Waco Kid(s)
I
WAS A STAR
I didn’t want to be left out of
anything exciting. The kids on the block were practicing
for a play. It was to be held in the yard across the
street and all our parents were invited. A penny
admission was charged.
As soon as I heard about the
play, I began asking to be in it. They said, "You’re too
little. You can’t even read yet. How are you going to
learn your part?"
I said, "I want to be in the
play, I want to be in the play! I have to be in the
play!"
The kids decided among
themselves that they better do something with me. I was
becoming a really big nuisance.
One of them approached me and
said "We have a part for you. You won’t have to speak.
It is a very important part and you will be on the stage
during the entire performance."
As long as I was going to be on
the stage, I was satisfied. The evening of the
performance, our parents and neighbors came from all
around with folding chairs and blankets to sit on the
grass. My mother and father were in the audience.
Before the play started, one of
the big kids came over and said, "I’m going to take you
over to your position. This is a very important part.
You are going to be a footlight and shine on the actors
as they walk about the stage."
I was led to a big cardboard
box and climbed in, my face beaming above the edge. I
was a "footlight". I knew what to do. I would smile
turning back and forth; the glow from my presence would
light up the stage and the actors as they moved about.
And so, for one magic night – I was a star, shining
brightly on all in my line of vision. Starlight, star
bright, I was truly in my glory.
Up
THE
CHURCH OF CHRIST
This sign was in the front yard. You couldn't miss it,
THE CHURCH OF CHRIST. The tabernacle had a corrugated
metal roof, a broad stage across the front where the
preacher stood, and a very big blackboard. There were
rows of wooden benches. The floor was soft, clean dirt.
It felt like powder when I walked across it.
Every Sunday, one of the members did
the preaching. People who attended were people from the
country....Good, hardworking people. They would drive in
on Sundays, park their black Model-T's; I think they
were Model-T's. I would sit in the back and watch. The
preacher would write on this big blackboard. He was
always talking about the Devil and Sin and you're going
to Burn. I thought this was very interesting. I was
never frightened. I had never heard about the Devil and
what an evil creature he was. But my father found me
sitting in the church and he said, "You are not going
back there. You stay in the house or play with somebody;
you don't go to church. This is not your church." True,
it was not my church, but I might have learned
something-who knows. Of course, I still don't believe in
the Devil or Hell or Satan, but in those years I found
it very intriguing.
One Sunday, when the church was in
session, we were standing around out front. There was a
little child, maybe three or four years old. My father
reached down and picked up this child and threw it high
in the air, again up in the air. I got very
angry-really, I was very jealous. He hadn't thrown me up
in the air for a very long time. With all of my
indignity showing, I went over and I punched this little
kid. My father became furious. He said, "You are in for
it. You are going to get a spanking." He went to grab me
and I started running down the street with my father
running after me.
A child can run like the wind. My
father was in his late forties and a little heavy and
not athletic at all. He came after me and I would stop
and wait. Around the corner... half a block... stop,
wait again. I ran around the whole block and he, poor
man, kept lumbering after me.
Somewhere in the middle of the third
block, I stopped at a peach tree, calmly picked a peach,
and calmly ate it. I had plenty of time. I was yards
ahead of my father. I ran another half block and turned
the corner, running down the alley back to my house. My
father was nowhere near me but I had given him a chance
to get close enough. As we came into home plate, my
father was huffing and puffing and shaking his fist at
me. I was looking at him. He said, "You are bad. You are
really bad! You deserve a spanking." He was probably
right, and I never punched another kid again. I guess I
got that out of my system.
Up
FRIED EGGS
AND OTHER STORIES
I've just heard that the
temperature has to be l40 degrees to fry an egg on the
sidewalk. Way back when weather reports were totally
foreign to me, I set out to experiment cooking on the
sidewalk in the hot, hot days of summer in Waco.
I had a friend called Alice
whose mother worked at the local dime store. Alice was
left on her own much of the time. One day, we decided to
bake a cake. We poured flour into a bowl, some sugar,
some eggs, some salt and maybe some Crisco. We took turn
stirring furiously to blend the ingredients. Finally,
the mix seemed satisfactory. She found two cake pans and
we carefully poured the batter into the pans. Now to
bake it. Alice turned pale and said "My mother told me
never, ever turn on the stove. It's too dangerous.
I couldn't convince her to be
daring, so after thinking it over I suggested, we bake
it in the noonday sun, on the sidewalk in front of her
house. I had heard the expression "hot enough to fry
eggs on the sidewalk", so why not hot enough to bake a
cake.
We placed the pans in the
blazing sun and tested them now and then to see if they
were done. After thirty minutes of careful checking, we
began dipping our fingers in the batter and licking it
off. It really tasted good. Eventually, we tired of
tasting and our stomachs began to get a little queasy.
Needless to say, we got sick not real bad, but sick.
When her mother came home, she
told Alice not to play with me again. I was a bad
influence. I think my cooking days ended that hot summer
day. Cooking has never filled me with joy. Possibly I
was traumatized by my early childhood experience.
Up
BAREFOOT GIRL WITH CHEEK
I was in San
Francisco. I was nine and my cousin Joe was two years
younger. Here comes his untamed Texas cousin and his
life was never the same again. He followed me
everywhere. I was filled with curiosity and there was
new territory to be explored. I could see part of the
Golden Gate Bridge out of the rear window of the flat we
lived in on Fulton Street. It was in the mid 30's and
had not been finished but I could see the orange towers.
Three of us slept in the sunroom; my brother Morton, Joe
and myself. We slept on series of day beds against each
wall. I was always cold. I never really got warm enough
during that time.
I enrolled in the fourth
grade of Argonne School in the Richmond District. My
classmates began asking me about Texas and about cowboys
and Indians. I never really lied but I would smile
smugly and they would assume that I had lived in Indian
Territory. Immediately I gained prestige.
Allan Grover, the
smartest boy in class, wanted to carry my books and walk
me home. No true daughter of the Old West lets a "city
slicker" cozy up to her. He would wait for me in front
of the school to walk me home. I would swagger out and
say proudly "I'm a tomboy, I am going to climb up on
that telephone pole". He looked at the tall pole with
the small notches for your feet. I would start to climb
up and looked down at him. "Aren't you going to come
with me?" "No" he said, "My mother wouldn't like me to."
"Ha" I said, "You're a sissy". He walked away, head
hanging low.
I quickly climbed down; I
wasn't about to go up that high. I just wanted to let
him know I was one tough hombre. He continued to look at
me wistfully but I never let on about my show of
bravado. I needed to keep "face" and I did.
One of my first
adventures was to try and pet the cat next door. The
mean woman screamed at me and told me not to touch her
cat. I told my cousin we had to take revenge. We climbed
up to the second floor on the outdoor stairs of the
building. When she appeared in her yard, at my
signal....We were to simultaneously spit on her head;
which we did. She called the police. During our dinner,
the police appeared and advised my aunt and uncle that
this was very bad behavior. Ha....I was disciplined and
Joe hung his head. He had never ever done a bad deed
before. I decided to leave home.
I put all my possessions
in front of the garage. This was probably one of the
first garage sales in San Francisco. All afternoon, I
tried to peddle my belongings. I only had one customer,
a very nice man who gave me a dime for a comic book.
During this entire
procedure, my mother never came downstairs. It was
getting dark and cold. Reluctantly, I packed my stuff
and moved back in.
Not one to give up
easily, I decided to round up two girls in the
neighborhood, plus Joe, and I devised a way to make
money. What better way than to sell flowers on the
corner. Where to get the flowers? In the landlady's
yard. We lived in a flat; she lived upstairs and the
rest of us lived downstairs. Her yard was full of
nasturtiums and geraniums just fading away. Busily, I
gathered bunches of flowers; distributed them among my
staff. Business was brisk. We only charged a penny a
bunch.
Every time we accumulated
enough, we all hurried to the small store about a block
away and carefully selected candy. The candy was
distributed very democratically to each worker. This
continued throughout the day. Again my attempts were
foiled. The landlady, whose niece was among my group,
discovered our business venture and again, I was
disciplined.
My aunt and uncle were
probably very glad to see the last of me. They had
raised their son to be a perfect gentleman and
obviously, I was a very bad influence. My mother took it
all very easily saying "Children are children."
When we returned to Texas
after a year, I was put on probation at school, but I
never knew if I passed the test or not, nothing was ever
said about it. Apparently, the War Between the States
had never been resolved. I couldn't wait to get back
where it was warm and I could take my shoes off.
Happiness is walking barefoot and I am sorry my cousin,
Joe never had the opportunity.
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Memories of Home
I
remember the Cotton Palace. Waco is in the heart of
cotton country. A fair was held once a year and I would
wander up and down watching snake charmers, dancing
girls, strong men and of course, cotton candy. A large
machine filled with wonderful toys was there for 5 cents
to manipulate a claw and if luck was with you, you were
a winner of some wondrous object. The only object I
ever snared was a pencil clip and I remember that
distinctly.
I
remember Juan. He sold tamales out of a box hung by a
leather strap around his neck. The inside of the box
was lined with shiny metal. The smell and taste of
those steamy tamales still makes me sigh with pleasure.
I
remember W. Lee O’Daniels and his hillbilly band. He
was running for governor and the crowd loved him and his
music; he became governor.
I
remember downtown, Goldstein, Miguel – the largest
department store in town. It had a small café that
served blue plate specials for 25 cents and just about
everything else you wanted to buy.
The
best place of all was the ice cream parlor “Palace of
Sweets” long marble counter, ice cream chairs and tables
for the big people and the little people.
I
remember walking with my mother on summer nights on long
strolls past Baylor University, the oldest college in
Texas, which has the world’s largest collection of the
works of Robert Browning.
I
remember going for ice-cream cones with my brother one
day a week when cones were two for a nickel. I would
slowly savor my cone on the way home and one disastrous
day I dropped my cone in the dirt. My brother calmly
handed me his cone saying, “I don’t like ice-cream
anyway”. I protested mildly and guiltily licked his
melting cone the rest of the way home.
I
remember my father sitting close to a small radio
listening to the ravings of Hitler. None of us knew
German, except my father, but we sensed heaviness in the
air.
I
remember the buses with the “Jim Crow” section in the
back, which in those days had very little meaning for
me. Years later when I lived in Houston and became
wiser, I would approach the public drinking fountains,
labeled “White” and “Colored” and loudly proclaim “I
wonder how colored water tastes”.
I
remember lying on a blanket at night and trying to find
the Big Dipper. I remember the fireflies and the sound
of crickets. Waco, tree lined streets, shacks down by
the Brazos River, Castle Heights, the upscale community
where a rich cotton baron had build his home to look
like a castle complete with turrets. I was told it is
now a museum.
I
remember people coming into our store to buy Brown Mule
Chewing Tobacco – little tin mules were imbedded in each
piece. Ladies would come in and request in a quiet
voice “Garrett Snuff”. It was not exactly ladylike to
dip snuff.
Waco,
a town where people said, “Yes ma'am” and “no ma'am”. I
was the only one in my classroom that refused to finish
a sentence with a “ma'am”; I don’t think I’ve changed.
I
remember Cameron Park, a glorious natural park with
spring water gushing out from crevices among the rocks;
playgrounds, Sunday picnics, watermelon cuts (a term
used for sharing a melon) which was brought from the
icehouse, wonderfully cold.
I
remember Oakwood Cemetery, a wooded area where squirrels
ran happily and birds were everywhere in abundance.
Large marble angels guarding graves, small mausoleums,
large blocks of intricately carved marble. It is the
oldest cemetery in Texas dating back to the l800’s.
During Halloween, we would venture into the grounds at
night and it didn’t take much to scare us as we wandered
down the paths that twisted and turned.
The
small Jewish Cemetery adjacent to its huge neighbor was
my last image of Waco. My father, my mother and my
brother are all resting there. I spent my last day
visiting her grave. Everything was peaceful and soft
winds blew at my face; I felt as if my mother’s hand was
brushing gently through my hair. I knew somehow that
this would be my last look at Waco. It had for me been
a beginning and now it came to an end with the death of
my mother.
I will
always remember the Waco of my youth and it is worth
remembering.
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