“Selma Alabama, 1965’ a Turning Point”

 

            I was speaking with my father Jerome Ernst, who had witnessed first hand the “Confrontation in Selma Alabama” during the height of the civil rights movement. His passion of his experience in Selma and the pride that he felt of being there and, furthermore a player at a pivotal moment in the civil rights struggle is evident as he begins telling me quotes from a Catholic magazine the Extension for which he wrote and received a journalism award. He reads the words of the people he interviewed allowing for the emotion of the interview to spill out in his voice. I’ve been kicking my self for not having a tape recorder going, for I was hearing a part of history.  Even after 40 years the excitement of that day still poured forth in the telling of the event.

            I asked him to send me the article which he did as well as letters he received. These caught my eye and I became engrossed in the mind set of that day. Out of thirteen letters three of these using quotes like “Why doesn’t he take his band of imposters to Moscow” accuses Dr. King of being a communist and have links to communist organizers. One even goes so far as to state that the civil rights movement is controlled by the communists. The major two issues that are discussed besides civil rights, lay with discrediting Dr. King and his supporters by tying him to communist activity, and the other revolves around the actions of priests, nuns, and/or the directives handed down by the “brass” of the Catholic church. Over half of the responses speak on the remarkable actions of priests and nuns marching side by side with Afro-American’s and the considered radical King and his supporters. My father explained how even within the Catholic Church there was argument and conflicting orders and opinion about what was happening. Archbishop Toolen, who had Selma as his local responsibility, gave strict orders that none of his parishes would march. Dad laughed at the memory and explained how priests and nuns followed his directive about not marching; instead they organized or filled other positions that were vital to the operation. Archbishop Lucey of San Antionio gave praises to the marching nuns, on the other hand Cardinal Cushing who hailed from Boston, supported the march and issues, yet not the actions of the nuns joining in the marching and putting themselves in the way of harm. Stating that “nuns stay in the class room where they belong. I found on curios letter from a nun who speaks about Sister Mary Peter marching. I find her words powerful yet, for me confusing for I cannot tell whether she commends the actions of her sister or condemns them.  I do feel from her short two sentences that she is a woman who recognizes suffering and feels a spiritual calling to alleviate the pain of those who need help. The biggest squawk that compels a verbal response reflects the underlying unrest of a moral Christian community place in a struggle that is at fruition. The fact that a major established institution as the Catholic Church began its involvement in a social issue that was tearing at the moral conscience of America was a social milestone.

Thus began the first involvement of Northern White churches and their congregations in the civil rights “battle” movement. I say “battle” for things had become violent and bloody. Truth that some people don’t want to hear is that an un-seen player in the civil rights actions was white people were on the front lines. As we look back from the social conscious of today; we are incensed and confused by the voice and picture that they represent, that lay in the south. Even as we see these people were Christians and active in their Catholic Parish, their fear and resistance to change was a shadow of the social unrest that lay ever present in the South of the 60s.

THOR

Christmas morning in the Ernst house is.... The Eye of Thor Chp. Sixty Days without Rain

 The Eye of Thor
 Chp. "Sixty Days without Rain"

 

            Christmas morning in the Ernst house is always full of joy and measured excitement. The presents are bought with thoughtfulness, love, and wrapped with all the joy that the holidays can muster. Socks, toys, video games, sweaters, underwear, pants, Christmas cards lining the string, laughs, jewelry, joyous thanks followed by hugs all around with wrapping paper carefully folded for next year stacked up by Sherlynn with her hand resting softly on top, my father always acting surprised to the tenth degree and still more so when a gift hits home, are some of the usual scenes in the Ernst family Christmas. I watched with a quiet reserve for this Christmas in the way of gifts was more for my little brothers and sisters than for I. The gift I was given in an envelope a hundred dollars to give me a start. I’m not complaining; I just missed the personal touch. Sherlynn always made crepes with strawberries melted butter with powdered sugar or her baked custard with raisins and cinnamon, and Dad still had occasion to make his spicy sausages in the cast iron pan.

            After breakfast Dad loaded me into the “landlord sedan” and took me to 8 Philadelphia. He explained that he was selling the house and only had one tenant left an Afro-American family living on the first floor. We made our way up stairs to the second floor. Dad with a thirteen inch television and I carrying my bags, and moved into one of the rooms vacated, yet holding a bed. I scrounged up furniture from around the house and made myself at home the best I could. Dad said “I’ll see you tomorrow. You can use the truck to look for work” and was gone. Anticlimactic is the word.

            I decided to go and visit Wayne an old friend the next day. I called Wayne and we made arrangements to get together and play some "Seven". We met at his house and then rode over to a field by Sligo Creek parkway. The snow still covered the ground and it had an icy cover which added to the slickness of the two inches of snow. The game Seven requires agility, throwing skill, and speed. I was always the fastest of the group who played, but it was 2001 and had been a while since I had played a serious game. Wayne was always a serious player. I had my work cut out in the icy cold. The field was a long rectangle with a baseball diamond at my end extra tricky running ground for a sprinter. The all too familiar pine trees watching and the park names still on brown log posts of a sort with lettering.  We both could launch a Frisbee for over 200 feet and add that tricky spin that could put a fly on the end of a throw; there bye, confusing our opponent. Wayne’s first throw was a high lofted floater which I had to run towards him to catch. I sent back a missile driving him to the right. I caught him unaware and his feet sped to catch traction, and by the time his hand was in place for the catch it wasn’t ready for the impact. I scored one zip. He would not fall for that again. His next shot was a sort of payback and sent me sprinting for the baseball diamond over my shoulder. I was off at full speed sending ice and snow flying from my feet as I caught a mental line for catching the throw that was just about to pass me. My arm snapped into the air to snag the Frisbee as it passed me. I got it at the same split second my feet hit the dirt on the baseball diamond, braking. Bad timing; for I had to make a choice hold the Frisbee or windmill my arms to stay upright; I chose the latter. The score was now one to one. The throwing became conservative for a few tosses while we tested each other for we had not played for years. Again the throwing turned competitive and we pulled out our best throws; long sloping high angled flyers, drifting shots that increased with speed as they fell, drives that crested just as they reached their target, and after a half an hour the score was six to six. Wayne has a way of spinning his throw so hard it begins a long curve that reacts almost like a boomerang, and I hesitated reading the throw a little longer than I should. I took off to run down a long throw that was curving against the trees; my feet beat the ground as fast as I could get them to go without slipping, and I jumped reaching out to snag the throw. My cold hands were to slow to contract fully and the Frisbee snagged my thumb and bounced off my fingers dancing across the back of my hand and out of reach. I reached seven and Wayne won.

We loaded back into the Camry and headed back to the house. I asked about Bracken, his brothers and sisters and his mom. He told me how his step kids Summer and Kyle had good jobs. Wayne’s life was full now and us spending the time we used to when I was just an adolescent had passed. We stopped at his house and he made assurances that we would spend some more time together, but things had changed. Life in Takoma Park in the place I called home was not the same time had passed on without me over the last five years. I would begin to see how much over the next couple of months as I began to find farther and farther from my heart.

New Year’s Day came and Dad didn’t want me over for dinner. I was pretty bummed until the neighbors below me asked me for dinner. I had not spent much time with Afro-Americans in my life, so my coming to dinner with them meant more to me than just a meal, and I would learn more than watching them on T.V.  The lady of the house was of slim build with oval face toned in deep chocolate with bright eyes lined with worry and smiles. A blue bandana covered her head. Her daughter was a bouncy young lady of fourteen with a lighter complexion than her mom and her hair in pig tails. The man of the house was about forty five years old, dark complexion with distinguishing gentle eyes and a hint of snow over his ears. We all sat around a small chipped linoleum covered particle wood table with brass painted legs in the downstairs kitchen. We all bowed our heads for a moment of prayer. I quietly thanked God for a place to be. I waited patiently for the family to gather their plates and began loading mine. The mother told me to get a little of everything, and she made special attention to the greens and black-eyed peas. “The greens count for dollars and the peas for coins.”

“Really” I relied.

She in turn said, “This is a traditional meal all our peoples eat. It is for a financial blessing for the new year.” I found while sitting there I mused about the origin of a tradition hewed out of a history of a people who forever were struggling and praying for the future of their own. I began to imagine if I had been raised by an Afro-American family in Washington D.C. during the turbulent years of the 70s. I imagined living in a state of insecurity over shadowed by the hope of a people. The way I feel now in Oregon I guess matches it, but then I could only get a wisp of understanding. I came from a family of security where merits built upon each other over the years never lending to a place of poverty. Afro-Americans have lived as a people in a state of poverty in comparison against the white majority, but what they were enriched with could not be bought or sold it was hope and faith. In this they were rich beyond measure. I would guess you would have to be to under go the struggles and pains that plague a community that was the American scapegoat for over a century. The height of the racial dogma truly lay in the 1800’s when the Afro-American race was supposed to be inferior to whites, and lay across the beliefs of a community that wished to believe in their divine elitism. What I saw over this dinner with a working class Afro-American family reminded me of the true strength of a people, a willingness to recognize suffering and a way of life that defeated this suffering by rising above it. My dinner with them became a gift beating down my own blues and what would soon be evident as my homesickness for Oregon.  

I would go to the house for dinners for a couple of days now and then until Dad asked me to not come over unless I called first. He told me I needed to be working on getting a job full time. I had been but my father always thought I wasn’t doing enough. It had been just short of a week of me being home and doubts of my abilities were already in play. I told my Dad I would have a job by Saturday. He replied, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He was forever the skeptic when I came to me. I began my scout for jobs in the rich downtown section of Bethesda Maryland bordering Potomac Maryland were the houses were priced well over a million dollars. I stopped at every establishment that looked promising; dropping my resume’ off and making my case describing my skills in the field of culinary arts. It was closing on the end of the week and I had not received a call back yet. I took off Friday because this was a bad day in restaurants to apply; for, the house was very busy and spent its energy devoted to the service of its guests. I was out at it early Saturday which I consider the best day to get hired in restaurants. The managers were sitting back enjoying the slow day and had a good Friday night which left them sitting on their financial laurels for the week. I stopped at Rock Bottom Brewery’s and then went by La Miche’ a southern French styled establishment. I went it and spoke to Chef Bernard who had been the Chef a La Miche’s for twenty five years. He passed on me having no local experience for five years. I was outside the door when Jeri ran out to call me back. She was the dinning room manager and after just a few questions one of which was “Do you know how to wait on tables?” I was hired as a waiter. I started Monday at six. I went outside and whooped after walking for a half a block as to keep my quiet professional reserve visually intact until out of sight of my new restaurant. I called home and asked if I could come for dinner. Dad said okay.

I showed just before six as dinner was served at six thirty as it had been for years. I parked the truck out front and made my way into the house to offer Sherlynn help with dinner. She said no but Dad was outside raking leaves and needed help.   I went out grabbed and a rake and went down in the yard to help Pops. We started to make piles around the huge yard. I began talking to Dad about this concept Peace-Up and what it was really about. I tried to impart the concept of strength and community brotherhood that could solidify a people toward creating better lives for those around them. My father always dubious of what he considered one of my half baked ideas that I forever was coming up with. After awhile dinner was called and we went into eat.

Conversation was about classes or what new and exciting extracurricular activity the kids were involved in. I just listened for a while with interjections like, “Pass the salt” or “Can I have some more potatoes?” I then piped up with, “I had been looking over the menu and was really impressed by the fare at La Miche’. I should be able to make some good money on tips.”

My Dad comes back with a reply, “Well don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

“O yeah I reply. I got a job. I told you I’d have a job by Saturday” The whole table erupts with praise and a “Well that’s great.” from my father.

I began to fall into a routine working at night and then began doing work for my father during the day when the weather started getting better. The winter was unusually mild that year and sunny days in the 50s surrounded the Washington D.C. area. I had some heavy work to do and needed to hire some young men to help with falling a tree, splitting, and moving the wood to my parents’ house and other lawn care actions that required back strength. I was at the store and a young fellow impressed me with the respect he showed me at the store over some random street ethics situation. I asked him if he wanted a job and he replied yes and his friend was interested as well. We introduced ourselves and walked around the corner to my house on 8 Philadelphia were I told them to meet me there the next morning at nine in clothes that could get dirty and ready to do some work. Mike and Maurice showed the next morning, and we piled into the Chevy and went to work. Dad had bought himself a real chainsaw a Mcculloch with a 28 inch bar which made tackling the tree fun. I had a sixty foot ladder and climbed up to the top and then into an 85foot Tulip Poplar tree climbing a few more feet, tied the chain saw in and began my first cut. A limb about a foot diameter was just over the one I was standing on and had to come off before I could top the tree. I had the boys sling a rope over the branch and told them to be ready to pull when I yelled down. The chain saw ripped to life after one pull and I dug into the limb. The limb was about 40 percent of half the weight of the top of the tree so I knew the tree itself would give a big kickback when the limb went and I should have a go hold before it went. I made it part way through on a wedge slant and began my second cut. I had reached about halfway when I heard the first moan of the tree. I yelled down, “Get ready…’ I made a little more of a cut and heard a crack. I pulled the chainsaw up, grabbed the tree with one arm and bellowed, “Now.” CRACK the wood gave way and the limb went hurtling to the ground in a big crash. The tree shuddered and swayed a little not as much as I had anticipated. Next was the top. I climbed back down the ladder to retrieve the rope. I climb back to a position above the last some 70 plus feet in the air tying in the rope to the top of the tree. I made my way back down to a lower branch and aimed a deep wedge cut into the wood that aimed the top away from my perch. On the second cut I gave room for a drop to lessen the force against the tree when the top fell on my next cut. I made the boys keep tension on the line while I made my last cut. The tree moaned and shuddered like it was waking from a long giant sleep. I continued to cut and crack the whole tree gave a shake. “Now” I yelled when the stresses got too much and with a huge boom the top snapped right through the drop cut and toppled over as the boys almost turned and ran with the rope in their hands pulling the branch as far from the tree as possible. I hung on. The tree swayed and shook at the same time doing its best in protesting by attempting to shake me off like a squirrel on a branch. I held on. As quickly as the violent ride started it stopped. I continued to hug the coarse bark for a while then I lowered down the chain saw and made my way to the ladder climbing down. I reached the bottom and they both came over looking at me with their eyes kind of wide but with a mischievous look hidden behind like a youth gets when he has blown something up with a fire cracker. I looked back and said I’m going to stay on the ground for a little while. They both chuckled.

I saw bucked up the rest into discs, and we began splitting the wood. I had a nice disc with a little ledge at the back making a perfect wall to place a log on a nice flat surface without it falling down. I left this to Mike who had a pretty good swing and tackled the discs with Maurice stacking the truck. Anybody who saw me with a ten pound sledge would say, “That’s why they call you Thor.” The way I swing a sledge hammer is by using not only my whole body but also the momentum of the steel. I send the hammer on a swing behind my right shoulder allowing it momentum to pull my arms up over my head and then I snag the handle causing a sling shot reverse adding gravity to the equation pulling down with my whole body until the head of the sledge impacts with the wedge. If I have done it well my feet leave the ground by a few inches. In doing this I can blow through a full round with just two sets of the wedge.

 We would finish for the day and I would pay them in cash, then we would be off to 8 Philadelphia to hang for a while. I would be eating dinner from my favorite Chinese and cheese steak house “Pete’s” which was on Maple Avenue when I grew up and then moved to Langley Plaza and smoke a bowl of weed. I got my hands on an old Sega Genesis system and all three Road Rash games. The boys would hook up their cell phones with their ear pieces and began doing their thing. That’s the way “G’s” ran back in the day while taking turns on the game with me.

cont...
THOR