SEPTEMBER 2017 - Danny Crabbe taught me to fly.
When I was 5 years old, my family moved to a duplex on Maple Street. A couple of pictures from those days help me remember what it looked like. It was a small clapboard house, three or four rooms, with a dirt and gravel front yard. We lived on the right side, and we were as poor as, well, the dirt my daddy parked our old car on.
It was not a great street for kids or play. There were a couple of families we talked to, but my overprotective mama wouldn’t let me hang out much with the neighbors, with one memorable exception. Danny and Yvonne Crabbe lived behind our duplex. Their house faced Holly Street. Our backyards touched, but, to me, our homes were worlds apart.
Holly Street, in my young mind, was where the normal people lived. Their lawns had grass and fences. They had driveways and carports. It was safe to walk on the side of the road.
I never thought of my family as normal. We didn’t match the images I saw on TV or in magazines. We sure didn’t look like the families who lived on Holly Street, and the stretch of duplexes we lived in didn't have carports or fences. I wouldn’t have guessed it then, but I know for sure now, that God ordained that move.
I don’t remember the first time I met the Crabbes or when I first was invited to their house, but I do remember sitting in their living room and being in absolute awe that Tracey’s daddy, Danny, was a policeman. I remember seeing his navy blue patrolman’s hat laying on a table top, and thinking he was the only policeman I knew and the only man I had ever met who didn’t work as a mechanic, for a carpet or denim mill or in construction. Today, my kids would take a picture of this scene, post it on Instagram and caption it, “GOALS.” That would be accurate.
Over the few months we lived there, I can’t tell you how many afternoons or Saturdays I spent at the Crabbe house. I do remember two things. I recall a steady supply of Mrs. Crabbe’s mayonnaise sandwiches—just white bread and Blue Plate, nothing more, and I have a vivid memory of flying through the air, in a wash of green grass, blue sky and yellow sun. I don’t know how many times I made that trip, but I do know how a I got there: It was at the feet of Danny Crabbe.
Mr. Crabbe would lay on his back in the grass, take off his shoes and settle my bottom or Tracey’s onto the soles of his sock-covered feet. Then with the power of Goliath or a 747, he would send us flying. It was exhilarating! I don’t remember another man, outside of my dad, taking that kind of time with me, before or since.
We moved from that house six weeks into first grade. I wasn’t even 6-years-old yet, but here I am, almost 50 years later, remembering it like it was yesterday. I saw Tracey with her mom on one of my daily walks a few days ago. I tend to use my walk time for prayer and thanksgiving. Seeing Mrs. Yvonne was a welcome sight. As soon as I saw her, I thought of her mayonnaise sandwiches and the house on Holly Street. We hugged and talked for a bit, the went on our ways.
As I walked away, I felt a broad smile spread across my face, along with a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. God has been so faithful to me, even back when I was that little boy on Maple Street. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that He put the Crabbes in my life. They gave me a glimpse into what I wanted my future life to be like. They provided hope and wisdom and the realization that, if I wanted my life to look even a little bit like theirs, I would need to step into the shoes of a man like Danny Crabbe, whose sure, socked feet taught me to soar.
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