Chapter five
“The life of a boy”
My potty
chair was made of wood with light blue paint and flowers with a cast iron enamel
plated pot with a curved handle. It was white spotted with black and slid under
the seat which of course was an open hole. My grandma Murry had given it to my
mother to take home on the plane, but first she pulled me over and had a talk
with me about it. It seems the potty was first owned by my uncle Ed, and I was
told with a story lined with pride on how he learned to use it. Grandma could
tell a yarn. I remember the first BM as Dad would say I made. It was a small
little dark brown football with a softball next to it. Mom was happy. It’s
funny what sticks out in memories.
I spent a
lot of time in Jacquie
Park
It was a big boy slide, no doubts
about it, and we became professionals one spring preparing the slide to
perfection. Philip and I would first go dig into the steel drum trash cans that
sat in between to posts and dig out some waxed cups to tear into flat pieces,
if there was enough we could just ride the cups down the slide our little buts
planted in the middle with our legs up feet pointed in the general direction of
forward and down. Over and over we could do this increasing in speed every
time, or we could go the deluxe method. We would jump the slide and began one
of us from the top the other to the bottom and we would first clean the slide,
and then start rubbing down the slide with the waxed paper cups till the whole
slide was coated then we buffed it. We took some real dry sand and tossed some
down the slide as we buffed the slide to a smooth polish with our butts. Now
let me tell you about this slide when they say they don’t make them anymore kids
like us are to blame. The slide was twenty or so steps made of steel with a
design to the top. It was about 25 ft tall as tall as or just a little taller
than the full size adjacent swings and its rails, handles crested another two
feet in the air. The pad was small and
required using the handles to sit down or later the cross beam as a swing
propelling our small frames down the chute like mini human torpedoes. The steel
chute was a sturdy sheet of stainless with one join half way down, by that time
we could be moving, and the bump was a minimum. The best wear was tight shorts
running shoes and a tea shirt the best ride came literally from the seat of
your pants. Philip, I, and a few other boys had been in on the initial idea of
juicing up the slide were practiced and seasoned for the speed and landing.
What was good at it? Well at the age of eight I weighed 60lbs so with a good
swing and keeping knees and elbows tucked I could fly down the slide at speeds
equaling a full sprint the first few steps were in the sand box but your third
or fourth “better” clear the sand box boarder, then full speed towards the
field with arms and legs flailing in an attempt to stop from speeds that were
faster than physically possible for the child in the thrills of his ride. We could
go so fast only one foot was needed inside the sand box the chute having
propelled us 6-8 feet, bounce one and run like a squirrel that has had the
misfortune off falling out of a tree. We weren’t falling that far but in our
defense squirrels are better equipped than we were.
“No matter what you must avoid the
rail and run full speed when you land.” We would call up to some over zealous
kid who wanted to ride full speed just like us, and never fail one out of two
of these daring fellows got hurt, wiped out, hit the sand rail, or just face
plant into the sand. That kid didn’t get up right away and was dazed for a
little and had to sit on the side rail and watch until he was okay. Sort of he
had snot, sand and, and blood smeared around his nose but he had a big smile on
his face for being so brave to try what we “The expert kids” were doing. He was
maybe 6 ½. Mike and Brian showed up and
being my constant bullies were sure they could ride the slide. Brian went first
he had more of that crazy white boy in him than Mike. He launched himself with
a rebel whoop and zoom he was flying like a turtle twisting and turning on his
back somehow keeping his feet underneath him his wild long jet black hair a
blur tossing about his head in contrast to his alabaster white skin some how
got his chucks underneath him and took off when he hit the sand box. He made it
slowing down in the grass. Mike had to do it if Brian did it. Mike was bigger
all over not fat just little chunky and big framed and not at all wiry like Brian.
So his decent was met with a slower accent and take off from the top. I would
like to pause for a second as to tell you about this slide it was fast, finely
polished, slippery and just down right dangerous for the inexperienced and
people of any weight over a hundred pounds. We didn’t know that we were just
kids. We had no idea about gravity and incline planes, physicists and such.
What we saw was a sudden increase in speed in the fast zone Mike was out of
control early on, he attempted to right himself but the gravity thing nailed
him down to the slide like some one put a weight on him, the edges of the slide
were 5 inches high to keep the rider safe. Mikes feet were dancing in the air
when he left the end of the slide and he was horizontal to the ground going
sideways towards the corner boards which were harder to miss. He didn’t. He had
managed to right himself somewhat when flying in the air but that first foot down
tells the story. Mike went down hard, slam belly and chest first with his hands
out, slide for a second, and rolled once hard sort of like a flip and a final
flop. Dirt, gravel, grass stains, and
skinned hands, elbows, cheek, and bump to the head. He had to sit down a while.
I saw the big kids totally bit and then they took it for the day sort of. Those
boys who I pointed to were “cool” and could get in line with the big kids. I
remember mothers running to the side of there overly brave 10 year old, our age
who had found part of the railing with his foot then the ground with his nose.
She was yelling things like “Why do you have to have it so fast?” “You boys are
being dangerous” “Look at him.” She shrieked, and marched him off to the car.
He was crying. I think he broke his nose.
Parents in the park started watching the slide putting restrictions on
which kids could ride it. Philip and I were the fastest of the middle sized
kids 55-75 lbs. We could zoom down that sucker like it was nothing, and that
what this “old man” (average adult) though when he wandered into the park. He
sorted of jumped off the side half way down, straight chickened out on the
speed. He left the park beaten by professional sliders, the veterans of wax and
speed with a noticeable limp and dazed countenance. Of course the other boys
are often watching and a mid “Ooohs’ and “Ahhhs during a spectacular wreck.
This guy did something we never saw and tried to get off mid slide and bit it
hard. A “tong” could be herd as part of him hard hit one of the steel poles
holding up the mid portion of the slide.
I would get all the kids into it. My gyrations, animated activity, and
excitement would be contagious and boys would be scrambling for wax paper cups
in the two garbage cans next to the picnic tables, feet up in the air, trash
flying, and the scramble to create the fast ride. We got in trouble when the
recreation staff showed at summer. They were adults and wore shirts with Staff
on one side and Takoma Park Recreation. At first they were amazed by the local
kids of the park who gathered together to achieve a common goal. We worked the
slide to perfection. Kids were flying in the air everywhere and a line had
formed at the base of the slide. All the kids wanted to try it, and they did.
Zoom, Zoom kids are coming down so fast the other kids at the bottom who had
done a but-slide in the sand or mini wrecked could not get out of the way fast
enough. What we had never for seen had happened, a pile up of small legs and
arms with little wails and umps for a pile up, is a pile up, and in the 70’s we
appreciated that and took full advantage. Kids were stacked and twisted into a
laughing from the top, screaming from the bottom pile which had to be carefully
undone for these stacks could get 10 to as much as 20 little kid bodies
intertwined in a mass of elbows, knees, and heads popping forth. The staff
intervened and began applying rules. A staff member posted himself at the
bottom and regulated turns on the slide. Still the slide was fast for some too
fast. It was a little fellow who changed the slide rules. He took off like a
pro from the top with a powerful swing, and he positioned his but in the
perfect position to maintain the least friction as he hurtled down the slide,
but instead of sliding off the end he put his foot down right on the end of the
slide, friction. He went off the end of the slide with a side ways spinning cartwheel
which surely was not planned, his body stiff in its flight awaiting the dreaded
landing. Every kid knows what this is like. The stunning impact that knocks
your wind out, leaves the whole world shaking, and is often accompanied by big
head to ending up in an ear curdling scream. Yeah that’s it. This little kid
hit hard, and we knew he was hurt. His spinning sideways allowed his head to
find its way to down to smack his head on the border of the sandbox with was a
sturdy 2” x 12” board of hard wood. The thud could be herd from fifty feet away
the scream following it could be herd first stunning the park with sound then
echoing around the trees sending every available adult into motion full speed
to the emendator of such a horrid noise. It is the sound every parent knows,
the sound of a child being seriously injured. They didn’t let us speed the
slide up anymore, at least when they could. Philip and I would still speed it
up at night or on dry week ends, but for the park staff the ride was over.
Still the idea spread. Kids in different parks were getting the idea from the
kids shipped in to Jacquie
Park University Blvd.
An Afro-American man showed up in
the park one day his name was Cecil. He wore a Red Sox uniform and cap covering
his silvering hair. He brought a bag full of baseballs, gloves bats, and
softballs. He got all us kids attention by his amazing ability to throw behind
his back really high and far. He would take a baseball, point at a tall tree,
and would toss into the air with his left catching it with his right and throw
that ball right over the tree behind his back. He would then turn to all of us
for he had our attention, and say, “I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records
for throwing a baseball the highest behind my back.” This book was a popular
book and sold at all the school book fairs. All us kids would respond with “Oooo’s”
and “Ahhhh’s”. He got us into batting some days and others he just played some
catch with so many kids who wanted to throw like him. I was one of them. Kids
were all over the field throwing his baseballs behind there backs. Then he
would call us all in and we would put all the gear back. It was him and his
appearance in the park that started the community softball games. How? The kids
and him and the parents who came to the park on Sundays, at first it was just a
Sunday afternoon where the families of the neighborhoods came and BBQ and
picnicked. Cecil would show and the kids and parents would be amazed by not
just his skills but his ability to communicate with the children. Cecil got
together the first game just by saying “Shall we have a game of softball?” and
dumped the game gear out of his big canvases bag. Everybody who was there that
day including myself grabbed some gear. There weren’t many of us playing at
first but soon more and more people came till there wasn’t enough equipment. I
remember an older gentleman who had large brown knuckled hands and a brown hat
with suspenders who played the whole game in the outfield with no glove. We
used what we had that first day.
The next week we brought our own equipment.
Fathers all week long prompted by their sons and the feeling of some of their
lost youth dug through attics, garages, and closets looking for old beaten
leather gloves, and a few bats of every size to bring to the park. Something
began to happen, something big as week after week the neighborhood gathered in
the park. Not just the softball game but what it fostered was a community
gathering fun and with fun comes familiarity. The parents began talking about
all sorts of issues our little park became a place of social awakening, and
most important anyone could play. You had to know the rules to play. No
throwing bats, no sliding in the field on base, (people were getting knocked
down we weren’t pros), and anything down the hill that lined the back field in
the air was a double because: 1. It took forever to get the ball back, 2. Sometimes
it went into the street. 3. A balls few went into the storm drain. 4. And just
way too many home runs.
I was still little when this started and the
kids were the main attraction with the adults joining in. Andre who wound up
being the pitcher for our team, he liked to pitch. He would stand not in the
pitcher box, but half way up to the batter over home plate. The game was for
the kids and he made sure everybody could get a good shot at getting a hit. He
had been chosen among all the children to be pitcher and the fact that he was
one of the few Afro-American kids in the neighborhood made it special. He was
able to connect with all the kids and keep a feeling of being competitive. Not
like a parent who would always lob a throw in, but more a fellow player looking
for the out. Andre was 12, a gangly youth who had a big smile in contrast to
his dark skin and was well liked by all the parents. He was a social ice
breaker in the making. I still remember the man who came to bat on this
particular Sunday. He was burly man, lots of reddish hair, everywhere, and he
stepped to the plate like he meant business. I had seen him on the plate before
and he played like he was out to prove something of his athletic ability. Today
was no different and he stepped to the plate. The pitch was up and powerful
line drive aimed low to be a grounder that would have headed down the hill. It
didn’t make it far. It hit Andre, in the balls. He went down and was up in just
a second running all around the park, screaming holding himself. The kind of
scream that sends chills down your spine. The adults were in full swing after
him and finally got him down on the ground by the small swing set. Somebody
called an ambulance and another went down to his house to get his mom. What I
saw besides the biggest groin shot in my life was a whole neighborhood leap
forward together in time of crisis, not their crisis but one of their own in
their neighborhood, a black youth. We would continue to meet in the park every
Sunday to play softball, but a new rule had been added. ALL pitches had to be
done from the pitching box. The murmurs of what had occurred prompted more
parents to come to the park to watch their kids play and just in case. It was about
three weeks before Andre came back to the park on Sunday. I had seen him a few
days before and he was walking okay, and seemed in good cheer. As he entered
the softball field a great applause erupted mixed with cheers and everybody
stopped playing and ran forth to greet him. A crowd of at least thirty people
surrounded him with back pats all around and “Hello’s” mixed with “How are you
feeling?” He went to take his position as pitcher again, and tried to stand in
the same spot. Everybody was like “No!” We backed him up to the pitcher mound
and the game resumed. Andre became a household name. The park elevated to the
next level. Crisis brings people together and that’s what happened in our park.
Over the years the Sunday softball games would become a true affair with the
grill going and all the women getting together to provide snacks and food for
all who came. The true power of this social gathering was the neighborhood
becoming solidified and lead them to become a force to make a better community
in Takoma Park Maryland
In the very first two years I was
in the park an old steel merry go round lay by the place where the new short
slide lay. It wobbled terribly and would have sand in the ball bearings of it
base. One day we crawled on our bellies under the huge wheel with straws in our
mouths, and blew, and blew, and blew all the sand out. It went pretty fast then
but again kids were flying off at strange angels and bouncing along the ground,
or even worse getting caught up on the side and dragging along this happened to
me once, just once. I got huge brush burns on my body and arms, “AAHAAHAHHA”
all the way home. I guess I was seven. It happened to others. I would spend
hours in the middle watching the trees going around until either Ryan or Curt
would come out to play. I had knocked on both their doors, knocked on the
lady’s door who gave away gram crackers to the kids, and dog biscuits.
Sometimes Twinkles, my dog didn’t get the biscuit. I would drag my finger or a
stick around and around in the sand being an under ground rail road or great
blasting machine, mostly I just watched patterns in the sand. Around and around
digging a new furrow in the sand, really a kid can be entertained for hours if
he is officially at play even alone in the park. I was often alone. Again as
with the slide we got the Merry-go-round going to fast. One day a little boy
brought to the park did more than just skin his knees and elbows. He broke his
arm getting caught underneath and ground around in circles till the
Merry-go-round stopped. I wasn’t there that day, and within a few weeks the
Merry-go-round was taken out of the park.
I was often the first out during
the summer. Both parents had headed off to work and I was out the door soon
afterward my little legs pumping me down a couple houses, past the Winters and
their yapping Chihuahua’s that couldn’t get over the 8” boards set by the
kitchen with the pines and over shadowing the bushes and oaks lining Takoma
avenue, past Andrea’s house with the great bowl pine that shot into the sky.
This was a very old tree with limbs all the way up and down that were thick and
deeply shaded covered in sap in a ladder all the way up with twists and turns.
You could climb all the way up into the sky from this tree, and we would make
trips to the top all the time. Of course we climbed every possible tree in our
yards and the park but this one was special because Andrea would climb it with
you. Her mom was always on the back deck or in the house. We would have to yell
in we were going to climb the tree. I think it was for two reasons her mom
wanted to know which monkeys were in the tree today and when to put her top on
for if you climbed high enough you could see the enclosed 2nd floor back
deck where her mom often sunbathed. Andrea wouldn’t climb to the top it was us
boys who were full of adventure. Up that high 50+ ft the wind would blow and
the top of the tree would always sway a little. After awhile the sensation
drove most of us back down. Every once and then I would sneak around the corner
of the tall wooden fence and climb the giant pine by myself and just sit at the
top watching the world from a point of view no one else was viewing. Early on I
was experimenting with different actions, and trying to be as I was portrayed
and a little more, an adventurer. Most of the time was spent below the great
pine playing and talking doing the things kids do when together, games and
talking or truth or dare, and house of course, for the girls, and often ate
lunch in its low bows or just underneath. Mom was always fighting pitch and
anything else I could grime myself up with, but the pitch got everywhere my
first climb up as I stopped to finger it and grabbed to make my hands sticky
for climbing. I got it in my hair that time a couple brushes and a big wad in
the back. Mom used peanut butter to get it out. We used the great pine for a
shelter which worked great on a rainy day for the rain never penetrated the
thick bows of the great pine, but not in storms we got in trouble for getting
under the great pine that day and were quickly ushered out and into the house.
Lightning back in those days still hit the ground around the park and local
trees and houses when a storm blew in. I was on my way to the park wasn’t I?
I skittered past the elderly couple’s
house painted dark green with olive shutters and a long porch. I had chance to
stop in to meet these people on occasion doing odd jobs or just eating cookies.
They were an older couple whose children were off having their own kids. The
house was always so quiet, except when I visited then things would be of
questions and pride in their young friend. I ran past their bushes and crossed
the street by Jared’s house on the corner. Quick now among the azalea bushes
that were in rows leading diagonally into the back of the park. We tended to
play Frisbee at this end or play among the bushes, pushing our carts, red
wagons, and bikes down the little hill along Buffalo Avenue
The games changed in the triangle
at the base of Albany Avenue Baltimore
Avenue Baltimore Avenue
I got it for my birthday I think.
My mom had woes. I should have. Back in those days a basic Toys-R-us skate
board was built to corner barely, made of hard plastic in a sharp pointed tip
with trucks that grinded and bucked if any hard surface was approached, and
forget big cracks in the cement. Mine was blue. I first of course was real
carful which helped me just crash in a moderate way few banged elbows and what
not. I recall riding it for hours in a basement with a friend where the tiles
were so smooth I could begin to learn how to turn it with my weight not just my
ankles. We zoomed back and forth enjoying the freedom of playing and gaining
skill our little feet all over the board testing our legs and balance. There
were three hills that the boys talked about riding down. Buffalo Ave Jordan
It was a sunny cool afternoon about
three weeks later when I looked down the hill from the top of Baltimore Ave.
Philip Ryan would come over to my
house for sleep over’s, and we would goof off all night. It was on one of these
occasions that I slipped into kind of trance and began telling a story a
premonition of an accident I would have. I said, “I will be going down Albany Albany Albany Albany
The
fall it was different. The leaves changed around the park of mostly Oaks littering
the ground, and the big sap pine dropped its bed of needles near the log cabin
and all around the picnic table. We kids used to roll that picnic table all
around the park leaving it in the most unusual places. That’s how we got on top
of the little cement building the first time. We rolled the picnic table by the
water pebble covered cement water fountain up the hill. It took the four of us
to move the table straining our little frames to lift it turn by turn till we
had rolled it up the hill and wedged it on the side of the building at an angle
there-bye using the picnic table as a make shift ladder; we ascended to the top
of the cement building for the first time on a sunny Friday afternoon. The
small cement pad that served as the sturdy roof of the brick structure became
our mountain top to survey the whole park spread just a few feet and the down
due to the slope. We could see everything and seemed just for a minute to be
the regents, lords of the park for a day.
Philip, Mike, Brian, and Aaron and I
played football at the other end of the park. We used our jackets as out of
bounds, and the trees at the north end as one goal, the other our jackets. The
quiet prejudice that was always portrayed towards me was upheld in the game.
One I was never allowed to be Quarterback, two Brain and Mike were always on
the opposite side with Aaron as permanent Quarterback. That left me and Philip
always as a team which was cool; he was my friend a true friend who never
judged me.
Games would be a little wild with
pitch backs being 1/3 of the game for me and Philip to score. You see Aaron
would throw good passes and most to Philip, he was the quiet one who was sure
he was superior to me, he never said so. Prejudice passed down from fathers to
their sons still made a heavy impact during the mid 70’s, but things were
changing and it often was done by the kids. Kids don’t have any preconceptions
and they just want to make friends, different friends of another race became
the beginnings of change in “Suburbia”, but I still had a few years to wait.
“One Mississippi two Mississippi
I remember the all the mulberry
trees which my father loved in a pie, which my mom would put together. We would
search far and wide for different flavors, Jared’s little sister and I,
clambering up all the local trees avoiding the dry or overly wet searching for
the sweet tangy combo that made the best berry. We were hanging in the trees
all day as kids should, eating berries as fast as we picked them Mom said
“Don’t eat them all.” calling after us with a smile on here face. We would
spend more time sitting in the tree’s, climbing, picking and being kids looking
down from our canopy of light. Often never seen by other persons, or we would
yell down on chance they wanted to do what we were doing, some would climb and
pick, others just talk and be gone, kids and mulberries kind of go together in
our little neck of Suburbia.
I remember laying the ground
watching clouds go buy and the tall grass with its flowering tops that were
almost tickly to the touch, the grass grew in the un-mowed fields, it was here
I watched the huge flat or tall clouds that would fill the landscape of the
blue sky, so many for so far long flat clouds on gray days and beautiful sky
scraping, up, up, up, a thunderhead that towered into the sky, and how the wind
with one final push after building for a short time brought the final gust of
the rain that is how it was back then in the 70’s in Takoma Park. The sky was
still alive everyday, the snows came, and we had a few white Christmas’s
summers were cooler not so humid, the wild life still a hand reach away, or
just a few flowers. This is before the fire storms in the sky, of lightning
that would seem to interlace the very clouds with stitch and spool determined
to bind them one last time, before the sky turned orange, yellow, steel, a haze
of heat. I would say Dad, “Did you ever notice it only rains on Sunday” “The
light rain anymore.” Because then the huge thunderstorms had come, but that was
later.
I remember what the trash can
smelled, dark musty, rot mixed with so much sugar, and ashes when we dove for
some tool or other, and the way old soda and beer can tabs used to peel off
leaving a sharp tear shaped piece, made of steel before aluminum cans hit the
market, and every year more and more people choked on them, the whole of the
canning industry had its own death toll from these tabs. It took someone in the
eighties to figure the safer version today. It was always a little wet at the
bottom and maybe sticky with all sorts of refuse, mostly we just wanted wax
cups, a can or other necessary implement for the idea of the day. I was always
coming up with crazy games with Philip, and all the kids I met at the park
while up side down in the garbage. You see kids got this thing of gravitating
towards the best show, or what could be the most fun in public, being up side
down in trash with your buddy behind you asking questions while he holds your
legs ranks right up there. Boys would be like what you doing with great
interest often peering over the side, and girls would stand further back, I can
imagine a mental picture in their head with pigpen and his cloud of dirt, and
ask with an incredulous tone in their voice, and raise the same question.
I remember social patterns, and
social gradients far beyond others around me, for I was always looking in, and
out of my bubble and my memory and unusual intuitive abilities gave me a mental
template. The way it works is I remember one thing like the cake when I was
three my mom has made an orange cake. Memory turns on and I am at the table
looking not just down at the cake as a little boy, now later a big kid of 8
going on 9. I can see the green glossy writing and mom moms two piece light
colorful oriental designs on blue backdrop outfit sheik and light, with the
candles burning and shining in her eyes, which was just as cool, I’m three
right little, and she put the cake down and a few friends my D.C. friends this
was when we lived on 14 st, so many more where black back then. I remember the
way they treated me, the women it was with a special little respect. I herd one
say, “Youes live in da big house.” as she leaned, over me a large Afro-American
woman elder woman and touched my head, she had on a pretty blue and mini white
poke-a-dot dress, with a sachet and a pretty hair pin in frilled with white and
blue, and no teeth. I had never seen any one with no teeth before, transfixed
to the spot is what you get there. I had been invited to partying an
Afro-American house and I first made respects to the ladies of the families
gathered. It was different than my parties where kids were just dropped off. This
was a big party and a certain social requiem from play was to under go such
prodding and scrutiny. He looked at me hard and said ‘This one here, boy got
troubles, but he in the big house.” “He look smart to. “Hmm mm” she said matter
of fact. I always was confused by this and felt like people who I didn’t know
were seeing something that I for certain hadn’t seen there, and even adding to
her decree the whole room would chime in with ladies in a splendor of out fits,
all Afro-American save one or two. I even looked around at the several ladies
filling the room to gain some idea of what they were saying as heads nodded. We
live in an apartment building. I had no idea it was because my parents were
white. “Da big house” ran questionably through my mind. I was returned to my
mom who always politely took the fuss but more, the teachings of her mother and
her strong beliefs and heart she took no special pride in this, I was her son,
and when it came to getting alone with people my Mom was a natural she had no
reservations about being who she was, and speak her mind answering quickly in
the women’s group opinion whether she was friend or foe. It was always better
to be my mom’s friend, and winning charm and natural acclimation to any social
setting put in high regards the familiarity they showed her. My mom would chime, because the music had
started playing and the kids were all out and say, “John go show them your
dance.” while she pointed towards the other kids. I would shy up. Mom had me
dressed in brown leather chucks, you have to go back in time to see them they
are extinct now. The pants may still be seen in retirement homes on very heavy
men in Miami Beach for they had checkers, log straight to the bottom and across
on gray with a red line her and there polyester slacks with a huge waist band,
and a white shirt with these whatever things running down it, you get it by
now, I looked like a mini light skinned “Shaft”. I was so embarrassed I
couldn’t move, and finally with some prompting I would get up and do my dance.
At this point, I would like to say, I had never seen anyone dance other than television,
my parents played classical when they ever used the stereo, and I seen Elvis
shake his leg. That was the one for me. I got up and just put my leg in the air
and just started shaking that thing like there was no tomorrow, and all the
ladies would start laugh and clapping, and I just kept shaking that leg till
the song stopped. At that point my duty done, I returned to Mom before being
“Shewed” into the crowd of kids.
I remember the way the sand in the
grass in the top on the hill at Jacquie Park never grew even in summer because
it was the top of the hill, and you went gently down hill into the park with
its’ Oaks canopy where all the play equipment lay, and then the field opened up,
it was green and lush, lowered from Takoma by a small hill, and then it dropped
again, the side we played football in was just a grassy lot rowed with bushes
to once side of the field proper holding the baseball diamond and backstop made
of the everyday criss-cross rusty galvanized metal lattice that is easy to get
toes and hands in and we climbed that to the top often to look up at the sky it
took some energy and your hands and toes would be sore. We would try when the
community soft ball games started, but quickly the adults got the kids off
there, parents will be parents, and by then there were many there. Why the
kids, but I told you that story. The hill dropped natural into a field that was
always tended by a big fat man in overalls arms large with tattoos his beard
got longer each year, and slowly grayer for I would see him everywhere for many
years once I was every where, who would bring his huge mover into the field and
cut it, once or twice to keep the grass alive but not to tall, enough little
storms, and rain. We had lived in parks because they were built where grass
was, and we tended it. Long before the grass farms, and sod parks quick
manufactured put together communities, we lived in a more next door to nature
life even though we were the step into the District of Columbia
I remember every word my Great
grand mother Katherine Ernst said to me. I want to interject this now for it
puts bearing to where I was going, not that I had any idea, at that time and
until just recently it bares strong words for this time, and the one Great Grandma
spoke about. We being a list of possibilities us to be chosen in the gold and
brown striped station wagon that carried the Fisher family Aunt Irean my dad’s
sister, Uncle Jim my cousins Becky, Mary, Mark, and I. The station wagon was
one of those grand editions with an extra seat that flipped up in back so if
the back window was open you could see out and were just a few inches above the
front riders, also it was the 70’s so seat belts were a kind of, turbulent
weather and all, like the blinking lights on the fasten seat belt signs on an
airplane for I would get a mental imagine of this any time some one would say
fasten your seat ever since I could remember on planes I would stare at the
flashing lights as a child amazed when the captain talked for as usual Mom or
Dad could sometimes get me to visit the
captain and the cockpit of the air plane, so I would feel a personal connection
eyes to the lights and sometimes with wings pined to my chest. The road was a
long drive just about two hours or so back to the “Ernst Farm’ still what
remained passed down for generations.
We piled out of the car and headed
out to the back yard. Great Grandma Katherine Ernst had a huge garden which
required grandchildren and great grandchildren to keep the many rows of vegetables,
planted and tended, weeded and hoed, and finally picked. I was on my knees, and
it was a big garden: you see it was a big task and Great grandma led it. It was
unspoken we should work as long, or longer than she did. We did. It was green
bean day, and we must of picked for hours harvesting all forms of vegs, but
mostly green beans. The earth was soft and well shaded for the beans had grown
little mini canapés with there leaves, and getting under them to pick was well
suited for a young boy. Picking green beans is pretty simple and I could get my
finger moving pretty quick, Mark would be in one row; I another, and Mary
another, so naturally we raced in spurts. There were a lot of rows. The sun
began it’s slow decent in the sky and we all washed out side. We were finally
able to play and mini goof until dinner. It was before dinner Great grandma
called us to the house. Mark, Mary and I after Aunt Irean went and spoke to
her; for it was a choice of hers who would be in her area. I say area, for her
living area, front living room past the kitchen were you could look down on the
very field we just had been picking in was nestled deeper in the house. You
know when your at the movies and they use that real old type faded black and
white just a touch of bright back light. That was what her room looked like as
the sun spilled across the red carpet, but first it had to get through all the
photos. Each one of her fourteen children, all their descendants into four
generations the newest and brightest color Polaroid picks in new frames lay,
spread amongst the old black and white wrapper in ornate silver,
porcelain, or glass fully engulfed the
room, along side was a picture of the president with a real happy birthday
signature for turning one hundred years old.
Great grandma sat in an old blue
chair which was in contrast to the pinkish red ornate wall paper were it not
for the white lace over lays that covered its back and sides. She had a still
about her all the time, and never a wasted movement. She was tall under six
feet by a few inches with long strong arms, and wide hips under her mild
flowered dress, and slip. Her hair was long and tied behind her head, and her
face was long oval with a soft nose and
mouth with eyes just of a gray sort, with a far away look all the time, all the
time whether she was saying hello as we entered the room and paid our respects,
wearing her spectacles, or telling a story. This was my first time since I was
real small that I had meet her, and my first time ever at the farm house. She
looked at me watching as I looked at all the pictures and really old things not
daring to disturb any thing, for it lay sacred like an alter. She motioned us
to seat. We did and I blurted out, “Is that really the president’s signature?”
as I pointed to the picture sitting next to her. She sat and smiled back, like
a treasure was about to be found and then regaining more poseur mixed with
humility. “Yes,”
“And that one to?” I quick as a
button pointed to John Wayne. She replied in nod, then leaning forward she
rattled through a list of names, some presidents, or some other famous persons
of such and such. I being a kid had no idea who some of the big names she
spilled out as memories seeming just a hand reach away came back to her. I
think she had a memory like mine and it spanned a century, well almost. I said,
“How far back can you remember/” We really weren’t supposed to ask questions,
and my natural curiosity to know things took a hold of me and I was out of
control. Mark and Mary we still sitting on the couch but I had been up at the
end of great grandma finger as she pointed to each name. Marry and Mark had
seen this room several times, and had herd some of great grandma’s stories. I
had not.
She leaned back in her chair, and
began. “I can go back. She started, “I lived through two world wars, and the
turn of the century. I seen so many presidents and have been able to vote for a
bunch of them after we won the right to vote” “ I remember most of all back
then even as a young girl. The war had been over for almost”, She paused and
looked at us as our faces got a look of confusion. “The Civil War didn’t just
finish we had reconstruction to do everything was a mess, and the work was
still going. Boy everybody was working, the mothers all gathered to feed the
men, for new roads, bridges, buildings, farming, everything needed doing. Those
fat cats, they took a lot right from the beginning so it took ten to twenty
years to really get anything going, so we all had to work, everybody, but we
did it together. We all worked together we gathered on some nights and had
great dances, all the musicians, would bring their instruments, and we would
have a time. But the next day we were all working again. It wasn’t for yourself
we worked, we worked for everybody, and everybody had a job, and everybody new
each other, we all shared the work on all the farms, as the men did their part.
We had to share and receive helping each other we had communities, well a whole
country that still needed rebuilding. It took those first ten or so years for
folks to start getting along again, and at first everyone waited for the
government to make the difference right here at home.” She paused and looked
out the window again, “At least that’s what my mom told me, not complaining
about the work but just telling her daughter why everybody decided to start
working together, and why. It was out of necessity. We had to do our part.” ‘Things
as I remember didn’t start really getting get up and running, schools,
universities, the whole system again until after the turn of the century, then
the industrial revolution started, and again everybody had jobs, people started
moving to the cities. Yep things took a while, then a World War took men away
again, in stead of our men dying at home our men went off fighting across the
sea. She stood up and pressed down her dress, and said, “Well let’s all go we
got some more work to do before dinner.” Some things you never forget, and like
how good the green beans were after we picked them and had them for dinner.
I remember being so hungry in the
park and we would go to the “graham cracker lady” for graham crackers and
Twinkles would get a bone unless I was real hungry then he would get half and
half for me or another time when I wanting some gum like the other kids I
picked up a piece of gum of the sandy ground that still had that bubble gum
flavor. I chewed and spit for hours until all the sand was gone and I could
blow bubbles for the rest of the day, the sticky kind before the quick draw
“Hubba Bubba” no stick and “Bubblishish” had there television war. My mom
wondered where I got the gum?
All in all I had a magical youth
with a very loving family a huge loving family. It was my place in this family
that gave way to the pressures of racism and prejudice when we jumped the plane
and flew to Minnesota and up state New York
I remember the night I had a dream
about the superman episode where the Martians were climbing around with a
glowing ball. I was so scared because Superman was sick, and I yelled “No!” in
my dream twisting my head on my pillow that was the only two episode old black
and white series Superman, and during the twisting and me being brought out of
my now nightmare my eye lid turned inside out which I thought was the coolest
thing ever because I boy in class could flip his eyelid and that was awesome
for that day at class every lid flip he was the center of attention. The third
grade had its moments and this was one of mine. The next day I could flip my
left right eye lid and I became the secondary center of attention that day. Another
was when I counted 72 farts on my chair desk set up. The kind where there is
just a seat and desk in a frame. The other boys
goaded me into smelling it and we all went “ewww’ me included as I
mocked dying from the over whelming booty funk concentrated on my chair. I
still remember what I had for dinner that made me become the king of farts for
no one else came close to my number of farts in the twenty’s was the highest. I
had Mom’s meat loaf with catsup, mashed potatoes and green beans with oil and
vinegar.
I was always on the out side an
anomaly, lost in inner thoughts always dreaming of being the hero, to be seen
for the first time the cool kid, so they could and most of all to be white, to
not be me, with brown big curly hair in a bush left me in wanting in a deep way,
in a quiet form, that no-one except myself could understand. I looked out and
wonder why so often, I could not understand social discord as a child. I was
social discord, the very focus of it, its judgment, it’s scorn and fear, it’s
broken prejudices, neighborhoods, race identity that all that well that
was just to much for me. I just knew
where I stood, I wanted all that white was, not who I was, one definitely
confused kid.
I remember the day in the third
grade when a helicopter came and landed on the high field behind Takoma Elementary
School
We paraded up the stairs the
principle and other officials in tow all a splendor for the event we were all 1st
2nd and 3rd grade classes, everybody, we climbed a sort
of set of old gray cement stairs all in a long line behind the baseball diamond
cage back then, in this snake like fashion we surrounded the entire field and
the principle stepped out with a Bull horn, waving his hand to signal his
teaches to quiet the mini voices that whispered back and forth like the un-mowed
green grass surrounding the field. His voice rarely herd except for the loud
speaker, cracked across the field with a sharp report against the trees. “We
have a special guest. Everybody stay back in your lines and hold hands with
your buddy.” He announced with excitement, his glasses reflecting in the sun,
and we all stood in a hushed moment looking at the road or maybe expecting some
exciting athletic display. The air began to shudder, and a thunder attacked the
hills on each side, and the filed turned into ground zero for this chaos, it
was a helicopter, and was coming straight at us. The helicopter was sleek and
white with yellow and blue accents, loud, so very loud, ears were being cupped
every where, the lines began to break forgetting our last command in the
audible onslaught. Then the real wind began, my buddies at this time lost their
ground and backed towards a gathering ring about the teacher, the ranks moral
broken and the fear setting in as the grass flattened.
I stood in awe. The helicopter like a
great white yellow blue flecked dragon fly was atop us the field, the very
ground and trees shuddering in the torrent of its wings, black blur above and
around moving faster than the eye could focus, the ground was hit by wind and
the grass lay flat in homage to the attacker above. I stood rooted arms held
strong, legs planted leaning into the wind; I suddenly a lone figure as the
lines broke each child jumping into the teachers grasp, my hand buddy long gone,
stolid in the wind and sand blasting, I stood, in awe. A great readiness,
amazement I looked on as the helicopter in one last whoosh of air, which sent
torrents of dust, grass, and teachers grapping for their hats with one arm and
holding the huddled masses around them, yet all that was in the back round for
me I looked on watching everything I could the pilot with his head set behind
the glass wind shield the 2nd rotor on the back became apparent as a
the dragon turned away I saw the grass twist under the second rotor now in full
view, then gently like landing on a reed it was down. The dragon kept
breathing, the wings kept going, a rhythm of motion and sound I watched
perplexed as the blades slowly began to stop, the sound to, by woofs’ and whines.
A strange back wards, forwards display, several times as the rotors stopped
cutting the air, their black blades begin to draw lines against the tree line
and finally before the blades even came to a stop I looked down and there was
the pilot getting out while the blades were still moving, he was an older man,
had lines and a mustache, baseball cap with a few pins that glinted the light,
and just a way of calm about him. He was master of his flying dragon, the sky,
and the future we soon might be a part of. It was just a show, a visit, a
reality many wouldn’t face, and hold their ground, not like him, or I, one day.
As fast as he came he was gone, and
so was the torrent, the awe, the play in the skies like a dragon, it became
something else soon, but for now a little longer I would live the life as a
boy. I would run the streets of Takoma
Park Maryland Jacquie Park
Thor
"Happy Easter" World happy jousness for all peoples.
