SLO LIFE Jun/Jul 2017

| PUBLISHER’S MESSAGE
The other day, I found myself at a stoplight behind an old Lincoln Town Car. It must have been an ’83 or ’84,
maybe an ’85. Many moons have passed since I’ve seen one that old. I smiled to myself as I considered the
idea that it might as well have been a time machine idling in front of me.
Most of my years growing up were spent running around the cracked asphalt of Myrtle Street, not far from
Highway 198 in Visalia, two-and-a-quarter hours east of here, in the middle of the mighty San Joaquin
Valley. The street had no sidewalks, making it ideal for sideline passes during touch football. A never-ending
Wiffle Ball game was hosted in our front yard. Directly across the street from the diamond sat a squatty little
1950-something popcorn stucco-covered ranchette. Home runs had to hit the house on the fly to count; if
the ball bounced first it was considered a ground rule double. That’s where Jennifer Edwards lived.
Despite the triple-digit summertime heat, we played a lot of baseball. A lot. It was not long before I was
crushing everything the neighborhood kids would throw my way. And without fail, every time I nailed a
home run I could count on one thing. By the time I rounded second, Jennifer Edwards would be shaking her
fist through her front door hollering at us to get off her property and stay away from her flower bed. Some
Major League ballparks launch a few quick fireworks when the home team hits one out of the park—the San
Francisco Giants blow a foghorn—on Myrtle Street it was our neighbor blowing a fuse. Over time, Jennifer
Edwards became my nemesis. Secretly, I loved every minute of it—and, as it turned out, so did she.
I realized early on that having a strong adversary is actually a good thing. Think about it; where would the Giants be without the Dodgers? How about
Reagan without Gorbachev? Luke Skywalker would be a no-name farmer in Tatooine if it weren’t for Darth Vader. My rival was Jennifer Edwards.
She was tough. Tough as nails. Most of the neighborhood kids were terrified of her—not me. She did everything in her power to break me down, but
nothing worked. And it frustrated her to no end. There was not a kid within a one-mile radius that she had not been able to reduce to a soggy, tearyeyed
mess. Jennifer Edwards had a reputation around town. You did not mess with her.
It was a car accident in her younger years that left a massive scar on one side of her face that framed what appeared to be an always watching, allknowing
evil eye. The word of God was peppered throughout her explosions and she could be counted on to shout out “Praise the Lord!” when things
were going her way. But most of the time, because I had trampled her petunias as I retrieved my ball, Jesus would personally see to it that punishment
would be an eternity of hellfire and damnation. That was the point where most kids lost it. Not me. I’d start quietly planning my counter attack. Guerilla
warfare was the great equalizer, and a steady stream of pranks rolled forth over the years. I was always careful to cover my tracks so that she was unable
to pin the transgressions on me. And, I never told any of the other kids what I was up to, not even my younger sisters. But, she knew. And, I knew.
Things came to a head one day when my mom asked her to pick my sisters and me up from school because it was raining and she was stuck at work. As
we left Veva Blunt Elementary we were surprised to see Jennifer Edwards roll up in her brand new Lincoln Town Car with its license plate frame that
read, “My other car is a broom.” Dutifully, my sisters hopped in. With my Dukes of Hazzard lunch pail in-hand, I started walking. The Lincoln quickly
caught up to me, matching my pace. Continuing alongside she rolled her window halfway down to shield the rain, which was beginning to quicken.
Once again, I was reminded that the Prince of Peace would be judging harshly. I didn’t care. I kept walking. She kept driving. The whole way home,
about a mile-and-a-half, she drove next to me, barking orders the entire time.
The next day, I resolved that the counterstrike would be fierce. I would unleash a level of fury never before seen on Myrtle Street. After pedaling my
BMX down to Long’s Drugs and dropping two months’ worth of allowance into the fire engine red coin machine, I returned with a backpack full of
plastic eggs. That night, under a cloak of Tule fog, I tiptoed across the street and smeared her entire car with fake snot.
Many years later, long after my Myrtle Street days, I heard that Jennifer Edwards was sick. The news got me thinking back to all of the great adventures
growing up, and I realized that my childhood would not have been half as rich as it was if it weren’t for her. I sat down that night and penned a card
telling her how much she meant to me all of those years—as well as finally admitting to sliming her car—and how without her I would not have turned
out the way I did. A couple of years later she passed away in the old house behind centerfield. And as her family cleaned out her bedroom, standing
upright on the nightstand next to her bed, they found my card.
I would like to take this opportunity to say “thank you” to everyone who has had a hand in producing this issue of SLO LIFE Magazine and, most of all,
to our advertisers and subscribers—we couldn’t do it without you.
Live the SLO Life!
Rivals
Tom Franciskovich
tom@slolifemagazine.com
14 | SLO LIFE MAGAZINE | JUN/JUL 2017