Utilizing diary entries, 8mm film, photos, and a keen memory, a Southern born and bred woman revisits her childhood.
It's Christmas Eve 1955, in the West End section of Birmingham, Alabama.
In discussing Santa Claus' impending visit with her baby brother, eleven-year-old Dannie Jean Beechworth causes him to cry, adding to her self-image problem. Her perfect sister, thirteen and wise beyond her years, only serves to exacerbate Jean's troubles.
Much like Scarecrow in "The Wizard Of Oz," Jean unknowingly demonstrates many of the abilities she thinks she lacks, but flounders often enough to consider herself a lost cause. Take the ride of a lifetime with the eight member Beechworth family on a journey guaranteed to make the tears flow, some from sorrow, but most from hysterical laughter. A piece of work unto themselves, they are nevertheless surrounded by an unforgettable cast of characters...
Sophie, the Beechworth's king-size maid, with a king-size heart.
Doc Hobbs, the gentle giant neighborhood druggist.
Tiny Miss Easter, scourge of the corner drugs, and original "Soup Nazi," who makes a mean nickel cherry Coke.
Roy, from the orphanage down the street, model for Maynard G Krebbs and "a firecracker waiting to pop."
Old Lady Lewis, next door neighbor, able to appear like magic, anytime a toy, or a kid, crosses her property line.
Mr. Bandana Head, long-haired shark catcher and beatnik prototype.
From the schoolhouse, where almost anything can happen (other than classwork), to the shores of the Gulf Coast, misadventures derived from high intrigue never felt so good. A canary creates havoc, and a hammerhead induces fear. A cherry bomb introduces a New Year's Bowl game. A trip to an Easter sunrise service is more than an awakening.
"Southern Shade" is a compelling, humorous, five month slice of long ago family life, guaranteed to appeal to the young at heart, both male and female, no matter what their age.
Intro
In 1956, across the winter/spring semester of my sixth grade year in elementary school, I would celebrate my twelfth birthday. That fact alone would hardly have created a stir at the local Spivey’s Five and Dime. But, a lot of what I encountered during that period would probably spark an interest in anyone who has sunk into depression lower than a bathysphere’s limit, scaled heights greater than Edmund Hillary on Mt. Everest, or been more embarrassed than the editors of the Chicago Tribune following the “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline – all while never straying more than five blocks from their own front door. One need not be a world traveler to travel the world – of emotions.
During that five-month period I experienced every feeling ever known to man, plus a few which were not yet officially recognized. I was a flighty innocent, on the cusp of puberty, living in what should have been an ideal age for making that sometimes difficult transition from preadolescence as smooth as possible. But, even though I was perfectly happy in the deepest sense of the word, I was often at odds with myself over little things that seemed important at the time. Most of my problems stemmed from my inability to harness my out-of-control tongue. “Think before you speak” was an axiom I had not yet latched onto.
Scarecrow, a character in the first book I ever read, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, became my inspiration. Being absent a brain seemed preferable to having one that caused me to say and do things I regretted. At the very least, it gave me an excuse for my frequent oral bloopers. My older sister, Irene, defined perfection in everything that mattered – scholarship, personality and beauty, making my average grades and so-so looks seem all the more lacking.
Nevertheless, and without the flimsiest evidence to substantiate my belief, I felt as if my time to shine lie just beyond the next sunset – that I would somehow beat the odds and become as Irene, or as close as I could get, given my limited resources. Physical beauty seemed well beyond my grasp, and scholarship would require a struggle, but a winning personality was definitely within my reach. I was determined to nurture the three most important attributes necessary for a complete interior make-over: open ears, tight lips, and a brain to make Scarecrow proud. Incorporating them into my daily life, however, was a much taller order than I could have imagined.
THE ERA
Village Creek, forty feet wide in spots, coiled its way through our West End community, which was located, either by design or coincidence, in the western section of Birmingham, Alabama. Beyond the creek were three sets of railroad tracks. Across the tracks was a black neighborhood. In some ways, I suppose those tracks might well have been forty miles across.
My two brothers, along with a few friends, sometimes made the slippery voyage across Village Creek, hopping from one wobbly stone to the next, trying to keep their feet from getting drenched. The most common reason for that journey was to engage in rock battles with their perceived adversaries. For whatever reason, battling it out struck them as the normal thing to do, and rocks were plentiful along the tracks. Had true anger been at work, they probably would not have taken turns and had an unspoken understanding that only one rock could be airborne at any given time. Even though no one broke that rule, the day came when a small, black boy was struck in the head, causing an immediate cease-fire, for that was not meant to happen. Everyone rushed to the fallen kid, except for a couple of white boys, including the one who had launched the wayward stone. Those two lit out across the creek, ignoring the rocks, splashing water every step of their frightened flight.
When the youngster sat up, looking dazed, one of my brothers told him to count backward from a hundred to see if his thinking cap still worked. He said he wasn’t but six and the “only way he knew how to get to a hundred was by going forward in tens.” Without hesitation, he did so.
“Ten-twenty-thirty-forty-fifty-sixty-seventy-eighty-ninety and one hundred. Tar baby!" Everyone agreed that his brain seemed to be functioning normally. After tossing around a few ideas, the boys concocted what they considered the perfect alibi to account for the large knot on the child’s forehead, a tall tale having nothing to do with skin color or rock battles.
They sent the kid home and quickly rehearsed their plan while they awaited the inevitable. Presently, the boy’s mother emerged from the stand of trees which bordered the railroad tracks, demanding an explanation for her son’s injury. Though the boys scoured the area in earnest, some resorting to getting on their hands and knees, no one was able to produce the piece of fallen meteorite that had supposédly done the damage. With sad faces all around, a permanent truce was declared. No boys, black or white, ventured across the natural border after that.
For many years, the Amos ‘n Andy Show was my only link to day-to-day life within the black community, but the show’s regulars were all adults, so I remained oblivious to what it might have been like for the kids just across Village Creek. Be that as it may, I had more than enough to worry with on my side of the creek.
“Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!” From my mother’s tone, I had a hunch she was about to engage me in another of her notoriously one-sided conversations. Now, I knew there was no way she should be able to see me at the back door, not from her vantage point at the kitchen sink. But, Dad often said she had eyes in the back of her head, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume she also had the ability to see around corners.
“You be sure to wipe those filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen. Out there running all over creation with the dogs and the poop and Lord knows what all else. I’ll swanee, young’un. I don’t know what to think about you sometimes. Better yet, now that I am thinking about it, just take your tennie shoes off and drop ‘em on the side of the steps there. I’m settin’ up some new rules. We’re gonna start doin’ like them Chinese people from now on around here. They take their shoes off ever’ time before they enter their houses, uhhh, believe they call ‘em ‘haciendas.’ Wonder how come they’re the only ones to do that. It surely is a great idea… don’t have to worry at all about moppin’ up tracks. I’ve also heard tell they don’t have dog poop in their yards either, because they… well, just never you mind about that right now.
“The point is, I don’t wanna hafta be cleanin’ up ever’ time I turn around. Why, you’re plenty old enough to start pitchin’ in on a lot more of the heavy work, just like your sister, Irene, does. What’re you, eleven now, baby?” My mother, known to her brood as “Mama,” had the curious habit of sprinkling terms of endearment amidst a tirade.
“Yes’m, Mama. Eleven years and three and a half months,” I said, while untying the laces on my tennis shoes.
The sun took a leisurely path across fifties skies, when a month comprised a mini-lifetime and each day opened new and exciting venues to exploration and discovery. Climate change wasn’t a concern, man-made or otherwise. One winter afternoon when I was fourteen, I slipped into a swimsuit and posed comfortably for Dad’s camera while standing ankle deep in the rapidly melting snow. Twenty-seven degrees one day, sixty-three the next. Anytime we experienced abrupt weather changes, the blame was placed on either the Communists or nuclear fallout, but Grampa Beechworth had clear memories of freakish weather around the turn of the twentieth century. He said only one explanation was needed then, and that involved the good Lord – though the devil must have figured into the mix somehow.
Truck farmers, most driving old pickups, roamed the neighborhoods in spring and summer. An old black man, still clinging to one of the last vestiges of an even slower-paced past, often canvassed the back streets on salvaging expeditions in his mule-drawn wagon. The trails of droppings his two mules left behind were a common sight. By the early 1960s, the man and his mule team had vanished. It saddened me, for I enjoyed the singular echo of their unshod hooves clopping lazily along those narrow, tree-lined, asphalt roads. As for the droppings, well, that is a horse of a different color.
The zany neighborhood peddler, Tony the Banana Man, was world-famous in our very tiny world. On any given day he would belt out, in an operatic tenor voice, a tune announcing the magnificent produce he had on board. Something like, “Oh, peaches-melon-i-ooo, fresh turnip greens and potati-oooes, got papaya, green beans, and mang-ie-ooooes … toooodayyyy.” He claimed to have been trained at the Cantaloupe Academy of Opera, and we never doubted Mr. Tony. His heavy Italian accent somehow added credibility to whatever he said. I had all but forgotten about him until the video game, Super Mario Brothers, debuted in the eighties. I am certain the main character, Mario, was designed by someone familiar with Tony the Banana Man, for they captured him to perfection, right down to his thick, black moustache and colorful “overhauls” – Grampa Beechworth’s name for coveralls.
Although produce was his stock-in-trade, Mr. Tony was never in short supply of goodies for the kids. Easily the most sought after kid’s treat on Mr. Tony’s truck, a bargain at twice the price, was Chum Gum – three sticks for a penny. The same size and shape as other chewing gums, it had a distinct, purplish tint. Even though the flavor only lasted a couple of minutes, for anyone with a sweet tooth it was a delightfully tasty two minutes – after which you might just as well have been chewing on a cud.
From a young age, I experienced wistfulness over almost any “passing of the guard,” whether it was the closing of the doors on the small Green Spot Orangeade bottling plant in the middle of our West End neighborhood, or the last Howdy Dowdy Show. Even though I was sixteen-years-old when the final episode of Buffalo Bob and the gang aired, I literally broke down in tears when Clarabelle the Clown said, “Good-bye, kids.”
It's Christmas Eve 1955, in the West End section of Birmingham, Alabama.
In discussing Santa Claus' impending visit with her baby brother, eleven-year-old Dannie Jean Beechworth causes him to cry, adding to her self-image problem. Her perfect sister, thirteen and wise beyond her years, only serves to exacerbate Jean's troubles.
Much like Scarecrow in "The Wizard Of Oz," Jean unknowingly demonstrates many of the abilities she thinks she lacks, but flounders often enough to consider herself a lost cause. Take the ride of a lifetime with the eight member Beechworth family on a journey guaranteed to make the tears flow, some from sorrow, but most from hysterical laughter. A piece of work unto themselves, they are nevertheless surrounded by an unforgettable cast of characters...
Sophie, the Beechworth's king-size maid, with a king-size heart.
Doc Hobbs, the gentle giant neighborhood druggist.
Tiny Miss Easter, scourge of the corner drugs, and original "Soup Nazi," who makes a mean nickel cherry Coke.
Roy, from the orphanage down the street, model for Maynard G Krebbs and "a firecracker waiting to pop."
Old Lady Lewis, next door neighbor, able to appear like magic, anytime a toy, or a kid, crosses her property line.
Mr. Bandana Head, long-haired shark catcher and beatnik prototype.
From the schoolhouse, where almost anything can happen (other than classwork), to the shores of the Gulf Coast, misadventures derived from high intrigue never felt so good. A canary creates havoc, and a hammerhead induces fear. A cherry bomb introduces a New Year's Bowl game. A trip to an Easter sunrise service is more than an awakening.
"Southern Shade" is a compelling, humorous, five month slice of long ago family life, guaranteed to appeal to the young at heart, both male and female, no matter what their age.
Intro
In 1956, across the winter/spring semester of my sixth grade year in elementary school, I would celebrate my twelfth birthday. That fact alone would hardly have created a stir at the local Spivey’s Five and Dime. But, a lot of what I encountered during that period would probably spark an interest in anyone who has sunk into depression lower than a bathysphere’s limit, scaled heights greater than Edmund Hillary on Mt. Everest, or been more embarrassed than the editors of the Chicago Tribune following the “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline – all while never straying more than five blocks from their own front door. One need not be a world traveler to travel the world – of emotions.
During that five-month period I experienced every feeling ever known to man, plus a few which were not yet officially recognized. I was a flighty innocent, on the cusp of puberty, living in what should have been an ideal age for making that sometimes difficult transition from preadolescence as smooth as possible. But, even though I was perfectly happy in the deepest sense of the word, I was often at odds with myself over little things that seemed important at the time. Most of my problems stemmed from my inability to harness my out-of-control tongue. “Think before you speak” was an axiom I had not yet latched onto.
Scarecrow, a character in the first book I ever read, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, became my inspiration. Being absent a brain seemed preferable to having one that caused me to say and do things I regretted. At the very least, it gave me an excuse for my frequent oral bloopers. My older sister, Irene, defined perfection in everything that mattered – scholarship, personality and beauty, making my average grades and so-so looks seem all the more lacking.
Nevertheless, and without the flimsiest evidence to substantiate my belief, I felt as if my time to shine lie just beyond the next sunset – that I would somehow beat the odds and become as Irene, or as close as I could get, given my limited resources. Physical beauty seemed well beyond my grasp, and scholarship would require a struggle, but a winning personality was definitely within my reach. I was determined to nurture the three most important attributes necessary for a complete interior make-over: open ears, tight lips, and a brain to make Scarecrow proud. Incorporating them into my daily life, however, was a much taller order than I could have imagined.
THE ERA
Village Creek, forty feet wide in spots, coiled its way through our West End community, which was located, either by design or coincidence, in the western section of Birmingham, Alabama. Beyond the creek were three sets of railroad tracks. Across the tracks was a black neighborhood. In some ways, I suppose those tracks might well have been forty miles across.
My two brothers, along with a few friends, sometimes made the slippery voyage across Village Creek, hopping from one wobbly stone to the next, trying to keep their feet from getting drenched. The most common reason for that journey was to engage in rock battles with their perceived adversaries. For whatever reason, battling it out struck them as the normal thing to do, and rocks were plentiful along the tracks. Had true anger been at work, they probably would not have taken turns and had an unspoken understanding that only one rock could be airborne at any given time. Even though no one broke that rule, the day came when a small, black boy was struck in the head, causing an immediate cease-fire, for that was not meant to happen. Everyone rushed to the fallen kid, except for a couple of white boys, including the one who had launched the wayward stone. Those two lit out across the creek, ignoring the rocks, splashing water every step of their frightened flight.
When the youngster sat up, looking dazed, one of my brothers told him to count backward from a hundred to see if his thinking cap still worked. He said he wasn’t but six and the “only way he knew how to get to a hundred was by going forward in tens.” Without hesitation, he did so.
“Ten-twenty-thirty-forty-fifty-sixty-seventy-eighty-ninety and one hundred. Tar baby!" Everyone agreed that his brain seemed to be functioning normally. After tossing around a few ideas, the boys concocted what they considered the perfect alibi to account for the large knot on the child’s forehead, a tall tale having nothing to do with skin color or rock battles.
They sent the kid home and quickly rehearsed their plan while they awaited the inevitable. Presently, the boy’s mother emerged from the stand of trees which bordered the railroad tracks, demanding an explanation for her son’s injury. Though the boys scoured the area in earnest, some resorting to getting on their hands and knees, no one was able to produce the piece of fallen meteorite that had supposédly done the damage. With sad faces all around, a permanent truce was declared. No boys, black or white, ventured across the natural border after that.
For many years, the Amos ‘n Andy Show was my only link to day-to-day life within the black community, but the show’s regulars were all adults, so I remained oblivious to what it might have been like for the kids just across Village Creek. Be that as it may, I had more than enough to worry with on my side of the creek.
“Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!” From my mother’s tone, I had a hunch she was about to engage me in another of her notoriously one-sided conversations. Now, I knew there was no way she should be able to see me at the back door, not from her vantage point at the kitchen sink. But, Dad often said she had eyes in the back of her head, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume she also had the ability to see around corners.
“You be sure to wipe those filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen. Out there running all over creation with the dogs and the poop and Lord knows what all else. I’ll swanee, young’un. I don’t know what to think about you sometimes. Better yet, now that I am thinking about it, just take your tennie shoes off and drop ‘em on the side of the steps there. I’m settin’ up some new rules. We’re gonna start doin’ like them Chinese people from now on around here. They take their shoes off ever’ time before they enter their houses, uhhh, believe they call ‘em ‘haciendas.’ Wonder how come they’re the only ones to do that. It surely is a great idea… don’t have to worry at all about moppin’ up tracks. I’ve also heard tell they don’t have dog poop in their yards either, because they… well, just never you mind about that right now.
“The point is, I don’t wanna hafta be cleanin’ up ever’ time I turn around. Why, you’re plenty old enough to start pitchin’ in on a lot more of the heavy work, just like your sister, Irene, does. What’re you, eleven now, baby?” My mother, known to her brood as “Mama,” had the curious habit of sprinkling terms of endearment amidst a tirade.
“Yes’m, Mama. Eleven years and three and a half months,” I said, while untying the laces on my tennis shoes.
The sun took a leisurely path across fifties skies, when a month comprised a mini-lifetime and each day opened new and exciting venues to exploration and discovery. Climate change wasn’t a concern, man-made or otherwise. One winter afternoon when I was fourteen, I slipped into a swimsuit and posed comfortably for Dad’s camera while standing ankle deep in the rapidly melting snow. Twenty-seven degrees one day, sixty-three the next. Anytime we experienced abrupt weather changes, the blame was placed on either the Communists or nuclear fallout, but Grampa Beechworth had clear memories of freakish weather around the turn of the twentieth century. He said only one explanation was needed then, and that involved the good Lord – though the devil must have figured into the mix somehow.
Truck farmers, most driving old pickups, roamed the neighborhoods in spring and summer. An old black man, still clinging to one of the last vestiges of an even slower-paced past, often canvassed the back streets on salvaging expeditions in his mule-drawn wagon. The trails of droppings his two mules left behind were a common sight. By the early 1960s, the man and his mule team had vanished. It saddened me, for I enjoyed the singular echo of their unshod hooves clopping lazily along those narrow, tree-lined, asphalt roads. As for the droppings, well, that is a horse of a different color.
The zany neighborhood peddler, Tony the Banana Man, was world-famous in our very tiny world. On any given day he would belt out, in an operatic tenor voice, a tune announcing the magnificent produce he had on board. Something like, “Oh, peaches-melon-i-ooo, fresh turnip greens and potati-oooes, got papaya, green beans, and mang-ie-ooooes … toooodayyyy.” He claimed to have been trained at the Cantaloupe Academy of Opera, and we never doubted Mr. Tony. His heavy Italian accent somehow added credibility to whatever he said. I had all but forgotten about him until the video game, Super Mario Brothers, debuted in the eighties. I am certain the main character, Mario, was designed by someone familiar with Tony the Banana Man, for they captured him to perfection, right down to his thick, black moustache and colorful “overhauls” – Grampa Beechworth’s name for coveralls.
Although produce was his stock-in-trade, Mr. Tony was never in short supply of goodies for the kids. Easily the most sought after kid’s treat on Mr. Tony’s truck, a bargain at twice the price, was Chum Gum – three sticks for a penny. The same size and shape as other chewing gums, it had a distinct, purplish tint. Even though the flavor only lasted a couple of minutes, for anyone with a sweet tooth it was a delightfully tasty two minutes – after which you might just as well have been chewing on a cud.
From a young age, I experienced wistfulness over almost any “passing of the guard,” whether it was the closing of the doors on the small Green Spot Orangeade bottling plant in the middle of our West End neighborhood, or the last Howdy Dowdy Show. Even though I was sixteen-years-old when the final episode of Buffalo Bob and the gang aired, I literally broke down in tears when Clarabelle the Clown said, “Good-bye, kids.”
