I grew up on the edge of a noisy and dangerous interstate highway. We lived on a half acre of land next door to my grandparents (mother's mom and dad). Our address was 9810 N. Shepherd. It was the northern part of North Shepherd that also doubled as Hwy. 75 on its way to Dallas. Town was 16 miles south; close enough to get to a large grocery store, but not so close to neighbors that you could hear them fart (as my dad would say). I could run around shooting my BB gun without endangering anyone.
We lived in a two bedroom wood frame house that my dad built. It rested on cinder blocks. Dad would save a little money and build a living room, then a dining room and finally another bedroom. I used to sit out on the front porch with my dog and gaze at the world driving by.
It was during a long summer that I watched the Texas Highway Department tear up North Shepherd Dr. and replace it with Interstate 45. There were earth movers, graders and machines to pulverize cement. The loamy smell of the earth seemed primordial as bulldozers churned up and leveled the way for the road. Dump trucks thundered by carrying off the debris of the old road system as other dump trunks delivered the cement for the new one. A concrete road builder mixed water with the aggregate and laid it down to ooze through and over the wooden forms and rebar. We lost about fifty feet of our front yard to the new construction. The frontage road and the interstate were ten lanes compared to the four lanes of Shepherd drive.
The Interstate cut like a red-hot iron and cauterized the thoroughfares of our neighborhood, shutting them off. Streets like Blue Bell and Northville, that crossed Shepherd Dr., did not intersect the freeway. It was hard to visit Sue Barnett's house or go to Commioto's convenience store. They were now on the other side of the Interstate as was the horses in the pasture. I was not allowed to cross all those busy lanes to pet the ponies. Pitiful whinnies upset me and I would call back to the steeds stranded across the freeway. Carrots and apples were on their minds.
Getting to the other end of the neighborhood meant driving a mile down the feeder (or frontage) to the overpass at West Rd. A left turn under the overpass and then another left turn would put us on the other side of the Interstate. That was how we got to the displaced part of the neighborhood. It was a sad discovery that neighbors were now distant acquaintances separated by a bustling expressway. All of us drifted apart.
The worst thing about the busy interstate was the terrible accidents. A head-on collision was spectacular, loud and happened in front of our house. On his way home, a longshoreman was speeding on the frontage road and did not see the elderly man in a car driving the wrong way and coming toward him. They slammed into each other. It was a grinding clattering explosive catastrophe which resulted in the old man's death. The aftermath was like a circus, with voyeurs, emergency crews and wreckers. One of the vehicles was in such bad shape that two tow trucks had to lift the ends of the car and take it away. It was like a macabre Dr. Doolittle tale with a mechanical Push Me Pull You made of two wreckers and a destroyed Ford Fairlane.
The worst accident happened late one evening. Someone had broken down on I-45 and called for a tow. The tow truck operator was careless and stepped into oncoming traffic. It was an unspeakable scene. Multiple cars struck him. Police diverted traffic off the freeway so that they could pick up all the pieces of this man. His wife heard about what happened and rushed to the scene. She was out of her mind with grief. Police had to handcuff her to a squad car to keep her away from the grizzly “pick-up” operation on the road.
Despite the possibility of horrible accidents it was irresistible not to wander onto the interstate. I would sneak out and ride my bicycle along the side of the feeder. I would ride a few blocks to a friend's house. Inevitably his mother would call my mother. I would lose biking privilege for a while. My sister got impatient with me one day and told me to go play in the freeway. I got up and ran across lanes of traffic to oblige her. This was stupid behavior that only a twelve year old would consider.
Tractor trailers, RV's, moving vans, hot rods and pickup trucks form an endless procession to the city. The interstate highway is a continuum of transportation. The years after the construction of I-45 and other interstates that crisscross the metropolis, some 1100 people a week were moving in. The town went from boom to bust to boom again.
When I was eighteen we moved from the edge of the interstate to a quiet neighborhood with a cul-de-sac. A businessman established a luxury boat sales lot on the spot where we lived. They moved our wood frame house to a new family and location, but kept the garage my dad built. Years later the boat business relocated. The building is now empty. When driving by I sometimes wonder what’s in my dad’s garage. One day I’ll have to look.
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