979, a specialty of mine through the mid 80's.
//
On one of the final days of swim camp, we took a bus from Ft. Lauderdale to Orlando and spent a whirlwind day in Disneyworld. Card games on the 2-3 hour drive followed by boisterous announcements to "Wave at the deer!" any time we passed a field of cattle. Man were we clever.
The day was of course grand, as back then Disney was truly the happiest place on earth. Especially when ensconced in 80's 11 year old lust. Even though she lived in Huntsville, Alabama, a mere 6 hours away. I was sure that Rosemary and I would figure it out. With a love this deep, how could I not. I clutched to her in the darkness of Space Mountain, my heart in my throat
Upon my arrival home, I began writing her weekly, asking her to "go with me" immediately, which she of course agreed to. Each letter scrawled with an address.
Rosemary Smith
6004 Macon Ct.
Huntsville, AL
35802
//
In the fall of 1981 or maybe it was later that same summer, my mom and I packed up our Toyota Corolla and headed north for a trip to visit our old neighbors who had lived on the Coast for a stretch but who had recently been transferred back to Huntsville, AL. Of course I made plans to see my girlfriend while on this trip, spending the hours on the car ride listening to Billy Joel, The Nylon Curtain on repeat, a haunting b-side, Goodnight Saigon, wreaking havoc on my little brain.
With all of the above details, one would think I'd remember my visit with the girl of my dreams, but nothing about that encounter exists in my head. I want to say we maybe went to a mall. Or a movie. Or as is likely, both.
What I remember is leaving, crying uncontrollably as we passed the 363 foot tall Saturn V. Goodnight Saigon and space and Alabama mocking me as we drove away. Knowing I'd probably never see her gain.
The letters and the "going together" slowly faded. I don't remember any ending. Just that it did, me left to explain to my friends in 6th grade about my girlfriend in Alabama. A foreshadowing of a scene from a movie, still not hatched in John Hughes's brain, where a nerd brags about his make believe girlfriend in Canada. Me, living a scene in the Breakfast Club, 3 years before it came out.
//
I was in Huntsville for that weekend in April this year with old friends. Our band, Meantree, had reconvened to record an EP of 6 songs that were written in 1993-94. Blye, Brad, Chris and I having not played together in 18 years, nervous and excited to see if we could pull it off. It was on the approach to the studio, the shadow of the Saturn V to my right shoulder, that the address entered my mind.
Throughout the first day of recording I couldn't shake it. I felt pretty strongly that the address was that of Rosemary Smith but that idea also seemed as far fetched as it looks typed above. 40 years ago I wrote it for the last time. How could that possibly be it.
Over the decades, I'd wondered what happened to her. I had traveled to Huntsville quite a bit from 2008-2014, and had even asked Chris from Meantree's then girlfriend Amy back in college if she knew her. I mean. They were both from Huntsville, ergo, there were probably many stories about me floating around up there. I was sure 11 year old me had made that kind of an impact on Rosemary and in turn, 1980's Huntsville. It was to no avail, and like all things, I moved along.
After day one in the studio, and a nagging address in my head, I did what any normal human of the internet age would do. I went to the book of faces and searched for her. One name came up Rosemary Smith (and a new last name I'll leave out). So as not to alarm anyone, I sent a simple message. "Did you happen to to a swim camp in the early 80's and does the address 600 or 604 Macon Ct. mean anything to you?" I figured this was as unassuming as I could make this potentially internet creepy situation and then went back to the studio to continue to record.
Two days later, I was greeted by a "Yes! That's me!" She had moved in the 90's to another state but her family had kept the house at 6004 Macon Court until her parents passing. A couple of "glad your wells" and explaining why I was up there followed and that was that. The Mystery of 600 (or 604) Macon Court had been solved.
I headed my truck west, the Saturn V on my left as I headed out of town. No tears this time. Just a smirk of satisfaction.
//
I know I've said it before, but it's worth mentioning again. The internet. For all of its terrible tendencies, can be and is a strange and magical place.
I've also mentioned before that I'm unable to not act on things like the above. That I must send that message, or reach out to a stranger. I say this to encourage you to do the same. It often yields moments of pure joy.
Thanks Rosemary, for not alerting the cops.
#hugsandhi5s
