The "H" family was typical of the 1950s and 60s. Though poor, us kids didn't have a clue. We were well fed and slept in clean beds. The roof never leaked. Winters were snug, summers were made bearable by box fans placed in the bedroom windows, with other windows raised no more than six inches. The air that rushed in was not just cool, but chilling. On Saturday mornings we were allowed to watch our "portable" television on the screened-in porch in our pajamas. (A note about the "portable" television -- can you imagine a very heavy metal box about 12 inches wide and as high, but about 24 inches deep? Back then,
that was "portable.")
Every morning we had breakfast at the kitchen table -- the five of us (momma, daddy, brother, sister and me) -- all at the same time -- all the same thing. About three basic combinations alternated: 1) eggs, grits, bacon, toast; 2) eggs, bacon, cold cereal, toast; 3) pancakes and bacon. Sausage patties were occasionally substituted for the bacon, sometimes ham, considered a treat. Hash browns or potato pancakes (not from a bag in the freezer) sometimes took the place of grits or cold cereal. In the fall and winter months, oatmeal was the favorite of my brother and sister; I was a Malt-O-Meal connoisseur. Lunch was not courtesy of the free lunch program, but courtesy of my mom's kitchen. Even though we got new "lunch kits" every year, by year's end they were replaced with brown lunch bags. Dinner was a balance of meat, vegetables and starch. Spaghetti and wieners with pan-fried hot-water cornbread, all prepared by my mother, were far superior to the stuff found in any can. For several years we had a vegetable garden in the back yard that yielded greens, tomatoes, okra, and other boring vegetables. I thought we were living in the dark ages because we rarely had hot dogs or hamburgers for dinner -- a rare treat reserved for a Friday evening while watching wrestling matches on television. Oh, but now -- to eat home-grown vegetables in 2008! My father made sure we were well fed. I didn't realize it then, but I definitely know it now.
We lived in a small frame house that my father built. Later I learned that because of the war he could only get enough building materials for a small house with two bedrooms. That house, a testament to his craftsmanship, but even more so, the grace of God, has withstood every storm, flood and hurricane since 1950. Not until the house was updated were there any problems. (During Ike, a couple dozen of roofing pieces and a small part of the soffit.) I recall when the hard-wired security system was installed that the Brinks man was particularly miffed by the solid wood hiding behind the drywall. No quickie installation there.
My father provided us a modest home and everything our family needed. By the time I was born he had long since left the stable employment as a trucker for a chemical company. He was forced to leave because those who had a job such as his were allowed to work only a limited number of years. I figure it was known that whatever he hauled was toxic and before it became a problem, employees were disposed of. For most of the short 14 years I knew my father, he was self-employed. He had a dump truck and rented a lot on Telephone Road, on the south side of the railroad tracks near Gulf Freeway. Right next door to the Manning Machine Shop. My dad sold topsoil and fertilizer. He shoveled big loads into his dump truck and delivered it. Sometimes people would come by and purchase bushel baskets of the stuff. The fertilizer was sold in burlap bags secured with string ties. During the week, when I was not yet of school age, on days when my father left very early in the morning, mom would prepare the standard breakfast (grits, bag, eggs and toast), plated on a thick white cafeteria-type divided dish, covered with waxed paper and placed in a brown grocery bag, and we would get in the pale green car (don't even ask me what kind, okay?) and drive across town to the East End Dirt Lot.
Sometimes when we arrived Dad was sitting in his little shack-like office, furnished with a small desk, a couple of chairs and a telephone -- the heavy black desk phone with a rotary dial. The walls were covered with cardboard -- like the sizes of large boxes. We were allowed to write on the walls. I remember drawing lots of cats with a #2 lead pencil. Cats were easy -- a small circular head, a larger oval for a body, two triangular ears and a tale, the length of which varied from one cat to another. And sometimes Dad wasn't there, so while we waited in the car, my mom read me the "funnies" and pointed to the words as I followed along.
Even in his little business, we children were allowed to work. On Saturdays we would go to the East End Dirt Lot, and while Dad made deliveries, my sister, brother and I would sell dirt and fertilizer to folks who stopped by for a bushel. Being the smallest, Dad gave me a shovel that was just the right size for me. This specially sized tool allowed me to participate in the Saturday sales. On a good day my sister, brother and I would make as much as $8 or $9 -- a big haul for three kids 48 years ago. At least we thought it was a big haul.
One evening in the middle of the week, my parents started having prayer with us. I thought this was strange, as bedtime prayers and prayers before eating any meal did not cease. What's up with all the praying? I thought about that question, but dared not ask.
I sat under him until the night before he died. If he was sitting on the sofa next to my mother, I would pull a Sasha Obama move and make a space for me between them. There was no age limit for me; I was never so grownup that I didn't want to sit next to my father. Sometimes I would sit next to him on the deacons' row at our church. Back then there were all sorts of restrictions about the seating arrangements. Only deacons sat on certain pews -- or rows of chairs. For regular folks those spaces were off limits. Period. What utter nonsense that was. At least, that was my thought when I'd make my way to the space next to my father.
During the Christmas season, which never began until the day after Thanksgiving, my father would get the decorations and lights out of the attic. We would have to screw in each of the colored light bulbs and test them before he hung them outside. On Christmas Day we had the usual complement of toys, including dad-assembled bicycles or kitchen appliances or whatever.
My father had a temper. On one Christmas Day we were in the back yard playing with our new toys. A man in the back yard on the other side of the fence was using foul language. Daddy went over to the fence, pointed to his kids and asked the man to watch his mouth. The man said something foul -- to my father -- who without another word jumped the chainlink fence, belted the guy once (that was sufficient to buckle his knees) and come back into our yard.
I mentioned Dad was a deacon. Our Sundays were predictable: breakfast, Sunday School, morning worship (or, as we called it then, the 11:00 o'clock service), BTU (Baptist Training Union), and evening worship (night service). Our church activities were not optional. Barring a toe being tagged, that's where our Sundays were spent. My parents did not send us to church; they took us.
My father was the guy that no one wanted to cross. The neighborhood bullies knew the "H" kids -- including my very skinny brother whose knees were bigger than his legs -- were off limits. For those who occasionally forgot to whom we belong, a simple I'm gonna tell my daddy was sufficient to stop the biggest bully in his tracks.
Did I mention that my father was a Negro? That's what he is called on his death certificate. The funny thing is that on the few occasions I saw his legs, they were as pale as any Caucasian's. yet from the waste up he was as brown as I. My Gram, his mother, was the same. (I never saw her from the waist up so I don't know the demarcation of her hues.) Perhaps Dad and Gram probably spent a lot of time in the sun. Since my mom was also pale, I often wondered how they conceived three very chocolaty children. (Mom didn't start getting dark until her late 60s or so, and she still can't seem to get past the caramel stage.) And we are truly theirs! My sister and brother are just like my father, right down to his high cheekbones and humongous eyes. And while I have his temperament, I look more like my mother.
There are many times since February 1969 that I wished I could have his counsel. Many times I can remember some of the things he would say (to us at the time, ad nauseam). When I think of them now I find strength in his words. And even though his body is most likely dust now, I am grateful that he gave me something more lasting than an earthly vessel. He is still very much a part of me. And I am so much my father's child.
My father was one of three boys, born to a woman who had 16 siblings. He was born at home on Detering Street just off Memorial Drive in Houston. His beginnings were humble on the socio-economic spectrum, but what he gave me was nothing the most affluent could purchase: love, care, self-respect, self-reliance, confidence, persistence, preparedness. Most of all, my father introduced me to my Savior and my God. And because of those relationships, I believe I will one day see my Daddy again.
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