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 almost-perfect sister, thirteen and wise beyond her years, only serves to exacerbate Jean's troubles. Jean unknowingly, but frequently, 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.
INTRODUCTION
In 1956, across the winter/spring semester of sixth grade, I would celebrate my twelfth birthday. While that fact alone was hardly Grit newspaper fodder, some of what I encountered during the period might draw interest from those who have sunk into depression lower than whale poop, risen to greater heights than Hillary on Everest, or felt more disgraced than the Chicago Tribune’s editors after the “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline – all while rarely straying more than five blocks from their own front door. One need not be a world traveler to travel the world – of emotions.
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 into pubescence as simple as possible. I was perfectly happy in the deepest sense of the word, but was often at odds with myself over little things that seemed important at the time. My weightiest problems stemmed from an 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 my favorite book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, became my inspiration. Being absent a brain seemed preferable to having one stuck in malfunction mode. At the very least, brainlessness provided a handy excuse for my frequent oral bloopers. My older sister, Irene, defined perfection in everything that mattered – beauty, scholarship, and personality, making my average grades and less than stunning appearance seem all the more lacking.
Nevertheless, and without the flimsiest evidence to substantiate my belief, I felt certain my time was coming – that I would become like Irene, or, as close as I could get, given my limited resources. Physical beauty was a stretch. My becoming an honor student was an even greater stretch. But, a winning personality was within my reach. I was determined to open my ears, close my mouth, and develop a brain to make Scarecrow proud. Incorporating those simple acts into my daily life 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 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 some friends, occasionally made the slippery voyage across Village Creek, hopping from one wobbly stone to the next, trying to avoid waterlogged sneakers. Usually, they crossed for one purpose – to engage in rock battles, and rocks of an ideal size and weight for throwing were plentiful along the tracks. Had true anger been at work, they probably would not have had an unspoken understanding that only one rock at a time could be airborne. Even though no one broke that rule, the day came when a small, black kid was struck in the head, causing an immediate cease-fire, for that was not meant to happen. Following a brief hesitation, everyone rushed to the fallen child, except for a couple of white boys, including the one who had launched the wayward stone. Those two lit out across the creek in a full sprint, making no effort to stone-hop.
When the youngster sat up, looking dazed, one of my brothers told him to count backward from a hundred to “check his thinking cap.” He said he wasn’t but six and the only way he knew to reach 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. Here come Petey!” Everyone agreed; despite the rising knot on his forehead, Petey seemed none the worse for wear. After tossing around a few ideas, the boys concocted what they considered the perfect alibi to account for the child’s misfortune, a tall tale having nothing to do with rock battles.
The boys sent Petey home and quickly rehearsed their plan. Presently, Petey’s mother emerged from the stand of trees bordering the tracks and demanded 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 supposedly done the damage. With sad faces all around, a permanent truce was declared. For many years thereafter, no boys – black or white – ventured across the natural border.
Aside from my parents employees, I had little contact with “colored” folks. The television show, Amos ‘n Andy, was my gateway to the black community, but kid’s were seldom featured on the program. I often wondered what life was like for the children across Village Creek. Nevertheless, I had more than a gracious plenty to deal with on my own side of that border.
*
“Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!” From my mother’s tone, I knew she was about to engage me in another of her one-sided conversations. No way could she see me at the back door, not from her position behind the kitchen sink. But, Dad said she had eyes in the back of her head, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume she could also see around corners.
“Be sure to wipe your filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen. Out running all over creation through dog 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, take off your tennie shoes and drop ‘em on the side of the steps. I’m settin’ up some new rules. We’re gonna start doin’ like them Chinese people. They take their shoes off ever’ time before they go inside their houses, uhhh, believe they call ‘em ‘haciendas.’ Wonder how come nobody else does that. It’s a rilly great idea… don’t ever have to worry about moppin’ up tracks. I’ve also heard tell they don’t have dog poop in their yards either, because… 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. You’re old enough to pitch in on more of the heavy work, just like your sister, Irene. What’re you, eleven now, baby?” My mother, known to her brood as “Mama,” had a curious habit of sprinkling endearments amidst a tirade.
“Yes’m. Eleven years, three months,” I said, while untying my shoe laces.
“Bless my soul, with six of you kids, it’s nearly ‘bout impossible to keep track. Anyhow, I was down on my knees scrubbin’ floors and wipin’ walls at half your age. By the way, sweetie, I need you to go round up your brothers and sisters. They’re pro’bly scattered out from Village Creek to Hobbses Drugstore, and I’m not gon’ be able to call ‘em home. Blistered a whistle finger on that hot coffee pot this mornin’. Supper’s gon’ be ready in about an hour and I don’t want y’all comin’ in here lookin’ and smellin’ like little guttersnipes. Your Daddy’ll be home here in a little bit, and he just might tan all y’alls hides.”
Anyone happening through our well-traveled back alley might have taken Mama’s warnings seriously, but I was used to her periodic rants, which were, typically, all bark. Even so, it was best to let her speak until the well ran dry, once she got going. And, listening closely was a must, for she would often throw us a pop quiz. Her bark could get a little toothy if she caught us daydreaming during her lectures. Dad rarely raised a hand to us, and certainly not over trifles. We had to make an intentional step beyond the invisible line of doom before Dad’s warning turned into a warming – of our breeches. But, that didn’t prevent Mama’s treating Dad’s imminent arrival as a potential health hazard. More often than not, it worked.
Mama continued, “Now... you been listening to me, Dannie Jean? What’s a Chinese house called, hmmm?”
“I don’t rightly know, Mama, but it sure ain’t ‘hacienda.’ Them’s houses up in Mexico. I learned that in jog’raphy class last semester.” I was re-shoed, ready to begin the roundup, but I knew, as soon as it left my mouth, how my remark sounded. I held my breath, fingers crossed. If Mama thought I was getting smart with her, she could return to the warpath. Luckily, I was soon able to exhale.
Measuring her words, Mama said, “Well, I’ll sewanee. Okay, then. But, uhhh, Mexico’s not up, baby. It’s down... down south. Go on, now. Scoot!”
Born in Anniston, Alabama, in 1919, Mama was as country as Calhoun County cotton. A blue-eyed brunette, at almost five-foot-nine, she was a hair taller than Dad, and that “hair” made him uneasy, especially when Mama wore high heels. But, my, did those heels ever do wonders for Dad’s posture. For years, Mama was a typical barefoot and pregnant domestic goddess. Dad liked it that way – the “barefoot” part, that is.
By 1955, the Korean conflict was behind us. World War II had become a distant memory, though Dad was badly injured in the war. His bouts with low back pain were the result of a German bayonet thrust. Another “wound” hadn’t anything to do with hand-to-hand combat, but was acquired during a furlough in France, where Dad consented to some very decorative tattoos. The buxom bust of Mama on the underside of his right forearm and “Hitler’s Nightmare” on his left, caused Dad considerable uneasiness as we got older. I pitied him when we attended my brothers’ Little League day games. Before the first pitch was thrown, Dad’s long-sleeve shirts were ringed with sweat. His tattoos became “exhibit A” when he warned us of the hazards of youthful indiscretions.
Dad was in the heating business, earning more than most breadwinners in our area, though any able-bodied person could make a decent living wage, given the reasonable cost-of-living. Taxes were about as low as the crime rate. Newspapers in stands were there for the taking. The ten-cent receptacle beside the papers relied on the honor system. Almost without fail, that system was honored.
The local milkman, spiffy in his white uniform and black-billed white cap, served us three times weekly. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights, Mama would set out the returnable bottles with a wish list for the next day. Sometimes, one of us would modify Mama’s note to include something we rarely got – chocolate milk. Those glass bottles produced a far milkier flavor than did the wax-lined cartons sold in supermarkets. We kids reasoned that special cows produced it that way – fudgy and ready to drink, no Cocoa Marsh needed.
Truck farmers roamed our streets in pickups, except for one old black man who, still clinging to the vestiges of a slower-paced past, canvassed the area in his mule-drawn wagon. The trail of droppings left by his mules was a common sight. When the wagon finally vanished, it saddened me, for I enjoyed the singular echo of the mule’s unshod hooves clopping lazily along our tree-lined, asphalt roads. As to the droppings, well, that was a horse of a different color.
Our zany neighborhood peddler, Tony the Banana Man, was world-famous, in our tiny world. In his operatic tenor voice, he would belt out a tune announcing what produce he was carrying on any given day, 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 added credibility to whatever he said. 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 was Chum Gum – three sticks for a penny. 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 grew wistful over changes in the status quo, whether it was the closing of the local Green Spot Orangeade bottling plant or the last Howdy Dowdy Show. I was sixteen-years-old when Buffalo Bob signed off and Clarabelle the Clown spoke for the first time. Clarabelle’s heartrending words, “Good-bye, kids,” left me in tears.
I do not subscribe to living in the past, but I do find that occasional mind-trips into my distant childhood never fail to buoy my spirit in these – my slower, grayer days. So, to paraphrase the narrator of The Lone Ranger television show, “Return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear.”
Very clear memories click into focus on a cold December night, 1955...
CHAPTER 1
On Christmas Eve, my five-year-old brother, Danny, sat up in bed and pleaded his case while I fluffed up his down pillow. “Dan Jean, how’m I s’posed to get to sleep when my stomach feels like it’s got a buncha elves jumpin’ around on pogo sticks? You don’t reckon ol’ Santa Claus’ll be upset about those apples me and Zack borried outta the Fink’s pear trees last summer, do ya? They don’t never pick ‘em, so all they do’s fall off and rot, but I guess you might could call it stealin’ just the same. Zack shoulda asked first. He’s older and oughta know better. Anyhow, if I was Santa, I bet I’d overlook a little kid like me takin’ wormy ol’ apples. Wouldn’t you, Dan Jean?”
If “Dan Jean” was being addressed, it was Danny who was talking. By then, everyone called me “Jean,” which I much preferred and sometimes demanded. The ones who prevented unanimity on that touchy subject were Danny and Mama, who called me “Dannie Jean.” My first name was given me to honor my Dad, in the event no boys found their way into our sizable branch of the Beechworth family. As I got older, the “Dannie” part of my name drew some teasing from my male classmates. My parents insisted I was overreacting when I kicked a couple of the ridiculing boys’ rear-ends over the matter, but I felt it was the easiest way to make a clear point: My being a tomboy did not give anyone the right to refer to me as “Tom,” or “Dannie,” either, for that matter.
“I don’t believe y’all grabbed them apples outta pear trees, bud,” I said, grinning. Danny caught his mistake and giggled, his brilliant, blue eyes glowing and the dimple in each cheek showing. Danny was a bona fide prodigy who had begun reading at age three, and scrutinizing everything under the sun even earlier. Fortunately, he was grounded, and blessed with a terrific sense of humor, though his extraordinary wit seemed totally inadvertent most of the time.
“Heck, I don’t think Santa Claus is gonna mind about them stupid apples anyhow, Danny. Don’t forget, you push-mowed the Fink’s side yard free of charge right after that, and they didn’t even know about them apples. I’m not sure Mr. Fink believed your answer when he asked why you were cuttin’ his grass. Remember? Instead of tellin’ him you were in trainin’ just in case the Olympics had push-mowin’ when you grow up, you might ought to have said you were just bein’ a good Samarian.
“Ain’t it spo’sed to be ‘Samaritan,’ Dan Jean?”
“Oh, sure, that’s what I meant to say. ‘Samaritan.’ Anyhow, that fort you built outside from Wheaties boxes might’ve convinced him you wanted to be a sports star.” Danny sat up, smiled, and flexed his little biceps. Instead of ending the conversation on that happy note, I could not leave well enough alone.
“Still, I think I’d be more worried about the day you ate nearly that whole bowl of banana puddin’, and when Mama ‘n them got home you said two masked men broke in and wolfed most of it down before they heard the siren.” No sooner had I said that than I whacked my head with both palms...
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 almost-perfect sister, thirteen and wise beyond her years, only serves to exacerbate Jean's troubles. Jean unknowingly, but frequently, 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.
INTRODUCTION
In 1956, across the winter/spring semester of sixth grade, I would celebrate my twelfth birthday. While that fact alone was hardly Grit newspaper fodder, some of what I encountered during the period might draw interest from those who have sunk into depression lower than whale poop, risen to greater heights than Hillary on Everest, or felt more disgraced than the Chicago Tribune’s editors after the “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline – all while rarely straying more than five blocks from their own front door. One need not be a world traveler to travel the world – of emotions.
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 into pubescence as simple as possible. I was perfectly happy in the deepest sense of the word, but was often at odds with myself over little things that seemed important at the time. My weightiest problems stemmed from an 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 my favorite book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, became my inspiration. Being absent a brain seemed preferable to having one stuck in malfunction mode. At the very least, brainlessness provided a handy excuse for my frequent oral bloopers. My older sister, Irene, defined perfection in everything that mattered – beauty, scholarship, and personality, making my average grades and less than stunning appearance seem all the more lacking.
Nevertheless, and without the flimsiest evidence to substantiate my belief, I felt certain my time was coming – that I would become like Irene, or, as close as I could get, given my limited resources. Physical beauty was a stretch. My becoming an honor student was an even greater stretch. But, a winning personality was within my reach. I was determined to open my ears, close my mouth, and develop a brain to make Scarecrow proud. Incorporating those simple acts into my daily life 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 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 some friends, occasionally made the slippery voyage across Village Creek, hopping from one wobbly stone to the next, trying to avoid waterlogged sneakers. Usually, they crossed for one purpose – to engage in rock battles, and rocks of an ideal size and weight for throwing were plentiful along the tracks. Had true anger been at work, they probably would not have had an unspoken understanding that only one rock at a time could be airborne. Even though no one broke that rule, the day came when a small, black kid was struck in the head, causing an immediate cease-fire, for that was not meant to happen. Following a brief hesitation, everyone rushed to the fallen child, except for a couple of white boys, including the one who had launched the wayward stone. Those two lit out across the creek in a full sprint, making no effort to stone-hop.
When the youngster sat up, looking dazed, one of my brothers told him to count backward from a hundred to “check his thinking cap.” He said he wasn’t but six and the only way he knew to reach 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. Here come Petey!” Everyone agreed; despite the rising knot on his forehead, Petey seemed none the worse for wear. After tossing around a few ideas, the boys concocted what they considered the perfect alibi to account for the child’s misfortune, a tall tale having nothing to do with rock battles.
The boys sent Petey home and quickly rehearsed their plan. Presently, Petey’s mother emerged from the stand of trees bordering the tracks and demanded 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 supposedly done the damage. With sad faces all around, a permanent truce was declared. For many years thereafter, no boys – black or white – ventured across the natural border.
Aside from my parents employees, I had little contact with “colored” folks. The television show, Amos ‘n Andy, was my gateway to the black community, but kid’s were seldom featured on the program. I often wondered what life was like for the children across Village Creek. Nevertheless, I had more than a gracious plenty to deal with on my own side of that border.
*
“Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!” From my mother’s tone, I knew she was about to engage me in another of her one-sided conversations. No way could she see me at the back door, not from her position behind the kitchen sink. But, Dad said she had eyes in the back of her head, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume she could also see around corners.
“Be sure to wipe your filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen. Out running all over creation through dog 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, take off your tennie shoes and drop ‘em on the side of the steps. I’m settin’ up some new rules. We’re gonna start doin’ like them Chinese people. They take their shoes off ever’ time before they go inside their houses, uhhh, believe they call ‘em ‘haciendas.’ Wonder how come nobody else does that. It’s a rilly great idea… don’t ever have to worry about moppin’ up tracks. I’ve also heard tell they don’t have dog poop in their yards either, because… 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. You’re old enough to pitch in on more of the heavy work, just like your sister, Irene. What’re you, eleven now, baby?” My mother, known to her brood as “Mama,” had a curious habit of sprinkling endearments amidst a tirade.
“Yes’m. Eleven years, three months,” I said, while untying my shoe laces.
“Bless my soul, with six of you kids, it’s nearly ‘bout impossible to keep track. Anyhow, I was down on my knees scrubbin’ floors and wipin’ walls at half your age. By the way, sweetie, I need you to go round up your brothers and sisters. They’re pro’bly scattered out from Village Creek to Hobbses Drugstore, and I’m not gon’ be able to call ‘em home. Blistered a whistle finger on that hot coffee pot this mornin’. Supper’s gon’ be ready in about an hour and I don’t want y’all comin’ in here lookin’ and smellin’ like little guttersnipes. Your Daddy’ll be home here in a little bit, and he just might tan all y’alls hides.”
Anyone happening through our well-traveled back alley might have taken Mama’s warnings seriously, but I was used to her periodic rants, which were, typically, all bark. Even so, it was best to let her speak until the well ran dry, once she got going. And, listening closely was a must, for she would often throw us a pop quiz. Her bark could get a little toothy if she caught us daydreaming during her lectures. Dad rarely raised a hand to us, and certainly not over trifles. We had to make an intentional step beyond the invisible line of doom before Dad’s warning turned into a warming – of our breeches. But, that didn’t prevent Mama’s treating Dad’s imminent arrival as a potential health hazard. More often than not, it worked.
Mama continued, “Now... you been listening to me, Dannie Jean? What’s a Chinese house called, hmmm?”
“I don’t rightly know, Mama, but it sure ain’t ‘hacienda.’ Them’s houses up in Mexico. I learned that in jog’raphy class last semester.” I was re-shoed, ready to begin the roundup, but I knew, as soon as it left my mouth, how my remark sounded. I held my breath, fingers crossed. If Mama thought I was getting smart with her, she could return to the warpath. Luckily, I was soon able to exhale.
Measuring her words, Mama said, “Well, I’ll sewanee. Okay, then. But, uhhh, Mexico’s not up, baby. It’s down... down south. Go on, now. Scoot!”
Born in Anniston, Alabama, in 1919, Mama was as country as Calhoun County cotton. A blue-eyed brunette, at almost five-foot-nine, she was a hair taller than Dad, and that “hair” made him uneasy, especially when Mama wore high heels. But, my, did those heels ever do wonders for Dad’s posture. For years, Mama was a typical barefoot and pregnant domestic goddess. Dad liked it that way – the “barefoot” part, that is.
By 1955, the Korean conflict was behind us. World War II had become a distant memory, though Dad was badly injured in the war. His bouts with low back pain were the result of a German bayonet thrust. Another “wound” hadn’t anything to do with hand-to-hand combat, but was acquired during a furlough in France, where Dad consented to some very decorative tattoos. The buxom bust of Mama on the underside of his right forearm and “Hitler’s Nightmare” on his left, caused Dad considerable uneasiness as we got older. I pitied him when we attended my brothers’ Little League day games. Before the first pitch was thrown, Dad’s long-sleeve shirts were ringed with sweat. His tattoos became “exhibit A” when he warned us of the hazards of youthful indiscretions.
Dad was in the heating business, earning more than most breadwinners in our area, though any able-bodied person could make a decent living wage, given the reasonable cost-of-living. Taxes were about as low as the crime rate. Newspapers in stands were there for the taking. The ten-cent receptacle beside the papers relied on the honor system. Almost without fail, that system was honored.
The local milkman, spiffy in his white uniform and black-billed white cap, served us three times weekly. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights, Mama would set out the returnable bottles with a wish list for the next day. Sometimes, one of us would modify Mama’s note to include something we rarely got – chocolate milk. Those glass bottles produced a far milkier flavor than did the wax-lined cartons sold in supermarkets. We kids reasoned that special cows produced it that way – fudgy and ready to drink, no Cocoa Marsh needed.
Truck farmers roamed our streets in pickups, except for one old black man who, still clinging to the vestiges of a slower-paced past, canvassed the area in his mule-drawn wagon. The trail of droppings left by his mules was a common sight. When the wagon finally vanished, it saddened me, for I enjoyed the singular echo of the mule’s unshod hooves clopping lazily along our tree-lined, asphalt roads. As to the droppings, well, that was a horse of a different color.
Our zany neighborhood peddler, Tony the Banana Man, was world-famous, in our tiny world. In his operatic tenor voice, he would belt out a tune announcing what produce he was carrying on any given day, 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 added credibility to whatever he said. 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 was Chum Gum – three sticks for a penny. 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 grew wistful over changes in the status quo, whether it was the closing of the local Green Spot Orangeade bottling plant or the last Howdy Dowdy Show. I was sixteen-years-old when Buffalo Bob signed off and Clarabelle the Clown spoke for the first time. Clarabelle’s heartrending words, “Good-bye, kids,” left me in tears.
I do not subscribe to living in the past, but I do find that occasional mind-trips into my distant childhood never fail to buoy my spirit in these – my slower, grayer days. So, to paraphrase the narrator of The Lone Ranger television show, “Return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear.”
Very clear memories click into focus on a cold December night, 1955...
CHAPTER 1
On Christmas Eve, my five-year-old brother, Danny, sat up in bed and pleaded his case while I fluffed up his down pillow. “Dan Jean, how’m I s’posed to get to sleep when my stomach feels like it’s got a buncha elves jumpin’ around on pogo sticks? You don’t reckon ol’ Santa Claus’ll be upset about those apples me and Zack borried outta the Fink’s pear trees last summer, do ya? They don’t never pick ‘em, so all they do’s fall off and rot, but I guess you might could call it stealin’ just the same. Zack shoulda asked first. He’s older and oughta know better. Anyhow, if I was Santa, I bet I’d overlook a little kid like me takin’ wormy ol’ apples. Wouldn’t you, Dan Jean?”
If “Dan Jean” was being addressed, it was Danny who was talking. By then, everyone called me “Jean,” which I much preferred and sometimes demanded. The ones who prevented unanimity on that touchy subject were Danny and Mama, who called me “Dannie Jean.” My first name was given me to honor my Dad, in the event no boys found their way into our sizable branch of the Beechworth family. As I got older, the “Dannie” part of my name drew some teasing from my male classmates. My parents insisted I was overreacting when I kicked a couple of the ridiculing boys’ rear-ends over the matter, but I felt it was the easiest way to make a clear point: My being a tomboy did not give anyone the right to refer to me as “Tom,” or “Dannie,” either, for that matter.
“I don’t believe y’all grabbed them apples outta pear trees, bud,” I said, grinning. Danny caught his mistake and giggled, his brilliant, blue eyes glowing and the dimple in each cheek showing. Danny was a bona fide prodigy who had begun reading at age three, and scrutinizing everything under the sun even earlier. Fortunately, he was grounded, and blessed with a terrific sense of humor, though his extraordinary wit seemed totally inadvertent most of the time.
“Heck, I don’t think Santa Claus is gonna mind about them stupid apples anyhow, Danny. Don’t forget, you push-mowed the Fink’s side yard free of charge right after that, and they didn’t even know about them apples. I’m not sure Mr. Fink believed your answer when he asked why you were cuttin’ his grass. Remember? Instead of tellin’ him you were in trainin’ just in case the Olympics had push-mowin’ when you grow up, you might ought to have said you were just bein’ a good Samarian.
“Ain’t it spo’sed to be ‘Samaritan,’ Dan Jean?”
“Oh, sure, that’s what I meant to say. ‘Samaritan.’ Anyhow, that fort you built outside from Wheaties boxes might’ve convinced him you wanted to be a sports star.” Danny sat up, smiled, and flexed his little biceps. Instead of ending the conversation on that happy note, I could not leave well enough alone.
“Still, I think I’d be more worried about the day you ate nearly that whole bowl of banana puddin’, and when Mama ‘n them got home you said two masked men broke in and wolfed most of it down before they heard the siren.” No sooner had I said that than I whacked my head with both palms...
