Friday, April 15, 2016
Several years ago while living in Coastal Georgia, hot flashes and global warming took control of the upwardly moving saturation of my body. That’s when my husband Babe and I began looking for a summer getaway in the mountains. It took a while to find the right town with just the right character (and characters), but finally our search paid off when a Saluda blip appeared on our personal radar screen.
Laying claim to a main thoroughfare not much longer than a football field, shops and restaurants line up on one side of the street. A defunct set of railroad tracks stands sentry between the business side and children playing outdoors on swing sets and monkey bars in the town’s well-used playground. Squeals of their laughter can be heard even when it snows. I love that sound.
Weekends often bring strangers to our midst, curious to find out how a town the size of ours has survived the onslaught of high tech as it heads toward the isolation of all people everywhere. The visitors receive friendly smiles of welcome and easy chatter, but it is difficult for any of us to portray Saluda in mere words.
“We believe Saluda is a special place,” it might be said to a stranger. Or, “Saluda is like a modern-day Brigadoon —definitely magical.”
Indeed, none of the residents have lived here for over two hundred years as in the mythical Brigadoon, but Saluda has no problem claiming to be the town time forgot. That, in itself makes it a haven for throwbacks who still remember how things used to be back in the day.
In Saluda it is rare to see people in restaurants texting the person seated across the table from them. They talk to each other using real words. I once even witnessed a boldly snatching a smart phone away from her child. “This is called real time. Get used to it,” she admonished. Good for her!
Saluda people don’t do a lot of texting because they would rather have conversations. They still speak and spell the language learned in grammar school and they don’t care what’s going on in the Silicon Valley. Saluda people don’t give a hoot about fiber optics; they don’t allow electronics to rule their lives, inhibit their conversations or steal their humanity.
Friendly folks chat with each other while munching on an old fashioned hamburger, hot dog or a made from scratch milkshake served up in a large metal ice cream shaker.
When visitors wander into one of our local cafés, it’s not unusual for them to be invited to sit for a spell. That's when a local might tell him about all the new grandbabies born the week before or give an update on the Historical Society project. The stranger learns about the kind of produce sold at the Friday tailgate market. “The veggies are terrific this year,” he will hear. “Best doggone corn and tomatoes since 1945.”
There could be a report on the Saluda Dog Society’s recent fundraiser when enough money was donated to build a new shelter. Information might be shared that local thespians plan to perform, “It’s a Wonderful Life” during the month of December.
A tear or two will grace the eyes of an older resident when he reports, “It’s official. A community barbeque will be held in the park annually with all proceeds going to the Wounded Warriors Project. God Bless America.”
Saluda folks still use Ma Bell to ask about a friend’s son serving in the Middle East and they still phone each when they just feel like saying, “Hey, how’s your mama and ‘em?”
They support the lonely veteran struggling to adjust to a life without legs. They sit in church next to the widow who feels abandoned since the love of her life can no longer be by her side. They attend town meetings; they donate blood to the Red Cross and they always, always vote.
Saluda people figured out a long time ago that when we care and nurture each other we make a difference.
It took us a few years to settle permanently in this magical place that is not Brigadoon but comes pretty darn close. What took us so long?
Brigadoon, Brigadoon, blooming under sable skies.
Brigadoon, Brigadoon, there my heart forever lies.
Let the world grow cold around us, let the heavens cry above!
Brigadoon, Brigadoon, in thy valley, there'll be love!
Monday, April 4, 2016
The cold, black Edisto River snakes through the small southern town where my brother and I grew up. There was a cove in the river floored with pebbles and that is where we learned to swim. Warm and familiar, we cut our teeth on those stones, and it was the place to which we returned when we were no longer children ... if only in our hearts.
When our swim teacher was much younger she trained for the Olympics. Imagine our delight when she accepted the Red Cross’s offer to become the official Edisto River Swim Instructor. Kids in our town proudly sported a lifesaver patch earned by diving off platforms and swimming against the strong current. It was a rite of passage.
I will never forget the day I was learning the Dead Man’s Float. It was in the roped off kid's section, the official dividing line between safety and peril. Beyond the ropes, deeper water rumbled past on its way to the Atlantic Ocean.
I was under water when a whistle shriek made me jerk my head up in time to see the swim teacher plunging over a barrel and diving headfirst into the deep water, slicing it with first one muscular arm and then the other.
She was clad in a black Catalina swimsuit designed to make her look skinny and a black bathing cap giving her the appearance of a loggerhead turtle as she cut through the water like the Gold Medalist to which she had once aspired.
She headed downriver toward a small, black child struggling to keep his head above water. As soon as his limp hand disappeared into the blackness for what could have been forever, she caught up with him and grabbed his little body before it floated out of sight.
She pulled him out of the river, placed him on the muddy banks and proceeded to give the child mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. When enough water squirted from the little boy's mouth to put out a grass fire, I let go of the breath I had been holding in.
It all happened quickly, but the moment was captured in my mind where it has remained as a permanent snapshot, a defining moment leaving me with a lifelong, formidable respect for that cold-hearted river. A child’s near-fatal drowning was valid testimony that the river was a killer in disguise but our swim instructor an unbiased heroine who did what she was born to do.
The people in my small Southern town, as well as my experiences there, nurtured and shaped me into the person I was born to be. Even today, it continues to suckle me and will do so all the days of my life.
While it may be true that Rocky Bottom was only a shallow area of the Edisto River, over the course of my life it became a touchstone in my soul that could take me home.
Scrappy and Boo Sanford, the brother and sister who narrate the stories of Rocky Bottom, are fictional entities of my imagination. If any of the people places or events seem even remotely familiar to the reader, it may be because many small southern towns are made up of people who love football, fried chicken, barbeque and ancestors. That pretty much describes the folks who season my made-up town of Greenburg, South Carolina.
I tossed and turned before finally getting out of bed and padding softly to the kitchen for a glass of water. A light was on in the breakfast room and I wondered who besides me was having a hard time sleeping.
Daddy was sitting alone at the kitchen table in front of what was left of a bottle of Jack Daniels. His shoulders were slumped, his head bent.
I stood back, shielded by the night shadows. A part of me wanted to put my arms around the man who had been my hero and who any fool could see needed comforting. But I was young and ignorant of adult pain, so I remained in the shadows.
I felt his sadness and it hurt me, but something big had happened to me on that long, horrible day, something unexpected and still very raw. A new piece of me had reared its head from the cocoon existence of self-absorbed adolescence and this new feeling compelled me to keep still.
When six hundred black college students publicly opposed the status quo, it changed everything for me. If, years later I wrote my life story, I would be obliged to say, “That day in the Square is when everything I had ever believed shifted.”
They had marched in silence knowing they would be taunted and sneered at by intolerant, frightened white people. Prepared to suffer physical abuse or God knows what, they kept on because they believed in their cause. I caught only a measure of their passion, but it was provocative and I was determined to protect a smattering of the transfused spirit I had stolen from them.
I would no longer be a naive young girl when, through a different set of eyes, I was able to be more generous in my judgment of Daddy’s involvement that fateful day. Generosity of spirit came easily when I thought of the students, however. I had sensed the courage it took for them to demand a better way of life for themselves and their people, but Daddy’s participation in it was harder to understand. He had followed orders instead of his innate sense of fairness.
And therein lies the rub.
In my mind’s eye, I can see Daddy giving the order to use fire hoses on those students. It makes me sad to remember, but I can do it. The thing is, he is long dead and I am left with only a pocketful of memories of the man who was once my hero.
Other people can do the blaming, the criticizing. Let them. I choose to remember him as a human being. I choose to keep the vision of my father as he sat alone at the kitchen table in the middle of the night weeping for having played a part in man’s inhumanity to man.
That image is enough to remind me that we are all fallible. Even parents.
It has been a long time since I witnessed first hand a not so peaceful protest demonstration in my hometown, a long time since my unintentional comeuppance. A long time since the day my perception of the world shifted.
Now when I catch myself gazing through the windows of my past, I find it difficult to understand how I could ever have gone along with a myopic community that patently ignored the basic rights of too many of its own.
It shames me that I never questioned the existence of separate drinking fountains and toilet facilities. I was aware that black children were relegated to swim in the river away from where we swam and played, but it was not until years later that I challenged the injustice. I, like many Southerners, accepted the status quo and it will forever be my cross to bear.
I know times change, issues change, and sometimes even people change. Diversity makes our lives sing and not ding. But needed change, whether domestic or far-reaching, must be purged from the predilection of ideas and beliefs handed down from parent to child. To be effective, it must claw away at the marrow of our primal souls.
My hometown is no longer the small, sheltered place where my brother and I were acquainted with every backyard and all the Chinaberry trees within a six-block radius. We knew all the kids, their parents and most of their aunts and uncles. We knew no strangers then.
Some landmarks are left, but they become fewer in number as time marches on. The big clock in front of The First National Bank still stands. The statue of the Confederate Soldier that once stood proudly in the town square, however, has been taken down. In its place, a patchwork quilt of multi-colored azaleas now covers the area each spring as a gentle reminder that beauty can be found in diversity. The tired old Civil War fought and refought long after Appomattox has lost some ground.
Schools I attended for twelve of my young years managed to survive the unrest and subsequent rebellion of the turbulent Sixties. They have since been rebuilt, renamed and revitalized. I don’t recognize them today.
When I return, I don’t know where to go. There are no remembered haunts where I might bump into old friends; no special gathering places where I pigged out on hot dogs and hamburgers and shag danced till I dropped. There are no familiar places left for me go.
The river bridge is still there, rotten to the core and condemned to die as slowly as so many other worn out traditions. The kid area with its green water barrels disappeared long ago. The wooden platforms off which both children and dogs loved to jump, no longer exist.
Rocky Bottom itself was dredged and done away with more than twenty years ago for some harebrained, probably bureaucratic reason. The shallow area floored with tiny pebbles where hundreds of kids learned how to dogpaddle is no longer available to any children, black or white.
The thing that remains pretty much the same is the Edisto River itself. It is still swift and deadly, and it still moves toward an inevitable end. That frightening, black body of water grasps and holds onto bits and pieces of remembered childhoods, the carefree days so many of us spent down at Rocky Bottom.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Honor: honesty and integrity in one’s beliefs and actions. — BSA Pledge
Lt. General E.G. “Buck” Shuler is Chairman of the Board of Trustees for the Mighty Eighth Museum and he is my childhood friend. I am a captive audience as the General leads us on a tour of the museum, speaks of significant fighter planes or points to a photo of a celebrated WWII Ace. My friend wears a crown of white hair these days, but it only takes a blink for me to remember him as the redheaded boy he was when we were kids.
At fifteen, maybe sixteen-years-old, Buck’s tall, lanky body is erect. He holds his chin high as the Scout Master pins a red, white and blue BSA medal over my his heart. Having earned his twenty-first merit badge, he is being elevated to Eagle Scout, future leader, a man who will one day make a difference in the world.
The expressions I see on the faces of his parents reflect the pride they feel in their son’s early accomplishments. They know how difficult it was for him to earn merit badges while juggling schoolwork, football and an active student’s social life. They raised their son to be unafraid of challenges gave him a caring heart and are proud of their endowments.
Someone in the group behind me sneezes and I am quickly brought back to the here and now as my old friend tells us about the gallant Mighty Eighth aviators who have served our country since I was two-years-old. Proud and happy to credit his compatriots, Buck pointedly shies away from mentioning his own, not insignificant contributions.
Buck Shuler, outstanding graduate of The Citadel and former Commander of the Eighth Air Force, was first a Boy Scout. It occurs to me that his early training cemented and honed his sense of commitment. Perhaps his early training brought him to leadership positions at The Citadel and then continued to guide him toward an illustrious military career. For sure, the BSA Motto remained with him as a reminder to do his best, to do his duty to God and country and to help others.
This former Boy Scout flew 107 combat missions over North Vietnam, the Republic of Vietnam and Laos while I was tucking two baby boys safely into bed each night. My son’s first day in kindergarten occurred the day Buck was deployed to Taegu Air Base, South Korea in answer to the USS Pueblo crisis.
In summer, my children and I meandered the South Carolina beaches in search of shark’s teeth while my friend flew F-4C combat support missions in the Korean demilitarized zone. He defended my family and me while I looked for shells, went to parties and took freedom for granted.
I remained safe at home reading books or nagging my husband for squeezing the toothpaste tube in the middle while General Shuler initiated the first air attack on Saddam Hussein in the Persian Gulf.
Because of his strong determination, strength of character and knowledge, it is now possible for people who have taken peace for granted in the past — people like me — to honor the brave men and women who serve in our stead.
General Buck Shuler would be the last one to say that he was a key player in the formation of the Mighty Eighth Air Museum, but he was. And he took on that responsibility even after retiring from the Air Force. He did so for one reason: to honor those who did not take peace for granted.
My friend deserved the Distinguished Service Medal with Oak Leaf Cluster he received, the Legion of Merit with Oak Leaf Cluster, the Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal with five Oak Leaf Clusters, and his Air Force Commendation Medal with Oak Leaf Cluster. He more than earned the Republic of Korea’s Order of National Security Merit Cheonsu Medal, as well as thirteen other decorations and ribbons.
If, however, all of the medals, citations and awards presented to this honorable man should somehow disappear never to be seen again by the naked eye, I suspect one badge would remain stamped forever on his brain. That would be a red, white and blue BSA Eagle Scout medal, pinned over his heart in 1952, faded from his many years of service. Because of his early training, other future leaders have learned from him what it means to make a difference in the world.
General E. G. “Buck” Shuler, Eagle Scout, still soars like an eagle. Scout’s Honor.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
I eagerly await the last hard freeze of the season when the cold, hard earth wakes up and leaps into spring with blooms that proclaim rebirth. It is then that I throw off my overcoat and wander around outside, astonished at the beauty surrounding me.
I was under-astonished years ago when I lived out West. Southern California is overrun with palm trees and bougainvillea and the hills are alive with the blooms of Magnolias. There are Oaks almost as tall and droopy as if they were grown in Charleston. What California doesn’t have, and what I missed the most, were Dogwood trees.
What a shock to discover I was living in a state totally lacking the beauty of a four-cornered, white flowering tree that presents itself each spring in order to remind us of what Easter is all about.
There are no lightning bugs out there, either. On warm summer nights, I gazed out my window in hopes of seeing a lightning bug flicker across the dark sky but it didn't happen. California kids actually go through childhood without ever housing lightning bugs in a Dukes Mayonnaise jar with holes punched in the top.
As the spring seasonal changes began to move toward Easter, I felt emotionally compromised, aching for azaleas and dogwoods mixed with yellow daffodils. My soul longed for a glimpse of the flowers and trees of the South Carolina Low Country.
The exhibition of colorful azaleas and roses at the Edisto Gardens in Orangeburg where I grew up presented a living painting that surpasses my ability to describe. Monet would have loved it. Every shade, hue and color in the Azalea spectrum was surrounded by countless dogwood trees, robust with dramatic blossoms. It was impressive.
Every Easter, church choirs in the area came together to sing at the Sunrise Service held in the midst of the burgeoning gardens. The flowers, discerning their role in the planned program, managed to slash through the fog of early morning light to deliver hope to those of us waiting for the sunrise.
I was always cold arriving at the gardens, even wearing three layers of clothes underneath my choir robe. Folks not in the choir were also dressed in layers as they moved quietly up the hill hoping to find the best perch on which to listen to the music and hear the message of hope. I remember watching them gather together in the dark, greeting one another with a hug or a handshake and always a smile.
What a magnificent sight it was when the sun came up. Standing with other choir members on the slight incline we called a hill, I looked out at a spring bouquet of flowers that stretched over a two-mile radius, a never-ending mural. It was the official nod that welcomed in the new season, rich with the birth of flowers as colorful as Easter Eggs sprouting from grass as green as shamrocks.
We sang, “Up From The Grave He Arose,” “In The Garden,” “On a Hill Far Away,” and other familiar Easter hymns. Friends and neighbors in our little town welcomed Easter as the sun crept up slowly, yawning itself into the newborn day — God’s other gift to humankind.
So there you have it — the reason I look forward to the last cold snap, the final week of shivers, socks and sweaters. I’ll probably fret about the bulbs I’ve put in the ground and I’ll definitely need to pray for the survival of the already stressed out hydrangeas I bought on sale and planted in the back yard.
I will need to rely on what I learned during those cold Easter Sunrise Services when I was a kid. I will have to depend on my early conditioning to fill me once again with faith that our garden, as well as our world, will once again burst into bloom. When I look for the flicker of lightening bugs outside my window I will know that when the morning comes, I will wake to azaleas, dogwoods and yellow daffodils.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
But I have a family and God willing, they will still be here. They will be the ones asking how and why my generation allowed the devastation of our country to happen.
Well, WE didn’t let it happen. Our elected leaders, people we trusted to guard the country's welfare, could have listened to scientific facts.
But they didn't.
They spent insane amounts of money on campaigns instead, money that could have been used to insure a livable planet for my children and grandchildren.
But they didn’t.
They could have insisted on educational programs on energy conservation.
But they didn’t.
They could have chosen to look honestly at the threats facing the world and our responsibility to mankind.
But they didn’t.
What can we do about it now when we are almost out of ammunition? Not much.
The country could come together (for a change) and fight what appears to be the inevitable, but our leaders would need to be on board. They would have to make a commitment to do whatever necessary to insure a livable planet in twenty-five years.
That would be ideal in a perfect world, but sadly there is not much chance of it ever happening in this imperfect world. Egocentric, mean-spirited politicians are interested only in ignoring the obvious because they are more afraid of losing votes than doing the right thing.
In twenty-five years, the world we love today will be history and God will weep.
Friday, February 19, 2016
The following is the last story in my book "Return to Rocky Bottom," told by the narrator, Boo Sandifer. Some call the work creative non fiction, others have called it "faction." I changed names, location and a few small details, but basically the story is very true. It is a story of the times.
When Scrappy came home from college for the Thanksgiving holiday, Mama and Daddy gave him a car as an early Christmas present. It was a black and white Studebaker over six-years-old, but he didn’t care. He treated that car like it was a new T-Bird. Even gave it a name: Tinker Belle, of all things.
He came home again right after Christmas for a few days and seemed determined to badger me to death. Mama told him that I had been moping around all week and she was sick of it.
“So this is the deal, Boo. You are coming with me. Big Brother reporting for duty, here to rescue the fair maiden little sister.”
Maiden, my foot. Ha! If Scrappy knew about Maynard Taylor and me, the boy who dropped me flat after all we’d been through together, he would have thought twice about calling me a maiden, fair or otherwise. My pride was dragging around in the dirt and I didn’t want to go anywhere with my brother who thought he was hot stuff having a car of his own. Besides, I was getting good mileage out of licking my wounds. The only thing I wanted to do was polish my toenails and feel sorry for myself.
“Go away, Scrappy.”
He put both hands on his hips. “Hey, kiddo. I ain’t just whistling Dixie.”
“They teach you to say ain’t at Carolina, Scrappy? Mrs. Sparks would flunk you for that.” He rolled his eyes. Between him and Daddy, that eye-rolling thing was getting on my last nerve.
“Look, Boo, I don’t care if you nurse your po’ little broken heart till you turn the color of a blueberry as long as you do it when I’m not around. Besides, you’re wasting your tears on that jerk. He ain’t ... isn’t worth the salt in your tears. I told you a long time ago that he’s a lightweight diddlysquat poot. Now, c’mon. Let’s go downtown.”
He came over to where I was perched on a lounge chair trying to look tragic and dragged me to his car. I got in because I realized that, in his own way, my brother cared that Maynard had hurt my feelings. Scrappy would rather be cruising around town with his buddies than hanging out with me. All the same, I was not going to stop being miserable simply because he was taking pity on me. I had a little bit of pride left.
“Scrappy, I don’t want to go downtown. I don’t want to go anywhere. I hate it when you make me do stuff like this. Hate it hate it hate it.”
We were driving by the Calhoun College entrance at the time. The college was a Methodist supported school for colored people and it had been there for as long as I could remember. It was a landmark, I guess, but people paid no attention to the college or to the kids who attended unless it was to say how uppity the students became after they were enrolled at Calhoun.
“Scrappy, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do today, so I can’t be gone long. Mama said I have to get every piece of my dirty clothes washed and dried before she gets home and I haven’t even started.”
“Big deal,” my brother said, bored.
“It is a big deal. Zetty comes tomorrow and if I expect her to do my ironing, Mama says I have to have it ready. Lord, she babies that woman to death. You’d think as much as we pay her, Zetty would be more than happy to do a little ironing when we need her to.”
Scrappy gave me a withering look. “Boo, five dollars a day is not much money. Zetty works her tail off for the little bit we pay her.”
“She’s got five jobs. Do the math, Mr. College Boy. That’s over a hundred dollars a month. Huh! I get paid a measly $2.33 to work all day long at the Singer Store selling sewing needles to prissy old ladies.”
I turned away from my brother and stared out the window. Scrappy always knew how to set my teeth on edge. Zetty had worked for us since I was a little girl and I loved her, I really did. But a hundred dollars a month was a ton of mone and what right did Scrappy have taking her side against his own sister?
“Zetty has a family to feed, clothe and educate.” His superior tone of voice made me even madder. He always had to have the last word.
“I know she’s got a family, Scrappy. Do you think I moved to Mars when you left for college? Quit spouting off at me like I’m stone stupid.”
Scrappy eyed me hard and said, “Then don’t act stupid, Stupid. You don’t know the first thing about Zetty and her people, do you?”
“I most certainly do!”
He looked me in the eye with the smirk on his face that I’ve hated since the day I drew breath. “Really? Tell me everything, Miss Know-it-All.”
I smirked right back at him. “Okay, I will. Zetty’s son Jeremy is seventeen, maybe eighteen now and he’ll graduate this year. That makes Eula Mae fourteen. Zetty told me the other day that Eulie was elected head cheerleader at Williams High.”
Scrappy’s smirk got smirkier. “She couldn’t have, you dumb ass, because Jeremy and Eula Mae are both students at Calhoun College. Not only that, they’re two years apart in age, not four. Jeremy is a 4.0 student and plans to go to med school after he graduates. Eula Mae is majoring in journalism and is already a published author. Zetty does our dirty work for very little money so that her kids can have a better life than she’s had.”
“Just stop trying to sound like Martin Luther King, Jr., Scrappy. So I was mixed up, okay? Can’t a person get confused about stuff every now and then without being preached at by a big brother who loves to show off? Holy cow!”
“I’m not showing off. I’m trying to get you to see something outside of the minuscule world you live in. Imagine, Miss Pea Brain, how hard it must be to send two kids to college on a hundred dollars a month and still make ends meet. It’s damn near impossible and I don’t know how she does it.”
I decided to let him have the last word so we rode in silence after that. I stared out the window breathing fire and Scrappy roared down Brawton Street with his eyes glued to the road ahead like it might lead him to the Holy Grail.
He turned the corner by the dime store way too fast and I told him to stop the car right that minute and let me out.
“One of these days Daddy’s going to catch you driving like a bat out of hell and if you don’t meet me in the Square in exactly one hour, I’m going to tell him.”
“Oooh, I’m so scared. Somebody help me.” Then he gave me a look that said I bored him. I stuck my tongue out at him, slammed the car door, and huffed over to Good’s Five & Dime. I didn’t need or want to buy anything, but I liked wandering around in there when I had a few minutes. The store smelled of hot popcorn, chocolate covered peanuts and waxed floors that had been walked on for too many years to count.
“Hey, Mrs. Waddell,” I said to the middle-aged woman arranging a pile of thin nylon scarves near the front display window. Inhaling the store smell made me grin in spite of my bad mood. I couldn’t help myself.
Mrs. Waddell had worked at Good’s Five & Dime for as long as I could remember. Her son, Raymond, was a year ahead of me in school and I liked him even though he was a sissy and he was kind of fat too. Raymond could sit down at a piano and play anything you asked him to even though he never took a lesson in his life. Mama said he was gifted.
“Well, hey, Boo,” Mrs. Waddell flashed me a big, toothy grin. She had a mouth and-a-half full of the teeth she was born with and she was proud of every one of them.
“Haven’t seen much of you or your friend Patsy in a coon’s age, Boo,” she said. “What y’all been up to?”
“Oh, nothing much. Patsy’s in Columbia at her grandmother’s and Scrappy talked me into coming downtown with him in his new old car. This is as far as we got.” I picked up a lime green neck scarf and held it up to the light. “How’s Raymond? I haven’t seen him lately.”
Mrs. Waddell flashed me her mouthful of god-given teeth. “He’s doing fine, honey. He’s playing the piano for Merleen Culpepper now. Afternoons and weekends. She’s opened up that new dancing school what everybody sends their little girls to? Won’t be long before he’ll have saved up enough money to start up his own band. I want him to play over to the VFW on Saturday nights because that prissy little trio they got playing now is tacky.”
She’s one to talk, I thought, but what I said was, “Good for Raymond.” I wandered over to the cosmetics counter to look for a lighter shade of Tangee lipstick. With my pale skin, real red lipstick made me look like Lady Dracula having a heavy meal. Mrs. Waddell followed behind me talking a mile a minute while fingering the scarves she’d grabbed up in one hand.
The store was empty of customers except for me, but I didn’t notice and would not notice until some time later. My mind was flitting from one thought to another so I only half listened to the old bat carry on about Raymond. The other half of me pulled the tops off tubes of Tangee. Every now and then I’d look at her, smile and say, “I declare.”
I was right in the middle of sniffing a dark blue bottle of “Evening in Paris” perfume when a piece of one of her sentences caught up to my brain.
“... they’s always trying to stir up trouble for decent white folks. Like we need outsiders to tell us how to live?” She sounded purely disgusted.
I was puzzled. “Trouble? What kind of trouble you talking about, Mrs. Waddell?”
“Those blamed Calhoun College niggahs, honey. They ain’t never gonna be satisfied, no matter what. Give ‘em a inch and they’ll take a mile.”
All my life I’d heard people use the “inch and a mile” expression, usually referring to colored people or children. I shrugged and said, “I reckon so,” but my skin crawled when I said it. She probably thought I agreed with her.
Mrs. Waddell kept talking about the students at Calhoun organizing what she said was a so-called peaceful demonstration. She talked with a sneer on her face. I must have looked uneasy, because she stopped in mid-sentence and eyed me like I was a Russian spy.
“Your daddy knows all about it, Boo. Ask him.”
My heart skipped a dozen beats. In a panic, I wondered how my Daddy had crept into this crazy one-way conversation. Being the child of the local law was not unlike being a preacher’s kid, or a PK as they were called. The unwritten law in our family was that Greenburg police business was never repeated. Children were supposed to be seen and not heard. It was how my parents had been raised, and it was how they were raising Scrappy and me. Thinking I had accidentally divulged privileged information scared me into the middle of next week.
“What’s my daddy’s got to do with anything, Mrs. Waddell?” My voice did the St. Vida’s Dance while my mind tried to figure out what I might have said.
“Shoot! He’s the one got to deal with this mess —them Yankee agitators coming down here from New York City for one reason: just to stir things up.”
“Mrs. Waddell, I don’t know anything about it.” Hoping to get her off the subject, I walked down the center aisle to the stationery department. I had a habit of borrowing notebook paper, so I decided to spring for a jumbo size pack of Blue Horse and start paying back. But even when I turned away from her she continued to talk in her whiney sounding voice.
“Well, if they start marching today, they better look out. People ain’t about to put up with interference from uppity niggahs trying to show off like they had the right. All them Yankee agitators need to stay up North where they belong. Ask your daddy. He knows.”
I had overheard Daddy talking with Mama about the sit-in a few weeks earlier over at Kress’ Dime Store. He told her then that he expected more trouble, but he couldn’t have meant today or he would have made sure Scrappy and I didn’t leave the yard.
“You think there’ll be a protest today, Mrs. Waddell?”
“Yes ma’am, I sho’ do. A big march right through the middle of town. Miz Adden come in here right before you and said when she passed by the college in her car there was black faces everywhere she looked.”
That Scrappy! I knew there had to be a reason (other than me) why he was itching to get downtown. Daddy was going to throw a fit when he fouand out.
Mrs. Waddell smacked her lips together. “They ain’t gonna get far, ‘cause the City didn’t give ‘em no permit, like they would care about that. Ha! Miz Marree Darcy said she’s gonna shut down her newsstand, and my husband called me up and told me I should do the very same thing. ‘Close up that store and git on home,” he said.
She shook her head and shifted from one foot to the other. “Ittn’t that just like a man? Like I can walk out of this store like it’s a shoeshine stand. I asked him what he thought Mr. Good would have to say about me leaving without permission. You know what he told me?
“He said, ‘Who the hell’s gonna be shopping with them crazy students strutting their stuff all up and down the street?’ Still, I can’t just close up the store on my own.”
She shrugged her shoulders and started separating a bunch of pink and red silk scarves into two piles. That creepy crawly feeling washed over me again, and I had trouble looking at her.
I turned around to glance out the windows facing Main Street, and the absence of people both inside the store and out hit me. Except for one or two walking toward Belk’s, the entire street looked the way it does on Sunday mornings during church.
“I think I see Scrappy over there waiting for me,” I lied, and then quickly brushed past Mrs. Waddell without buying even one sheet of notebook paper. As the heavy door swung shut behind me, she bawled out, “Come back to see me.” Then, “Say hey to your Mama for me,” which she probably didn’t mean.
Out on the street, I opened my mouth wide to gulp some fresh, clean air. It was not yet springtime so the hot, sticky weather that would smother the entire South in another few months had not arrived. The stale air inside the dime store that I had loved up until then, made me sick to my stomach. I looked up and down the street for Scrappy’s Studebaker but the full hour was not up, so I wandered over to the Square to wait.
There was one bench not covered in pigeon poop and I grabbed it. I was there for only a few minutes when I sensed something in the air, kind of a buzz that settled all around me.
I looked behind me and that’s when I noticed people lining up on both sides of the street. They were staring off in a northerly direction as though waiting for a parade — listening for a far-off marching band. Some clerks from Penney’s had edged out of the front door or were peering out windows, craning their necks for a glimpse of whatever was down the street and about to come their way.
I jumped up then, seventeen-years-old and nosy as a kitten, to see for myself what everybody appeared to be waiting for. What I discovered in the next few moments snatched my breath away.
The approaching marchers, over six hundred in all, made barely a sound. I thought their shoes should have made some noise on the pavement, but the drum of expected marching feet was not there. They might just as well have been barefooted.
They walked slowly, maybe eight abreast, a sea of black and brown faces aimed toward the Square and me. Their heads were held high, spines stiff, eyes directed forward. It was a sight to see yet one that would haunt me for years to come.
The Calhoun College students trudged along with a dignified, clear-cut purpose. In what seemed like no time at all, they surrounded the few people (like me) who were gawking at them in the Square.
I looked all over for Scrappy. Where was he? However, on the other side of the Square police cars and fire trucks were lining up barricades in front of Good’s Five & Dime. Daddy was there, too, but he was much too busy to notice me or I would be on restriction for the rest of my life. My mind, like a seesaw, went up and down, not knowing where to go or what to do.
I was sizing up the growing number of quiet marchers when a sharp noise behind me broke through the eerie silence. I whipped around so fast it made me dizzy. The noise was a metal chair scraping on cement and made by a saleslady from Penney’s when she placed a folding chair on the sidewalk near the curb. She sat down, tore open a bag of Lays Potato Chips and started eating them while waiting for the parade.
By this time the marchers had surrounded the Square on three sides. They were lined up in tight formation like a high school band. They were marching, still very quietly, in rows at least five deep. All I could do was stare.
Eventually, I tore my eyes away in order to look again for my brother. In addition to being furious at him for abandoning me, I was scared. I needed to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t know how to get around the protesters. I couldn’t walk up to them and say, “I hate to break up your little party, but I need to pee.”
At that moment, while standing stock-still trying to think of an escape, I got real mad at myself for feeling so helpless. I didn’t know what was going on, but it didn’t seem right for Boo Sandifer to stand around wringing her hands and waiting for her stupid, stupid brother. So what did I do? I took myself lickity-split to the edge of the curb, not too far from the woman smacking on potato chips.
I wanted to know how many students were protesting and what it was all about. I wanted to look into their faces, get close enough to hear what, if anything, they might say. I didn’t think about danger or the consequences of my actions. I simply wanted to satisfy my curiosity.
When I reached the curb, I could see many more students than I’d imagined. They moved forward at a snail’s pace, closing in quietly, seriously. I kept hoping to hear a chant or singing, but they marched on in stony silence while the air all around us crackled with tension.
At that moment I wished that I believed in something as strongly as those students. Anything. Even the raw passion I experienced the night I lost my virginity to Maynard Taylor didn’t compare. I didn’t just want what those students had; I yearned to be a part of it, to be as close as possible.
I stood at the red painted curb and anxiously breathed in and out through my mouth while waiting for something else to happen. I sensed that it would come, and it would be big and would make my being there worth the risk. Maybe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I thought, because if my parents knew I would be in big trouble. I might as well join a convent.
When I looked around, I saw a lot of angry white people itching for a confrontation, so I knew Daddy’s hands would be full for a while. Maybe he wouldn’t see me. Actually, the risk that he might, added to the excitement. It was like dancing with the devil, being pulled one way, then yanked the other way. I was so caught up in everything, that when Scrappy came up behind me and grabbed my arm, I barely felt it.
“Boo, are you nuts? If Daddy sees us here, he’ll.” He glanced behind him at the blockade of police and firemen busy pulling thick hoses from fire trucks and then he turned to me again.
“Jesus H. Christ, Boo. You act like you don’t have a lick of sense.”
I’d never seen him so mad. “My car’s parked behind the church. Come on, let’s go!”
Something flared up inside of me then. I can’t explain it even today. All I know is that the harder Scrappy yanked me, the harder I resisted. I didn’t want to go with my brother; I didn’t want to leave this place. Not yet. I didn’t know why, I just knew I needed to stay.
My mind willed my body to twist away from his pull, and when I did I sprawled flat on my butt. In an instant, I was laid-out in the middle of the marchers while hot pain jabbed into my ankle and up my leg.
I wanted to get up but I was afraid if I did I would be crushed by the moving throngs. I quickly ducked back down and covered my head with my hands and listened as the marchers moved forward despite me. They walked arm and arm at a steady pace, detouring only slightly at the hole created by my flailing arms and legs. I had never been so scared in my life.
My breath came in short puffs. Sweating like a packhorse, I was about to start crying when my body was suddenly lifted out of the commotion. I looked down to find the white skin of my arms next to strong black hands, hands that lifted and guided me to the safety of the Square.
I twisted around and saw it was Jeremy who had picked me up, Zetty’s Jeremy. I felt like Scarlett O’Hara when Big Sam rescued her from the Shantytown white trash.
Scrappy grabbed my other arm and the two boys elbowed their way through the tide of undistracted marchers. When we reached the sidewalk, Jeremy’s sister Eula Mae stooped down and retrieved my pocketbook from where I’d dropped it at the curb. She handed it to me and we looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. I’ll never forget the depth of Eula Mae’s eyes that day, thick as Hershey’s chocolate syrup. Those brown eyes made me feel like a foreigner in my own familiar town. She didn’t say anything, not one word, but she didn’t need to. The expression on her face commanded me to get out of the way and to stay out of the way. Her look told me that this march was none of my business.
I turned away from Eula Mae and when I looked back again, my fears were no longer for myself, but for her and for Jeremy. But before I could put my thoughts into words, the other brother and sister had slipped away as silently as they had appeared, swallowed up in a sea of quiet passion.
“Come on, Boo,” my brother shouted, jerking my arm nearly out of its socket. He was pulling me toward the monument of the Civil War soldier who had guarded our town’s Square for almost a century when I balked.
“I can’t, Scrappy,” I yelled. “My ankle.”
He scooped me up in his arms and ran diagonally across the dormant centipede lawn that would, in the next few months, turn from brown to lush green. Just then a scream ripped through the Square. Seconds later, what had been a peaceful demonstration was chaos.
Scrappy whirled us around until we were face-to-face with a nightmare defined by unmistakable howls and shrieks. A hundred years of anguish. Bodies were hurling through the air, landing one on top of the other, making the rank and file of marchers fall back and ultimately down onto the street.
There was water everywhere. It gushed through the air with amazing power, smashing treetops and phone wires and shattering store windows into glass splinters. Most of the students toppled over when struck full-force by the water, hitting the ground with bone breaking thuds. They screamed, so unlike the silence they had demonstrated earlier, and they no longer looked human.
Ants. They looked like the ants that invaded our driveway last summer. Mama made Scrappy turn the garden hose on them and he blasted them away. That’s what the fire hoses did to those kids, students who had gathered to protest an injustice. Ants.
My brother and I watched as one student after another got knocked down to the pavement. They would scramble back up only to be squashed again with another blast from the arrogant fire hoses. My mind refused to grasp it. Greenburg, South Carolina was not New York City. Not Chicago. Ugly things didn’t belong in my safe, little town.
Suddenly we were jolted out of our stupor when we heard Daddy shouting into a bullhorn.
“Disperse at once or you will be arrested.”
The fire hoses continued to erupt with a powerful sea of water that spun the youthful bodies around in mid-air, ultimately knocking them to the ground.
A few of the students would pick themselves up and continue pressing forward, but others, rising briefly, were quickly knocked back down to be trampled by their fellow compatriots. It was horrible. It was the war I had only seen in movies. The passionate parade I had envied only minutes before was a battlefield, mean and violent. For the first time in my young life, I saw what human beings were capable of doing to one another. It was real and it was brutal.
Shaking all over, I said, “Scrappy, get us out of here.”
My brother held me close for a moment and then we escaped to the safety of his black and white Studebaker parked behind the First Baptist Church. We drove away in silence, neither of us knowing how to put into words the horror we had just experienced.
I knew Scrappy wouldn’t drive us directly home; he would take us to Rocky Bottom. Within minutes, we were staring blindly at the deadly Cherokee as it rushed by. We sat for a long time without saying anything before my brother sighed from somewhere deep in his soul, started the car and drove us on home.
While Daddy washed up for supper later that night, Mama called Scrappy and me to the table. After Daddy was seated, we all bowed our heads for him to say grace. Usually, he said it so fast it sounded like a sneeze.
That night, however, Daddy didn’t say the blessing; he just bowed his head. The three of us waited, feeling ill at ease in the stillness. Pretty soon, he took the napkin off his lap and put it down next to his plate. Scraping his chair back from the table, he said, “Mary Francis, thank you for cooking another fine meal but I don’t have much of an appetite tonight. Y’all go on ahead.” He left the room with his head still bowed.
“Scrappy,” Mama said, “why don’t you say grace for us tonight?”
Scrappy mumbled something that was a carbon copy of Daddy’s sneezy blessing, then silence dropped down on top of us like heavy humidity.
I wasn’t hungry either. Mama had fixed liver and onions, my favorite, but when I looked at my plate, it made me sick. My stomach twisted and rolled, and no wonder. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw bodies flying through the air, landing on top of each other. I saw broken bones sticking out of bloody arms and legs.
I threw down my own napkin and jumped out of my chair. “I’m not surprised Daddy can’t eat his supper after what he did today!” Pools of fresh tears spilled from my eyes and I could no more have stopped them than I could have stopped a moving train with my bare hands.
Mama stared at me with a look of confusion, but Scrappy’s expression was one of fury. Until I had opened my big mouth, Mama hadn’t known that we had gone downtown and Scrappy had not planned to mention it.
“Boo,” Mama said, “what are you talking about?”
I looked at Scrappy for a moment and then at her. “You know what I’m talking about, Mama. You know as well as I do what Daddy did this afternoon. He turned fire hoses on those students from the college and they were not breaking any laws. They were quietly marching down the street. What’s wrong with that?”
Mama glared at me. Her eyes looked like small pieces of coal. “You and your brother were in the middle of that mess today?”
“Yes!” I shouted between gasping sobs. “But we weren’t the only ones. Jeremy and Eula Mae were there too, and they might be dead or hurt or in jail right now while we sit here saying grace. I saw daddy hurt people today and I’m ashamed of him. Why does he have to be a policeman? Why can’t he dig ditches?”
Scrappy never took his eyes from me. Not once. Mama looked down at the plate of liver and onions beginning to congeal. The gravy, shiny only minutes before, looked like dried mud.
“Sit down and shut up, Boo,” Scrappy ordered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do so,” I shouted at my brother. “I saw it with my own eyes and I’ll see it in my mind for the rest of my life, so don’t tell me to shut up, Scrappy. Don’t you ever say that to me again!”
His eyes still did not leave mine. In a level voice, sounding much too grown-up, he said, “Sit down and be quiet, Boo. I understand that you’re upset. But if you’ll quit acting like a brat long enough for us to talk about what happened, things might look different to you.”
Nobody said anything more until I had cried myself out. Then Scrappy said, “Those students you saw today did break the law when they disturbed the peace which, as you well know, is against the law. Daddy was just doing his job.”
Earlier that day, my brother had made me feel like a bigot because of what I’d said about Zetty ironing my clothes. He had seen bodies flying through the air and he had heard their cries of pain when their bones broke on the hard pavement. Scrappy had been as much a witness to the chaos as I. How then, could he absolve Daddy of his part in what happened? How could he say Daddy was only doing his job?
“Scrappy, that’s pathetic. People have been using that flimsy excuse for doing bad things since God was a baby. Following orders —doing their job. Those kids today were peaceful; they didn’t disturb anybody; they didn’t break the law. Following orders doesn’t even come close to excusing what went on today.”
“Yes, it does,” Mama said. She placed her napkin on the table and carefully folded it, making a strong crease down the side with her fingers. She cleared her throat.
“Boo, your daddy’s responsibility as Chief of Police is to keep order in this town. It is what he is paid to do. That job you wish he didn’t have, young lady, is what puts food on our table and buys you the new clothes you love so much. God willing, it will provide you and your brother with a decent education. Don’t you criticize my husband. He was doing his job, and knowing him like I do, he was doing it the best he could. Don’t you dare criticize him, young lady.”
“Mama, you don’t know what it was like because you weren’t there. They were marching along hardly making a sound. I wouldn’t have known they were there if people hadn’t been staring so hard. Mama, the only time peace was disturbed was when Daddy gave the order to turn the fire hoses on them.”
In my eyes, Daddy tried to drown the passion of those black students, passion I had seen for the first time, passion I had envied. But it was beyond my ability to say how furious I was at him and why. I was young, confused, and torn up inside. Until that afternoon, I had trusted my father more than anybody in the world, believed him to be a fair man who always did the right thing, no matter what.
“Mama,” I said. She lifted her chin and looked up at me. “What if those students had been white? Would it have been disturbing the peace if Scrappy or I had been marching for something we believed in?”
Before either of them could respond, I ran out of the house. Grabbing my bike, I rode like the wind until I gave out of angry fuel at Rocky Bottom.
I sat on the banks crying for a long time before Scrappy’s car eased up behind me. I had been expecting it.
He got out of the car, walked over to where I sat and plopped himself down next to me. Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. Neither of us said anything and I was glad. There were thousands of things in my heart, all angry and confused, but I wasn’t ready to let them out and I didn’t want my brother to take away my anger. Not yet.
His voice, when he finally spoke, felt like salve smoothed over a sidewalk knee scrape.
“Daddy’s not a bad man, Boo. He looks out for us and for the town, too. You need to remember that.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Do you think he woke up this morning and said, ‘I’m going over to the Fire Department first thing and make sure the hoses are ready to knock down the Calhoun College students when they march.” Naah. He left the house like he does every day and went to work thinking he’d fix a parking ticket or two, or maybe — if the day was exciting, he’d arrest a shoplifter.”
I continued to gaze into the Cherokee River.
“Who knows why things happen? Maybe because they’re supposed to. The thing is, life can’t always be as well defined as you want it to be, Boo. Issues are not always black and white.”
I looked up sharply at my brother, thinking he had intentionally made the black/white pun, and I was fixing to let him have it. It surprised me to read in his face that he meant nothing by it. He was just underlining.
“Before you judge Daddy too hard, think how you would have handled things if you had been in his shoes. What if you had a job to keep, a family to support, a town to protect?”
He didn’t say anything more and it was the last time we ever mentioned that day.
I tossed and turned before I finally got out of bed and padded softly to the kitchen for a glass of water. A light was on in the breakfast room making me wonder who else couldn’t sleep.
Daddy was sitting alone at the kitchen table in front of what was left of a bottle of Ancient Age. His shoulders were slumped, his head bent.
I stood back, shielded by the night shadows. A part of me wanted to put my arms around the man who had been my hero and who obviously needed comforting. But I was young and ignorant of adult pain, so I remained in the shadows.
I felt his sadness and it hurt my heart, but something big had happened to me on that long, horrible day, something unexpected and still very raw. A new piece of me had reared its head from the cocoon existence of my self-absorbed adolescence, and it was this new feeling in my soul that compelled me to keep still.
When six hundred black college students publicly opposed the status quo, it changed everything for me. If, years from that night, I was to write my life story, I would be obliged to say, “That day in the Square is when my belief system shifted.”
They had marched in silence even knowing that they would be taunted and sneered at by intolerant, frightened white people. Prepared to suffer physical abuse or God knows what, they kept on because they so believed in their cause. I was able to catch only a measure of that passion, but it was provocative and I was determined to protect the smattering of transfused spirit I had stolen from them.
I would no longer be a naive young girl when, through a different set of eyes, I was able to be generous in my judgment of Daddy’s involvement that fateful day. Generosity of spirit came easily when I thought of the students, however. I had sensed the courage it took for them to demand a better way of life for themselves and their people but Daddy’s part in it was something else. He had followed orders instead of his innate sense of fairness.
And therein lies the rub.
In my mind’s eye, I can see Daddy giving the order to turn fire hoses on those students. It makes me very sad, but I can do it. The thing is, he is long dead and I am left with only a pocketful of memories of the man who was once my hero.
Other people can do the blaming, the criticizing. Let them. I choose to remember him on the night I saw him as a human being. I choose to keep the vision of my father as he sat all alone in the middle of the night at the kitchen table weeping for having played a part in man’s inhumanity to man.
That image will be enough to remind me that we are all fallible. Even parents.