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MEN OF MARK

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INTRODUCTION CONTINUED – 4

(CONTINUED FROM 7/15/24)

At the meeting of the Colored Press convention in St. Louis, Missouri, July 13, 1883, he was nominated for its president, but was beaten by Hon. W. A. Pledger of Georgia by one vote. When said convention met in Richmond, Virgina, July 8, 1885, he was made chairman of the executive committee and at the next meeting, August 3, 1886, Atlantic City, New Jersey, he was elected president by a majority of four over Mr. T. T. Fortune, editor of The Freeman.

Dr. Simmons is very much interested in the education of the hand. He has written a pamphlet on “Industrial Education” which has had a wide circulation. A sample of it will be seen below.

If the industrial craze be not watched, our literary institutions will be turned into workshops and our scholars into servants and journeymen. Keep the literary and industrial apart. Let the former be stamped deeply so it will not be mistaken. We need scholars. All men are not workers in the trades, and never will be. If we cripple the schools established, by diverting them largely from their original plan, we shall have no lawyers, doctors, professors, authors, etc. And again, the money in the schools will be divided and neither end will be reached; we will be like clowns trying to ride two horses, and as they get wider apart, we drop in a ditch, and our horses run away from us and break their own necks. Keep these schools apart, and attempt not the task of grinding scholars out of industrial, nor finished workmen from literary schools. Each has a legitimate sphere and let each stick to it. In the colleges, universities and higher schools of the South, not less than a thousand white men are teaching our youth; it is not intended that they will do so forever. I would, therefore, prepare the professors to take their places in the same manner that they were prepared – in literary institutions. In plainer words, let the student be free from industrial trade work when he has made certain grades in his classes. We want good workmen and good scholars, not deluded smatterers in either department. Gingerbread work, fiddling with tools, frittering away time, is not seriously making a mechanic. Industrial work as a sentiment must be crystallized into a profitable reality.

Hence, this feeble effort in Southern schools will only be the means of deceiving many into the notion that they are “workmen,” when they are only botches, and will furnish another poor class of mechanics to supplement a class of which we now complain. It would be wiser to spend ten thousand dollars on a single school per year, and make a first class industrial department, than two thousand dollars on each of five schools. Many will learn to do things for which they can give no reason.

The people, the masses, the boys, the girls, the rank and file, must be taken through a thorough course and made master of a trade. I said this school was needed as a corrective; that is, to teach the dignity of labor. They must learn the gospel of manual labor; not simply as a means of bread and butter, but an honorable calling and duty. Let the buzz of the saw, the ring of the hammer, the whisle of the engine, the spinning of the wheel, the low of the ox, the bleating of the lamb, the crow of the rooster, all be music and inspiration to the rising race. Labor is honorable, but it is fast becoming unfashionable for the colored boy or girl to seek manual labor, and rather than work, many become loafers, dissipates and wrecks. Let us start a current large enough to meet the mental tide and mingling, find the happy medium. Parents must give their children trades. Teachers and preachers must see to this matter.

This school should have a large farm attached, where agriculture in every form should be taught, and by means of which living could be made cheap to poor students. To sum up the words of another, here in this school, the farmer should be educated in science, elementary engineering, mechanics and agriculture; the miner, mineralogy, geology, chemistry, and his own work; the merchant in geography, history, foreign language, political economy and laws; the machinist must master all the known powers of material nature – heat and cold, weight and impulse; matter in all conditions – liquid, solid and gaseous, standing or running, condensed or rare, adamantine or plastic – all must be seen through and comprehended by the master of modern mechanics. Architects, engineers, teachers and all classes of workers require a technical education.

I mean to take the female along too. They must be taught domestic economy, household ethics, home architecture, cookery, telegraphy, photography, printing, editorial work, dressmaking, tailoring, knitting, fancy work, nursing, dairying, horticulture, apiaculture, sericulture, poultry raising, stenography, type-writing, practical designs, painting, repousse work, etc., etc., for if men must make money, the women must know best how to save it, or what is better, help to get it. A saving wife is worth her weight in gold and earns her own board and is entitled to have her washing done from home.

Before I leave this subject, let me say that it may prove the best thing after all that our youth cannot get into the workshops and factories as readily as white youths. The latter class have the blessings of good homes and the amenities of a social life beyond that of a colored child. Every library, lecture hall and art gallery is open, and the finest music, sculpture, books, magazines and journals fall as thick around them as autumn leaves. But our youths need to have the moral training which comes from the school – room as well as the skill that comes from the workshop. They need practical drill in habits of industry, care in business, punctuality in dealing with the world, and, in fact, they need the moral bracing up that makes good citizens and square business men and women. Perhaps Providence has so hedged us that out of trials and darkness may come pleasure and light. So now we are driven to do perhaps the best thing for our race by putting our children where head, hand, eye, ear, and in fact the whole man, must be trained.

TO BE CONTINUED….

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MEN OF MARK

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INTRODUCTION CONTINUED – 3

CONTINUED FROM 7/13/24

As an educator, he has likely no superiors. Discarding specialism in education, he claims that ideal manhood and womanhood cannot be narrowed down to any one sphere of action, but that the whole being – every faculty with which we are endowed – must receive proper development. No boy or girl comes under his influence without feeling a desire to become useful and great. He infuses inspiration into the least ambitious. He has a knack of “drawing out” all there is within. No flower within his reach “wastes its sweetness on the desert air.” If there are elements of usefulness in those around him, he trains and utilizes them. As a president, his executive ability is excellent. Students admire, respect and stand in awe of him; his teachers are proud of him, trust his judgement and abide by his decisions. For poor students he has the tenderest sympathy, especially for those who most desire an education and struggle hardest for it. He rewards those who are faithful in discharge of duty, and for those who accomplish something he has words of cheer, but for idlers nothing.

September 29, 1882, he was elected editor of the American Baptist, and at this time is President of the American Baptist Company. As an editor, Dr. Simmons brings before the public every live issue of the day. His editorials are racy, versatile and logical. He contends for rights and cries down wrongs. He is extensively copied, and has the personal respect of every editor and prominent man in the country. A man of forcible character and deep convictions must reveal himself in his writings, and the subject of this article is such a man. His pen pictures are characterized by a rugged strength which takes hold of the reader and fixes the thought in memory more than by elaboration and flourishes which soothe and please, but pass from the mind as water through the seive. In regard to the duty of colored citizens to existing parties he believes “that committed as both parties are to the pernicious doctrine of State Rights, colored people should pay less attention to national politics than to State affairs.” He says:

”The days are slipping by and our children are growing into manhood and womanhood – we are fast passing away. Shall we live deluded with the hope that the general government will bring to us a panacea for all our ills? No; we must court the favors of the people of the State. We must be for progress wherever found. We must act wisely. Indeed the Republican party could not, if it would, help us. They are debarred by statutes, and sentiments, stronger than statutes. Let us study State interests, its schools and its development in every direction. Let us cast our votes for liberal men who will help us. We cannot expect those against whom we vote to do so. Take Kentucky; who has secured all the school advantages for the colored race? Why, the colored people themselves. The Republican party did not do it – not a bit of it. The white men of the party and their children were all right. When did they offer to make a special fight for us? Never. When, then, did we secure a change of the forty-eight per capita tax to an equalization of the tax for all children alike? By petition of our own and by favor of Democrats, even when put to a popular vote, and by the act of a Democratic legislature. Is it not queer, too, that we never thought to demand of our party that they made the fight for us? The answer is, the colored man is such a slave to party that his blind obedience has befogged his reason so that he has fought the white man’s battles, secured office for him, and fought for his own rights unaided in “Negro Conventions.” White men would have made a broad open fight and demanded the Negro votes. After the convention was over the Negroes would petition the very legislature members whom they had fought and voted against in every county. Negroes attempt to do in convention what they ought to do with their votes, and are driven to it by the policy of the Republican party in the South. We should change this thing.”

Dr. Simmons activities are prominently identified with the most important affairs of the race. Several years he has been chairman of the executive committee of the “State Convention of Colored Men of Kentucky.” At the meeting in Lexington, November 26, 1875, he was re-elected. The call of the said meeting, a document enumerating in a few words, the long catalogue of injustices practiced upon the colored citizens of the State, shows a high degree of statesmanship. It begins thus:

FELLOW-CITIZENS: – When a free people, living in a body politic, feel that the laws are unjustly administered to them; that discriminations are openly made; that various subterfuges and legal technicalities are constantly used to deprive them of the enjoyment of those rights and immunities belonging to the humblest citizen; when the courts become no refuge for the outraged, and when a sentiment is not found sufficient to do them justice, it becomes their bounden duty to protest against such a state of affairs. To do less than vigorously and earnestly enter our protest is to cringe like hounds before masters, and to show that we are not fit for freedom. We are robbed by some of the railroad companies who take our first-class fares and then we are driven into smoking cars, and, if we demur, are cursed and roughly handled. Our women have been beaten by brutal brakemen, and in many cases left to ride on the platforms at the risk of life and limb.

We are tried in courts controlled entirely by white men, and no colored man sits on a Kentucky jury. This seems no mere accident, but a determined effort to exclude us from fair trials and put us at the mercy of our enemies, from the judge down to the vilest suborned witness.

When charged with grave offenses, the jail is mobbed, and the accused taken out and hanged; and out of the hundreds of such cases since the war, not a single high-handed murderer has ever been brought before a court to answer. Colored men have been deliberately murdered, and few if any murderers have been punished by the law. Indecent haste to free the criminal in such cases has made the trial a farce too ridiculous to be called more than a puppet show.

The penitentiary is full of our race, who are sent there by wicked and malicious persecutors, and unjust sentences dealt out by judges, who deem a colored criminal fit only for the severest and longest sentences for trivial offenses.

In all departments of the State we are systematically deprived of recognition, except in menial positions. In our metropolitan city, and even cities of lesser note, we are not considered in the appointments in fire companies, police force, notary public, etc. In fact, we are the ruled class and have no share in the government.

Dr. Simmons was chairman of the committee appointed by the convention to lay before the Legislature the grievances of the 271,481 colored citizens. His speech on this occasion was a masterpiece. Says the Soldiers‘ Reunion, a paper published at Lexington:

The speech of Rev. W. J. Simmons, D. D., before the Kentucky Legislature, was one of the ablest efforts ever made in the interests of the colored people. They (the Legislature) have ordered two thousand copies printed.

Said he:

Only the history of the two races in our beautiful country could give birth to such a scene as this. That we, born Americans, finding distinctions in law, should be driven to appeal to a portion of the same body politic for rights and equalities; and though American sovereigns ourselves, because too weak, bend the suppliant knee, craving that we might be given that which appears rightly ours without contest. We feel some pride, and are consequently jealous of the good name of the State and of the United States. We also feel humiliated that a foreigner who has never felled a tree, built a cabin, or laid a line of railway, seems more welcome to this shore, and is accorded every facility for himself and children to make the most of themselves, even BEFORE NATURALIZATION; while we, seeing them happy in a new-found asylum, and knowing you from our youth up – our mothers washed your linen and nursed you, our fathers made the soil feed you, and kept the fire burning in your grate – are compelled to beg, in the zenith hour of 1886, your favors. Two generations are before you; the one born in the cradle of slavery, the other born in the cradle of liberty; the one saw the light mid the discussions of your fathers; the other mingled their infant’s voice with the retreating sound of the cannon. We belong to the South – the “New South.” Your own progress in the questions of human liberty and our own thirst for draughts from higher fountains, and, indeed, in obedience to the demands of our constituents, we venture to lay before you in a manly, honorable way, the complaints of 271,481 as true hearted Kentuckians as ever came from the loin of the bravest, truest and most honored of women, sired by the most distinguished fathers. As Kentuckians we meet you with the feelings and aspirations, common and peculiar to those born and surrounded by the greatness of your history, the fertility of your soil, the nobility of your men and the beauty of your women. We come, plain of speech, in order to prove that we are men of judgement, meeting men who are really desirous of knowing our wants.

NOTES: It is clear to me that the written word in the 1800’s was somewhat different than the way we utilize words, periods, semicolons, etc. the English language. To honor the Men of Mark, who wrote these pages, I’m not changing anything they wrote. The way you are reading this AWESOME WORK – Is the way it was written.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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MEN OF MARK

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INTRODUCTION.

ACCOMPANIED BY A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF REV. W.J. SIMMONS, A.B., A.M., D.D.

It is a historic fact that Virginia soil has been rife with Presidents, but truly South Carolina has given to the world more men of note than any other State in the Union. In Charleston, South Carolina, June 29, 1849, Edward and Esther Simmons, two slaves, added to their fortune the subject of this sketch, who though born in poverty, shrouded by obscurity, was destined to make for himself a name honored among men. At an early period in his life, interested parties hurried the mother with three small children northward, without the protection of a husband and father, to begin a long siege with poverty. When the steamer landed at Philadelphia they were met by an uncle, Alexander Tardiff, who left the south some time before. This uncle, a shoemaker by trade, displayed the virtues of a generous nature in caring for the mother, William, Emeline, and Anna as well as he could, with prejudice to fight. These were days of hardships and anxieties so keen for the little family that even now the survivors speak of them in hushed tones and with misty eyes. While in Philadelphia they were harassed by slave traders who seemed determined to burrow them out of their hiding place. At this time disease laid his hand upon them.

Disasters come not singly;

But as if they watched and waited,

Scanning one another’s motions.

When the first descends, the others

Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise

Round their victim, sick and wounded,

First a shadow, then a sorrow.

Till the air is dark with anguish.

Huddled together in the garret of the three-story brick house where they lived, stricken with the small-pox, almost destitute of food, and fearing to call in medical attendance lest by attracting attention they would be carried back into slavery; while death stared them in the face, fugitive slave hunters rapped at the door of the front room which the uncle used as a workshop. These beasts in human flesh, after many inquiries and cross-questionings were so misled by the shrewd uncle that they went away. Shortly after, the uncle finding it impossible to earn a living at his trade, decided to go to sea. The family was left at Roxbury, Pennsylvania. Here for two years the faithful mother toiled morning, noon and night, at washing and other hard work to support the children and keep them together. At the expiration of this time the uncle returned and carried them to Chester, Pennsylvania, where he was able to do a good business; but the same old trouble arose. The slave traders were on their track again! The family was smuggled away to Philadelphia and remained long enough for the uncle to secure employment, by answering an advertisement inserted in the papers by George and Arthur Stowell, Bordentown, New Jersey, for a journeyman shoemaker. At this place it was a daily contest with poverty and a struggle for bread; however, the children were kept together, and none were ever hired out. During the entire boyhood of William, so hard pressed were they because of sickness, dull seasons of work and other difficulties, that never a toy, so dear to childhood, brightened his life; and for days and weeks, milk and mush was his only food. He never attended a public school in his whole school life. The uncle having attended school in Charleston under D.A. Payne, now Bishop Payne of the A.M.E Church, was a fair scholar and undertook the education of the children, laying a foundation so broad and exact, that in after years college studies for the boy were comparatively easy.

William was by no means a good “Sabbath-keeping boy” such as we read of in books. He gave considerable trouble at home and abroad. In 1862 he was apprenticed to Dr. Leo H. DeLange, a dentist in Bordentown, New Jersey. So far as giving him necessary instruction, the doctor was kind to him. William had learned so thoroughly all there was to be learned in the profession, that when the doctor was absent he was able to do a large part of the work. Though often rebuffed by white patients, he operated on some of the best families in the city. He endeavored to enter a dental college in Philadelphia, and was refused largely on account of color. Unwilling to enter the profession without a thorough knowledge, such as could be given only in a training school, he decided to abandon the profession, but remained with the doctor until September 16, 1864, at which time, becoming disgusted at the treatment received at the hands of the doctor, he ran away and enlisted in the Forty-first United States colored troops.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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NEGLECT

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I’ve been neglecting my bathroom…. in all the worse ways. My bathroom, I actually have my own, to myself, don’t have to share her with anyone. Kids, all gone. The man of the house has his own abode as well. And me, ungrateful me, doesn’t show appreciation to the ‘Pink Lady.’ The ‘Pink Lady’ is old, but, strong. Sturdy wide tub with a shower head. The ‘Pink Throne’ – with a white seat, double sink, nestled in a long vanity, that, you guessed it, is speckled Pink. The large mirror, the old fashioned kind that you don’t see to often, majestic, no cracks. The ‘Pink’ wallpaper mixed with white, blue and silver – covers 90% of the bathroom.

The tile on the floor is ‘Pink’ – with a little mixture of 2 different kinds of pink. The old fashioned tile – the type that does not come up, it’s fixed, to the floor. Not one tiny tile missing because it appears to be one big piece of tiny tiles. Glued together like a jigsaw puzzle.

The ‘Pink Lady’ has a window that overlooks the massive backyard where nature is at play all four seasons.

But, I digress.

As I was saying. I’ve been neglecting her.

Inside the shower / tub enclosed by old fashioned glass doors with chrome metal handles – which, by the way, caresses me at least 5 days a week with an awesome, hot, long shower to help me prepare for work.

NEEDS ATTENTION!

The ‘Pink Lady’ needs to be CLEANED.

Not the superficial cleaning I give it at least once a week. The ‘Pink Lady’ needs a good old fashioned cleaning. So, that’s what I did.

Before I washed my hair, I sprayed the glass doors with scrubbing bubbles (we work hard so you won’t have to). Got a scotch brite pad and scrubbed the two glass doors inside and out.

WOW!

The doors seemed to be smiling at me with approval. So. I did it again.

Then.

I looked at those ‘Pink’ square tiles that line the shower wall on three sides. They looked like they were jealous cause the glass doors were getting all the attention.

Hmmmmm…. I wondered to myself. What to do?

I got in the shower and washed my hair. Standing there, under the falling water, washing my hair, I got an idea.

I opened the glass door, grabbed a scotch brite sponge, doused it with Bon-Ami, got back in the shower and started scrubbing the ‘Pink’ tiles while the shower was still flowing. I repeated this at least four times scrubbing all three walls.

BEAUTIFUL!

The ‘Pink’ tiles lit up like fireworks. ‘Pink’ fireworks.

My bathroom. A room of my own is so many things to me.

A library – because I read in there every morning before my shower.

A spa – because sometimes I need to soak in that ‘Pink’ tub filled with warm water and Epsom salt.

A make up closet – because the old fashioned mirror is huge and I can see my whole self.

A glimpse to the outside – the window faces the backyard and nature is truly my friend.

A good friend – because the ‘Pink Lady’ is always there. Even, when I’m not.

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Slow Me Down, Lord

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Slow me down, Lord.  Ease the pounding of my heart by the quieting of my mind.  Steady my hurried pace with a vision of the eternal reach of time.  Give me, amidst the confusion of my day, the calmness of the everlasting hills.  

Break the tension of my nerves and muscles with the soothing music of the singing streams that lie in my memory.  Help me to know the magical restoring power of sleep.  Teach me the art of taking “minute vacations,” of pausing to look at a flower, to chat with a friend, to pat a dog, to read a few lines from a book.

Remind me each day of the fable of the hare and the tortoise, that I may know the race is not always to the swift, that there is more to life than increasing its speed.  Let me look upward into the branches of the towering oak, and know that it grew great and strong because it grew slowly and well. 

Slow me down, Lord, and inspire me to send my roots deep into the soil of life’s enduring values, that I may grow toward the stars of my great destiny.  Amen.

 

From LIFE Guide, A Resource for Wellness Planning, copyrighted by Wellsource Inc. 1988

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CHANGE: (Written October, 2005 for Presbyterian Villages of Michigan) Bridget Knox, Admin. Assistant

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When I think of October.  I think of CHANGE.

The leaves of the trees CHANGE colors from simply green to brilliant bright red, yellow, orange and gorgeous gold.  They light up the sky for a season like beautiful Christmas lights – except, the leaves are perfect.

Then.

The leaves take on another CHANGE.

They fall.

They fall to the earth with their bright reds, yellows, orange’s and gorgeous gold’s and their brilliant colors decorate our lawns and busy streets.

Children play in the leaves and toss them to and fro while their parents or older siblings rake the leaves and put all those brilliant, bright and wonderful colors away.

Nice and tidy. Like a package of crayola crayons.

CHANGE happens.

The way we react to CHANGE has a lot to do with our attitudes toward CHANGE.

Are we willing to CHANGE ?

Sometimes, CHANGE is forced upon us. Then, we must CHANGE!

If we could make CHANGE more comfortable, whether good or bad.

Then maybe.

We could CHANGE.

Like the leaves.

From simply green.

To bright, bright, gorgeous, GOLD.

 

 

 

 

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75 SOUTH (A Mini Series) Part 10

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“Yeah, that’s what I said!  Buds girlfriend.  Is Ada daddy’s old girlfriend.”

“No, No.  Ada is not your daddy’s old girlfriend.  Ada is not Buds old girl friend. Do you understand me child!  Ada is your daddy’s old girl friend! Your daddy.  Ada is your daddy’s old girl friend from down south.”

“Why you talking crazy mamma, why you talking like you having some kind of nervous breakdown.  I’m talking about daddy.  I’m talking about Bud.  What you talking about.?

“I’m talking about you Thomasina.  I’m talking about you, your daddy and Adaline Love.  I’m talking about your kin folk.”

“My kin folk.?  What kin folk, what kin folk beside you and Bud?  Huh mamma, what kin folk you talking bout beside you and daddy!

“Tommie, Tommie – your daddy wants to talk to you.”

“Thomasina.”

“Daddy, what mamma talking about, what she talking about Bud?”

“Thomasina, listen,  (“tell her Bud, tell that child what’s going on”) my mom yelled in the background.

“Thomasina, Thomasina, I’m trying to tell you, I’m trying to..(“we should have told her a long time ago”) my mom yelled out.

“Emma, Emma, be quiet, be quiet now.  I’m trying to talk to Tommie, I’m trying to tell her, stop, stop yelling, stop yelling and let me talk to her, please, just let me talk to her Emma, let me talk to the girl.”

“Thomasina.  I’m not your daddy, I love you, but, I’m not your father, least, not your biological father, and, and, Emma, Emma not your mother, she not your mother in the natural way, she didn’t give birth to you from her womb – but, but to her, and, and,  to me, you, you our baby girl..(sobbing)  you our one and only baby girl.”

 

I heard my daddy talking.  I heard everything he said and what he was saying now.  I heard my mamma in the background yelling at Bud and telling him what they should have told me a long, long time ago.  I heard my daddy’s tears in the phone as he sobbed and wept and telling me he loved me, he loved me…. somebody else’s baby.  Not my mother, not my mother I heard Bud’s voice say…. not in the natural way,  Emma not your mother in the natural way.  I heard all of that, heard it all with my own ears, on my own phone, from my own daddy’s mouth.  Your daddy, your daddy was Ada’s old girlfriend from down south, Ada is your daddy’s old girlfriend… your kin folk, your kin folk.  Down South, down south.  That’s why they don’t go there, that’s why they don’t go there for nothing.  Down South, down south, that’s why they don’t talk about it, don’t talk about it at all -not to me anyway – never mention it.  Who never goes back home?  Who never goes back to their roots, to their people, to their kin folk?

“Daddy.”

“Yes Tommie.”

“I’m leaving Monday for Alabama.  You and mamma wanna come with me?”

“We’ll be ready when you get here baby.”

“OK.  See you Monday daddy.  Tell mom goodnight for me.”

 

B. Knox

75 South

To Be Continued.

 

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75 SOUTH (A Mini Series) Part 9

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I woke up the next morning on the couch with three 32 ounce empty bottles of Golden Champale lying next to me.  I felt awful and hung over because quiet as it’s kept, it don’t take much for me to get drunk.  All I kept hearing in my head was Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie and something about a black rag doll walking down the road, walking down the road.  Why the road and not the street?  (I thought to myself).  That woman, Miss Love, from Akron had been talking about something  I had never heard, never heard about, even the times I would eavesdrop on Bud or Emma talking on the phone to somebody, somebody from somewhere else, not Michigan – Akron, Akron, sometimes Bud would be talking to some old woman from Akron – I guess that old woman is Miss Love.  If it is Ada, how do they know each other – she said she know my mamma too – are they related to each other – why didn’t  I ask her last night how she knew them and, why are my eyes hazel like Miss Ada’s and her sister Lizzie.  I need to talk to my parents, I’ve got to get some answers before I leave on this assignment down south next week, I need to call Vickie, I need to call Miss Ada, and, damn!  I need to call Linda today about my itinerary.

Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom.

“Who is it, who is it?”  (I yelled from the couch).

Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom.

“Who is it?”  (I yelled again).

“It’s me Tommie, It’s Flora, open the door girl!  Are you alright?”

I jumped up from the couch and stumbled to the door.  “Hold on Flo, I’m coming, stop knocking.”

“Tommie, where was you at last night?  Your car was outside and I was blowing my horn waiting for you to come to the window and see me in safe.  I finally just got out the car and ran in as fast as I could – it was bout 3 in the morning and pitch black outside and on top of that, the stupid street light was out again.  I knocked and knocked on your door but you didn’t answer – I heard the TV so I assumed you was woke.  I finally gave up and went to my apartment and tried calling you on the phone.”

“Flo, I’m so sorry – I had a hard day yesterday and I started drinking and didn’t stop until all my champale was gone.  I didn’t hear nothing, nothing.  I was knocked out on the couch all night, come on in, I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK girl – I understand, I was just worried about you cause it’s not like you not to see me in at night.  Is everything OK?”

“No, I don’t know, some family stuff.  I’m working on it though, I’ll be alright.”

“Well, let me know if you need me to do anything Tommie.”

“As a matter of fact Flora, there is something you can do for me.”

“What you need girl?.

“I’m leaving next week for Alabama on a work assignment.”

“Yeah, you was telling me about that.”

“Well, I need you to look after my apartment while I’m gone – you know, make sure everything is in order like getting my mail and newspaper, watering the plants and just airing out the place at least once a week by opening up the windows and letting fresh air in.  Maybe turn on the lights at night and off during the day so it looks like I’m here.  If the phone rings while you’re here – take a message for me and call me once a week to give them to me.  I will pay you two hundred dollars up front before I leave.”

“You don’t have to pay me Tommie.”

“Girl, I know where you work, you could use the extra change – your job description will be house sitter.  I’ll tell Linda I’m paying you to house sit and  she will reimburses me.”

“Do you want the job?

“Hell yeah girl.  When do I start?”

“Next Monday.  Thanks Flo.  You’re a good neighbor and a better friend.”

 

“Hi Linda, It’s Tommie – I’m calling about the itinerary.”

“How you doing Tommie?  “Are you ready for your adventure?

“As a matter of fact Linda, I am.”

“Good, good.  I’m having it delivered this afternoon. Speedy has already picked it up so it won’t be long.  Everything you need is in there. If you need anything else, let me know. Drive safe and have a good time Tommie.”

“Thanks Linda.  See you when I get back.”

 

 

“Hi mom.  Are you busy, can we talk?

“Hi Tommie.  Your daddy told me what happened.”

“What did Bud tell you?

“That you going to Alabama.”

“Is that all he said.?

“He said Ada called and you took the message.”

“Do you know her?

“Yes Tommie, I know Ada.”

“How do you know her mom, is she related to you or Bud?

“No, she’s not a relative, she’s an old friend.”

“Whose friend, yours or Bud’s?

“Your daddy’s friend.”

“What kind of friend, is Ada Bud’s old girlfriend?

“No, Ada is your daddy’s old girlfriend.”

 

75 South

B. Knox

 

 

 

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75 South (A Mini Series) Part 8

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“This is Ada.  Who am I talking to?”

“Hello, hi Mrs. Love.  This is, I talked to you earlier, this is Tommie – Bud and Emma’s daughter, I talked to you, I talked to you on the phone, I answered the phone at my parents house and spoke with you earlier today.”

“Hello girl.  Are your parents home now?”

“Oh, Oh, no, I don’t know.  My father was home when I left, I’m at my house now, my apartment, my mom might be home now, but, I’m, I’m at home, at my apartment Mrs. Love.”

“Miss Love.”

“Excuse me.”

“Miss Love girl, it’s Miss Love, I never married.”

“Oh, Oh, I’m sorry Mrs. – I mean, Miss Love.  I’m sorry, I just assumed.”

“Don’t be sorry girl, it’s quite alright, just call me Ada.”

“OK, OK Miss Love, I mean, Ada.  Is this a good time to bother you Miss Ada?”

“It’s as good as time as any young lady.  I done had my supper and now I’m just reading the paper and relaxing a little.  I was hoping you would call.”

“You were?”

“Of course girl.  It’s obvious that you don’t know nothing about me and it’s quite obvious, to you I believe, that I know a little something about you.”

“How did you know that I had hazel eyes Miss Ada?”

“I didn’t know.”

“When I talked to you earlier, you asked me was my eyes hazel.”

“I know.”

“Well, I know you asked me.  How did you know?”

“I didn’t know until you told me girl.”

“But you asked me, you asked me was my eyes hazel. Why did you ask me that?”

“Because you said you was Bud and Emma’s child.”

“What does that have to do with anything?  Neither one of them has hazel eyes.”

“I know they don’t. But I do, and so did my sister.”

“Your sister, your sister.  Who is your sister, and what does that have to do with me and my parents?”

“Girl, calm down a bit.  When you answered that phone and told me you were Bud and Emma’s daughter, that you were 32 years old, I got to thinking, I got to thinking real quick and started adding up in my head.  I got to thinking about when Lizzie, my little sister, had to go away from our home because the elders said she had an infirmity, an ailment.  They took her away from Tuscaloosa, they took Lizzie away in 1952.”  About a year later, when I was about to go off to school, Lizzie came back home, but she was changed, she was different.  She hardly talked to me or anybody else for that matter.  All she wanted to do was mope around the house and play with this black rag doll that somebody had made her while she was away.  I asked her where she had gone and what had happened to her, she was about 12 years old then.  The rumor was that she was with child, she was pregnant, and my family took her to a home where she would be cared for until she delivered the baby somewhere in Mobile.  Lizzie never told me what happened and after I went off to school, my mother wrote me and said that Lizzie got up one morning, packed a little bag and her and that rag doll of hers left walking up the road toward the main highway.  That was the last time anybody saw or heard from my little sister.  That was in the fall of 1954.”

I couldn’t  speak.  I couldn’t  breath.  I thought I was having a panic attack.  I held the phone to my ear,  I heard Miss Ada breathing on the other end. I got myself together enough to form some words.

“Miss Ada.”  (I whispered in the phone).

“Yes child.”

“I have to call you back. Goodnight.”  (I hung up the phone).

 

75 SOUTH

B. Knox

To be Continued.

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Highland Park High School: Nov 2015

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This picture was taken by my brother, James Knox.  He was helping me out with a photo shoot for my digital photography class last November.  The reason that I’m looking sad is because my high school, Highland Park, located in Highland Park Michigan on Woodward near 6 Mile has been closed down for good.  The Polar Bears will no longer roam at this site and this deeply saddens me and a whole lot of other Alumni of Highland Park.  There are many rumors going around that my school is going to be torn down, turned into something grand, making room for the rail that is slowly making its way North on Woodward.  Some say that Dan Gilbert bought it just like he’s buying everything else that has VALUE.  Highland Park has value to the many students like myself who walked the halls, played the games, cheered the crowd, and danced with the band while being educated by the best teachers, monitored by the most professional hall guards – who, by the way, called us by our names and showed us love – not hate.  Our Administration staff was excellent and,  “It Takes a Village”  was the atmosphere as we walked the halls and made our way to classes.  I graduated in 1980 and have been to every 10 year reunion for my class.  So, before it’s too late, make your way to the school with no windows on Woodward near 6 Mile – sit on one of the benches – take a picture – and remember the way we were.

 

Bridget Knox