It takes a neighborhood kid…
When I was growing up, we lived across the street to this family the LaChance’s. Their son and daughter were Billy and Alicia. I remember when I was maybe six years old, Billy would come over and we’d spend hours outside, somewhere on the block. Seems like we caused trouble back then, but I think Billy was my retreat to small adventures. It’s almost like a dream now, it was so long ago. Billy was probably in seventh grade when I was in first grade. I remember his middleschool humor, quick, vulgar and perfect. He was entertaining. We’d play frisbee with a neighbor’s black lab named Josie. We hung out on his back deck while his dad floated in their above-ground pool.
Billy was my first lesson in style. I remember when he came over one day and he was showing me his new shoes. He was sporting some Adidas Sambas. Years later, you can still get a pair, but they are called Samba Classics now. Back then, they were just Sambas. Billy didn’t play indoor soccer, his shoes were somehow fashion and anti-fashion for him. He always looked so cool to me. Not just because he was older, but because he exuded a clean discheveled look, from the sneakers to the worn levis to the mashed curly hair. Effortless.
Billy taught me animation. He probably didn’t think much of it at the time. He had all these drawing tools in his rolltop desk. I was so impressed because he used fine-tipped ink pens to draw, when I only used crayons. As a 6 year old, I’d sooner get to work with a dental drill than an ink pen. The ink pen needed a certain acquired confidence. Billy took his pad of paper out and said “Let me show you something.” He drew a snowball on the bottom of the notebook on a page. Clearly it was a snowball in shape with some subtle shade lines. Then another page, the snowball again and again. I didn’t quite understand this misuse of a perfectly good notebook. Eventually he drew this wonderful snow ball splatter on the last page.
“Look,” he said, flipping the notebook’s pages for me. My jaw hit the floor. The snowball coasted across and blew apart as it hit the edge of the page. It was alive. An unlocking moment. Why couldn’t he be my first grade teacher?
Our family moved away when I was in second grade. We only moved a few blocks away, but when you are seven, you are across the country. I called Billy on the phone a year later with the help of my mom. He sounded friendly, though I could sense too much time had passed. Though a year older, I felt much younger talking with him. He had started highschool and moved on to being friends with taller people. Our friendship as I knew it had submerged to memory.
Billy LaChance grew up and his innate sense of style grew up too. You can find his paintings at the Hoffman LaChance Art Gallery in St. Louis. His sister’s work is there too. It’s very special to see how they have grown up and flourished.
I have a painting from him that could never be in any gallery. I keep it with me always.
A younger and an older boy kick rocks around a small creek. Lightning bugs float above the weeds as the sunlight disappears over the highway embankment. They are laughing and their echoes are heard in a huge black rainsewer nearby. Small adventures just a few moments before being called in for dinner. A boy with an unlikely mentor, his first best friend.
