I thought that it would be appropriate and of interest to relate some of the jobs my dad and others of his generation had to endure to attend school and at times support a family.
A dear friend of mine, Izzy Hall who I called my second dad, was an attorney He told me the story of how he worked all summer in Atlantic City as a waiter and had accumulated enough money for tuition for another year at Indiana University. He had secured his money in a handkerchief and stuffed it safely in his hip pocket. Part of the trip back to Indiana was a ferry ride from Cape May, N.J. to Lewes, De. It was a beautiful day and he had gone up to the upper deck to stand at the rail and watch the receding shore and the gulls circling and screeching in the wake of the boat. All of a sudden he had to sneeze and automatically reached in his hip pocket and grabbed his handkerchief, as it unfurled, out flew his entire summer earnings, bills swirling out into the bay. He said that only God’s hand kept him from jumping overboard into the bay after the money. The hard summer of toil of about five hundred dollars, gone
One of my friends dad attended Meharry and between classes worked on an ice/coal truck
And when he graduated, his son relates that his photograph in the class picture had him sporting a string tie. He told his father that the tie was really hip since no one else had one on and his father replied “ that wasn’t a tie, it was my shoe lace”
Many of our fathers had jobs on trains as Pullman porter’s crisscrossing the country working the servile jobs of serving poor tipping whites. These jobs were demeaning and they were all called “George”; the indignity that they were all the same colored boy, not men, to whites, no matter their age or education. There was a truism that there were more Black lawyers working on trains and in the post office than in private practice during the 20’s,30’s and 40’s.
My dad worked as a bell hop in Atlantic City besides carrying bags, he secured bootleg liquor and women for the guest at the hotel where he worked. He even would stock some moonshine then hide it in the hotel basement, so he didn’t have to leave, and save empty pint bottles filling them from his supply to sell to his clients.
Later he was able to get a job on “chicken bone beach” as a doctor at the lifeguard station because Dr Richard Fowler, a black physician, had some political pull. By the way Dr Fowler delivered me.
Very few Black physicians could afford to get more than an internship after medical school because there were few opportunities for residency and the stipends were pitiful $15 to $50/ month. Most had delayed marriage and those that had, felt they owed their family’s a comfortable life.
Most of the men I refer to were the first of their families to get an education past grade school. Those who did only had their blessings because they certainly couldn’t help financially. As I write this, I can only admire these men who tread a path for their children to follow, certainly not smooth but imprinted with footsteps for us to follow and succeed.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Dear Adrienne
Dear Adrienne,
I am so very sorry to hear that Ernest passed.
I know that Ernest was the love of your life and that he had a love for you that was always palpable in his comments to everyone about you. And there wasn’t a single time that we talked that what you and he did or were going to do didn’t come up.
You may or may not know I moved to Evansville from Atlantic City when I was 10 yrs old and Ernest and I became friends practically right away.
We became altar boys at St.John’s and were Father Mootz errand boys, even sippin the grapes in the church and the booze in the parrish house.
He may have told you how we would borrow Father car (unknown to him) and drive to Owensboro to see his grandmother. So many memories. Like he would help me with my chores so I could get done quicker. And he’d tell my mother that she was Simonize crazy since she had us use it on every thing. We would cop beer from Willy’s market and stash it in our garage for my Gran’Pop. Oh! the old memories.
Where one of us was the other was there or coming.
Life has it’s twist and turns and in the last 30 or so years tragedy had befallen us all. But I don’t feel Ernest felt like he was short changed in any way. He lived a full life and he was like the energizer bunny in the end he kept going and going and going until his batteries ran out.
Ernest was my friend and I am going to miss him since he is a part of my life that can never be revisited again.
I hope you will cherish your memories and know that I share your loss.
Stay strong.
Love Earle
June 7, 2006
I am so very sorry to hear that Ernest passed.
I know that Ernest was the love of your life and that he had a love for you that was always palpable in his comments to everyone about you. And there wasn’t a single time that we talked that what you and he did or were going to do didn’t come up.
You may or may not know I moved to Evansville from Atlantic City when I was 10 yrs old and Ernest and I became friends practically right away.
We became altar boys at St.John’s and were Father Mootz errand boys, even sippin the grapes in the church and the booze in the parrish house.
He may have told you how we would borrow Father car (unknown to him) and drive to Owensboro to see his grandmother. So many memories. Like he would help me with my chores so I could get done quicker. And he’d tell my mother that she was Simonize crazy since she had us use it on every thing. We would cop beer from Willy’s market and stash it in our garage for my Gran’Pop. Oh! the old memories.
Where one of us was the other was there or coming.
Life has it’s twist and turns and in the last 30 or so years tragedy had befallen us all. But I don’t feel Ernest felt like he was short changed in any way. He lived a full life and he was like the energizer bunny in the end he kept going and going and going until his batteries ran out.
Ernest was my friend and I am going to miss him since he is a part of my life that can never be revisited again.
I hope you will cherish your memories and know that I share your loss.
Stay strong.
Love Earle
June 7, 2006
Living In Evansville...1939
When my father moved to Evansville in 1939, my mother and I stayed in Atlantic City for two more years. He lived in the office in which he practiced, sleeping in a back room that was practically a shed.
He sent for my mother to come and secure housing for all of us. My mother stayed in a rooming house until she could find a place that she liked. Once, I had come for a visit and one night my mother was up stairs and a male roomer was in the bathroom, all of a sudden I heard him gagging and my mother scream, I ran upstairs to find him doubled over the stool vomiting up worms. There were worms coming out of his mouth and nose and they filled the toilet bowl. They were short, long, round and grayish white and pointed at the ends. I stood there transfixed. The landlady shooed us out and said that this was a condition people from the country had and she knew a potion that would cure him. Me, it scared me nearly to deat. I could hardly sleep after that and was ready to leave. Not long after that my mother did move and I went back to AC to stay with my Aunt Mina and Uncle Clarence until I was to move back for good.
Later in the summer of 1941 my Aunt Madeline brought me by train out to Evansville.
The train trip from Philadelphia to Evansville was quite an experience, since we had a roomette. There was a button on the wall in the roomette and being curious, I pushed it magically a porter appeared and not to be embarrassed my aunt ordered me a coke, which he brought on a silver tray with a glass filled with ice. I vividly remember the train rounding the Horseshoe Curve near Harrisburg, Pa, where you could see the front and back of the train at the same time as it negotiated the curve. We then stopped over in Greencastle, at the farm of Dr Percy and Anna Julian, Anna being a dear friend of my aunt, Percy being my godfather (Later I’ll relate the tale of the three horses). We stayed there a couple of days and then proceeded to Evansville
The house that my mother found was quite small, it had a living room, dining room, kitchen two bedrooms and one bath. The living room was used as the waiting room for patients and the dining room was used as the examining room. When my father was seeing patients, we either had to stay in the kitchen or in the bedroom; if someone needed to go from one place to the other they knocked on the door so he could let them go between patient exams. This could be quite annoying to him and to us, especially my grandfather who had come to stay and needed to make frequent pit stops.
We were the only Black family on the block and a white boy who lived two doors down was in his back yard while I shooting cans with my Red Ryder BB gun in my back yard... He called me a nigger and ducked behind a tree. I shot and hit the tree. He repeatedly would holler nigger and stick his head out and I would hit the tree. So I cocked the gun and waited; out came his head I then threw a rock and hit the tree with what he thought was a shot and when he stuck his head out again I shot him in his forehead. It’s a miracle I didn’t put his eye out but he never called me nigger any more and his family moved soon after the incident. Naturally I got a righteous whipping. In Atlantic City, I had never been called a nigger. I had a lot to learn in Evansville which sits on the Ohio River which is a demarcation for the Mason-Dixon Line. Movies, stores, housing, train seats to places south were segregated. We were Catholic and the Blacks had their mass said in the basement auditorium of Assumption Cathedral.
He sent for my mother to come and secure housing for all of us. My mother stayed in a rooming house until she could find a place that she liked. Once, I had come for a visit and one night my mother was up stairs and a male roomer was in the bathroom, all of a sudden I heard him gagging and my mother scream, I ran upstairs to find him doubled over the stool vomiting up worms. There were worms coming out of his mouth and nose and they filled the toilet bowl. They were short, long, round and grayish white and pointed at the ends. I stood there transfixed. The landlady shooed us out and said that this was a condition people from the country had and she knew a potion that would cure him. Me, it scared me nearly to deat. I could hardly sleep after that and was ready to leave. Not long after that my mother did move and I went back to AC to stay with my Aunt Mina and Uncle Clarence until I was to move back for good.
Later in the summer of 1941 my Aunt Madeline brought me by train out to Evansville.
The train trip from Philadelphia to Evansville was quite an experience, since we had a roomette. There was a button on the wall in the roomette and being curious, I pushed it magically a porter appeared and not to be embarrassed my aunt ordered me a coke, which he brought on a silver tray with a glass filled with ice. I vividly remember the train rounding the Horseshoe Curve near Harrisburg, Pa, where you could see the front and back of the train at the same time as it negotiated the curve. We then stopped over in Greencastle, at the farm of Dr Percy and Anna Julian, Anna being a dear friend of my aunt, Percy being my godfather (Later I’ll relate the tale of the three horses). We stayed there a couple of days and then proceeded to Evansville
The house that my mother found was quite small, it had a living room, dining room, kitchen two bedrooms and one bath. The living room was used as the waiting room for patients and the dining room was used as the examining room. When my father was seeing patients, we either had to stay in the kitchen or in the bedroom; if someone needed to go from one place to the other they knocked on the door so he could let them go between patient exams. This could be quite annoying to him and to us, especially my grandfather who had come to stay and needed to make frequent pit stops.
We were the only Black family on the block and a white boy who lived two doors down was in his back yard while I shooting cans with my Red Ryder BB gun in my back yard... He called me a nigger and ducked behind a tree. I shot and hit the tree. He repeatedly would holler nigger and stick his head out and I would hit the tree. So I cocked the gun and waited; out came his head I then threw a rock and hit the tree with what he thought was a shot and when he stuck his head out again I shot him in his forehead. It’s a miracle I didn’t put his eye out but he never called me nigger any more and his family moved soon after the incident. Naturally I got a righteous whipping. In Atlantic City, I had never been called a nigger. I had a lot to learn in Evansville which sits on the Ohio River which is a demarcation for the Mason-Dixon Line. Movies, stores, housing, train seats to places south were segregated. We were Catholic and the Blacks had their mass said in the basement auditorium of Assumption Cathedral.
We lived in the office-house on Lincoln Ave for about a year. I was enrolled in the Black school named Lincoln ( grades 1 thru 12 ) and had frequent fights because I talked funny and told the class I use to swim in the ocean. .They had no comprehension of the ocean and since the river was not safe for public swimming didn’t believe me. My mother was exasperated by having to go talk to the principal about my behavior almost daily. I guess it was lucky we lived a block from the school. After fighting and beating up one of the Lovelace brothers, they finally left me alone.
I begged to go back to Atlantic City, but since my Dad had established a good reputation and his medical practice was flourishing, we were doomed to stay.
World War II had begun and they drafted my Dad and we all thought we would be moving , but he appealed to the draft board that he was the only Black doctor in Evansville and the gave him and exemption, so we were compelled than to stay, FOREVER!
My mother then set about getting bigger place, since my aunt and Papa were frequently with us and my Dad need a suitable office.
They purchased a lot on Bellemeade Ave, one street over and behind Lincoln High School, and hired an architect to design a house and office dwelling. Because of the war material was being rationed so he had my Dad purchase wood, plumbing, electrical products in anticipation of their need when construction began. We had a garage filled with this stuff.
Building a new house was something unique in the community, since no Black had built a new house in 50 or so years. I still remember the names of the architect Mr. Thole and the general contractor Mr Groul
Every day during contruction, I went to the site and watched the varied contractors built our house at 615 Bellemeade Ave. One time after the workmen had finished for the day I used the toilet when my parents whet by to check on the work and I didn’t know that the water had been turned off and the toilet wouldn’t flush. So my Dad made me dip out the turds I had deposited and bury them. Even to this day, I can remember how it was framed, bricked up and landscaped.
At the same time as our house was in construction they were building St. John’s Catholic Church and parsonage next door. The story of St. John’s Church and school and how it evolved is to follow in another chapter.
I begged to go back to Atlantic City, but since my Dad had established a good reputation and his medical practice was flourishing, we were doomed to stay.
World War II had begun and they drafted my Dad and we all thought we would be moving , but he appealed to the draft board that he was the only Black doctor in Evansville and the gave him and exemption, so we were compelled than to stay, FOREVER!
My mother then set about getting bigger place, since my aunt and Papa were frequently with us and my Dad need a suitable office.
They purchased a lot on Bellemeade Ave, one street over and behind Lincoln High School, and hired an architect to design a house and office dwelling. Because of the war material was being rationed so he had my Dad purchase wood, plumbing, electrical products in anticipation of their need when construction began. We had a garage filled with this stuff.
Building a new house was something unique in the community, since no Black had built a new house in 50 or so years. I still remember the names of the architect Mr. Thole and the general contractor Mr Groul
Every day during contruction, I went to the site and watched the varied contractors built our house at 615 Bellemeade Ave. One time after the workmen had finished for the day I used the toilet when my parents whet by to check on the work and I didn’t know that the water had been turned off and the toilet wouldn’t flush. So my Dad made me dip out the turds I had deposited and bury them. Even to this day, I can remember how it was framed, bricked up and landscaped.
At the same time as our house was in construction they were building St. John’s Catholic Church and parsonage next door. The story of St. John’s Church and school and how it evolved is to follow in another chapter.
Visiting West Grove
West Grove, Pa is a small town some what southwest of Philadelphia on US route 1. It’s where my grandmother Blanche and grandfather Noni lived and where my father and his six brothers and one sister were raised
From about six year old until ten years old, I would visit there in the summer. Along with my grandmother and grandpop there were six uncles. My dad had been the oldest of the four along with Bud, Clyde and Junie and a sister Alva and three younger brothers Ray , Hughsey and Gene who were about ten or so years older than I, my gran’mom having had them late in life. The three younger boys were still living at home when I would visit. My cousins, Kenny and his sister Barbara, lived up the hill from grandmom.
West Grove was part country and part small town and for a city boy it was a real experience; since there were outhouses and at night if you had to go it was up the hill in the back and scary to go. My gran mom had a chamber pot for night time use. I guess when I was there for a month I needed a dose of castor oil to clear out my system since the hole in the plank and the pages of the Sears Roebuck catalog did not allow me to have regular elimination.
The local kids and my cousin Kenny had a lot of fun playing tricks on me. One of the things I remember most was a time we cut through a pasture and a bull chased us. They knew where he was and split up. I was petrified and then took off with him snorting and stomping and charging behind me; just as he was about to reach me I slipped under the fence to safety. They all were rolling on the ground laughing at my narrow escape. Back at the house when I told my uncles, they said that I was making this up.
Another of the scary daring things that they did was to go down to a train trestle which spanned a creek They would wait at the edge of the trestle and when they heard the train blowing for the crossing about a mile away they would start running towards the middle where the creek flowed deep. I am trailing behind not knowing the routine about the trestle and jumping in the water but I can hear the rumbling, roaring and shaking as the train sped towards us, the engineer blowing his whistle like mad. They all began to jump off in the creek below, me jumping at the last minute as the train sped over us. The engineer shaking his fist and cussing at us.
We knew we had a whipping coming for swimming in the creek but if grandmom knew what we really had done Kenny and I would have had our buns turned into hamburger.
I also remember that there were very few black people in West Grove and everyone knew Blanche and Noni and the Robinson boys but the local tavern had a brass rail down the middle separating the whites from the blacks.
My grandmoms father Uriah Martin had been a pfc in the Civil War and there is a commemorative plaque to black veterans in Washington on the National Mall with his name inscribed.
My dad was the first black to graduate from West Grove high school and later to graduate from Lincoln University up the road in Oxford, Pa as president of his senior class. When I moved from Atlantic City when I was 10 I never went back to West Grove until I was an adult.
From about six year old until ten years old, I would visit there in the summer. Along with my grandmother and grandpop there were six uncles. My dad had been the oldest of the four along with Bud, Clyde and Junie and a sister Alva and three younger brothers Ray , Hughsey and Gene who were about ten or so years older than I, my gran’mom having had them late in life. The three younger boys were still living at home when I would visit. My cousins, Kenny and his sister Barbara, lived up the hill from grandmom.
West Grove was part country and part small town and for a city boy it was a real experience; since there were outhouses and at night if you had to go it was up the hill in the back and scary to go. My gran mom had a chamber pot for night time use. I guess when I was there for a month I needed a dose of castor oil to clear out my system since the hole in the plank and the pages of the Sears Roebuck catalog did not allow me to have regular elimination.
The local kids and my cousin Kenny had a lot of fun playing tricks on me. One of the things I remember most was a time we cut through a pasture and a bull chased us. They knew where he was and split up. I was petrified and then took off with him snorting and stomping and charging behind me; just as he was about to reach me I slipped under the fence to safety. They all were rolling on the ground laughing at my narrow escape. Back at the house when I told my uncles, they said that I was making this up.
Another of the scary daring things that they did was to go down to a train trestle which spanned a creek They would wait at the edge of the trestle and when they heard the train blowing for the crossing about a mile away they would start running towards the middle where the creek flowed deep. I am trailing behind not knowing the routine about the trestle and jumping in the water but I can hear the rumbling, roaring and shaking as the train sped towards us, the engineer blowing his whistle like mad. They all began to jump off in the creek below, me jumping at the last minute as the train sped over us. The engineer shaking his fist and cussing at us.
We knew we had a whipping coming for swimming in the creek but if grandmom knew what we really had done Kenny and I would have had our buns turned into hamburger.
I also remember that there were very few black people in West Grove and everyone knew Blanche and Noni and the Robinson boys but the local tavern had a brass rail down the middle separating the whites from the blacks.
My grandmoms father Uriah Martin had been a pfc in the Civil War and there is a commemorative plaque to black veterans in Washington on the National Mall with his name inscribed.
My dad was the first black to graduate from West Grove high school and later to graduate from Lincoln University up the road in Oxford, Pa as president of his senior class. When I moved from Atlantic City when I was 10 I never went back to West Grove until I was an adult.
My Mother
If I could describe my mother Gwen, in a word, it would be wise. She had a love for literature from a young age and was never without a book. Her interests were vast and she loved the writings of philosophers, in fact she was indeed one. She loved design and had built two houses with unique details, years ahead of the times. She handled all my Dad’s finances and taught me how to write checks and make deposits at 11 or 12 years old. I can remember late at night she would be reading and writing notations in the margins or dog-earing pages in books that were of special interest to her. She was an avid article clipper….. Quotes, quips, advice, and hints (i.e. Ann Landers and Heloise) poems (Shelly and Browning) and thinkers (Theroux and Gibran)
I feel that she had three purposes in life. 1.) Make a comfortable home for family 2.) Teach her children to survive 3.) And seek out the path to happiness. Once we moved to Evansville she never worked again except for her family. My grandfather stayed every summer with us and my cousin stayed after getting out of the Navy to complete his first two years at Evansville College before graduating from Roosevelt University in Chicago
I was born when she was 25 and because of the depression they decided to postpone any more children since supporting a family in these times was so uncertain. In 1946, my Dad was doing well and they decide to have another child. Back then Evansville had segregated hospitals so my dad, being a physician, did her prenatal care and arranged for her delivery at St Mary’s Infirmary, a private Catholic hospital in St. Louis by a friend and respected Ob specialist of the day. They went over to St. Louis days before and a baby girl was delivered uneventfully. Her name was Brenda. In those days the hospital stay post partum was about a week. My dad had returned home to await her discharge.
Early one morning the phone rang, I answered and it was my Uncle Red calling for my Dad. There was something in his voice that I sensed was not right…so I listened in on the extension. He said, “I’ve some bad news Robbie, the baby died suddenly of no apparent reason and an autopsy was of no help”, (it probably would be consider SID’s in today’s world) and my mother was overwhelmed. I silently hung up and little later he told me the news and although I knew already, I never let that on to anyone, I was 14 years old and was deeply upset. My mother was distraught and blamed everyone especially the hospital, doctors and nurses, I have speculated that in the 14 years of marriage she may have had a couple of miscarriages but saw them as acts of God and attached less significance to those losses.
About a year later, she became pregnant and decided to deliver in Evansville. A prominent Obstetrician took care of her and delivered my brother Bruce. I always have believed if racism in Evansville had not existed the loss of my sister may not have happened and my mother would at least have had family support around her. Even with the happiness surrounding Bruce’s birth a pall hung over her in the following years.
I know she focused on Bruce and seemed to lose interest in her personal goals.
She became more interested in people like what was the purpose of life and how to achieve happiness. When Bruce was about 2 years old, I was leaving for college and she had begun to think on happiness again. She was friendly with two couples who got together on weekends and had deep discussions on life and happiness. And on one of my visits home from college she showed me some writings that she condensed from their talks and she called them “The Four Pieces for Happiness” I have written them as I remember. These are words of a wise woman
“Four Pieces for Happiness “
1.) Peace of Body……. . keep yourself physically healthy
2.) Peace of Mind……... be mentally content with your existence
3.) Peace of Soul………. be in tune with what ever spirituality you believe
3.) Piece of Money……..be financially comfortable
I feel that she had three purposes in life. 1.) Make a comfortable home for family 2.) Teach her children to survive 3.) And seek out the path to happiness. Once we moved to Evansville she never worked again except for her family. My grandfather stayed every summer with us and my cousin stayed after getting out of the Navy to complete his first two years at Evansville College before graduating from Roosevelt University in Chicago
I was born when she was 25 and because of the depression they decided to postpone any more children since supporting a family in these times was so uncertain. In 1946, my Dad was doing well and they decide to have another child. Back then Evansville had segregated hospitals so my dad, being a physician, did her prenatal care and arranged for her delivery at St Mary’s Infirmary, a private Catholic hospital in St. Louis by a friend and respected Ob specialist of the day. They went over to St. Louis days before and a baby girl was delivered uneventfully. Her name was Brenda. In those days the hospital stay post partum was about a week. My dad had returned home to await her discharge.
Early one morning the phone rang, I answered and it was my Uncle Red calling for my Dad. There was something in his voice that I sensed was not right…so I listened in on the extension. He said, “I’ve some bad news Robbie, the baby died suddenly of no apparent reason and an autopsy was of no help”, (it probably would be consider SID’s in today’s world) and my mother was overwhelmed. I silently hung up and little later he told me the news and although I knew already, I never let that on to anyone, I was 14 years old and was deeply upset. My mother was distraught and blamed everyone especially the hospital, doctors and nurses, I have speculated that in the 14 years of marriage she may have had a couple of miscarriages but saw them as acts of God and attached less significance to those losses.
About a year later, she became pregnant and decided to deliver in Evansville. A prominent Obstetrician took care of her and delivered my brother Bruce. I always have believed if racism in Evansville had not existed the loss of my sister may not have happened and my mother would at least have had family support around her. Even with the happiness surrounding Bruce’s birth a pall hung over her in the following years.
I know she focused on Bruce and seemed to lose interest in her personal goals.
She became more interested in people like what was the purpose of life and how to achieve happiness. When Bruce was about 2 years old, I was leaving for college and she had begun to think on happiness again. She was friendly with two couples who got together on weekends and had deep discussions on life and happiness. And on one of my visits home from college she showed me some writings that she condensed from their talks and she called them “The Four Pieces for Happiness” I have written them as I remember. These are words of a wise woman
“Four Pieces for Happiness “
1.) Peace of Body……. . keep yourself physically healthy
2.) Peace of Mind……... be mentally content with your existence
3.) Peace of Soul………. be in tune with what ever spirituality you believe
3.) Piece of Money……..be financially comfortable
My Dad
My Dad, Earle, was the oldest of 8 children and the first black to graduate from West Grove, Pa high school. In high school, he had a job as the clean up and delivery boy at the only pharmacy in town. The owner was impressed with his diligence and intellect and encouraged him to think about going to college. When he graduated as the top student in his class, he was bitten by the desire to go to college and also wanted to go on to be a doctor; partly because his mother had done some practical nursing and medical work intrigued him
With a small token from the pharmacist and with money saved, he enrolled in Lincoln University in Oxford, Pa. the first all black men’s university in America, just down the road from West Grove, allowing him to stay at home and hitch hike or walk to school the first year. Later he was able to get campus housing and food by working in the cafeteria. In the summer he worked to make his tuition as a bell hop in Atlantic City, this is where he met my mother and they later married. He graduated senior class president and was accepted to Howard University Medical School.
With a small token from the pharmacist and with money saved, he enrolled in Lincoln University in Oxford, Pa. the first all black men’s university in America, just down the road from West Grove, allowing him to stay at home and hitch hike or walk to school the first year. Later he was able to get campus housing and food by working in the cafeteria. In the summer he worked to make his tuition as a bell hop in Atlantic City, this is where he met my mother and they later married. He graduated senior class president and was accepted to Howard University Medical School.
At the end of his freshman year, he had to take a leave to earn more money to continue school and Howard had a rule that if you interrupted your studies you had to repeat the year. This was impractical and with the help of my mother’s cousin he was able to transfer to Meharry Medical College in Nashville, TN. He and my mother were then married and later I was born.
In 1937 he graduated and wanted to train as a surgeon. He and 26 of his classmates decided to do their internship at Kansas City General Hospital.
In route, they had to change trains in St. Louis, Mo, where a Red Cap asked them where they were headed. When they said Kansas City, he said why not stay here they just built a new “colored hospital , Homer G. Phillip’s, and they don’t have any doctors their”. ,They checked out the hospital and since the pay 15$ / month plus expenses was the same as Kansas City, they all decided to stay in St. Louis.and became the first class of interns at Homer G. in July 1937.
The story behind Homer G is intriguing and involves it being built due to racism in St. Louis. Homer G. Phillips was a black attorney who had led the fight to get the hospital built and was later murdered for unrelated reasons.
The stories my Dad and his best friend Herbert Erwin ( Uncle Red ) would tell could fill several volumes. Dad wanted to complete a surgery residency but after 2 years he needed to support his family and 15$/mo wasn’t going to do it. My mother and I were living in Atlantic City, she teaching and I enrolled in grade school.
My Dad had always intended to move back to the East to practice medicine, but with his dream of being a surgeon dashed he looked around for another place to practice. It so happened that a doctor in Evansville, IN had put up a notice at the hospital that he needed someone to take over his practice while he sought some advanced training. So, my Dad contacted him and they agreed on a plan.
My Dad had never driven a car and he needed to buy one. At the end of his two years he had a bonus of 500 dollars coming when he finished that year. Uncle Red took him to a car dealer where he purchased a Model A Ford for 250 dollars and then took him to Forrest Park to teach him to drive. After a couple of lessons, Red pronounced that Dad was ready to go. Dad asked “How do I get to Evansville”. Red replied “take US 40 east to Terre Haute, IN and there make a right turn on to US 41, go south until you reach the Ohio River and you are there”. That is how my Dad got to Evansville and where later a new chapter in my life began.
In route, they had to change trains in St. Louis, Mo, where a Red Cap asked them where they were headed. When they said Kansas City, he said why not stay here they just built a new “colored hospital , Homer G. Phillip’s, and they don’t have any doctors their”. ,They checked out the hospital and since the pay 15$ / month plus expenses was the same as Kansas City, they all decided to stay in St. Louis.and became the first class of interns at Homer G. in July 1937.
The story behind Homer G is intriguing and involves it being built due to racism in St. Louis. Homer G. Phillips was a black attorney who had led the fight to get the hospital built and was later murdered for unrelated reasons.
The stories my Dad and his best friend Herbert Erwin ( Uncle Red ) would tell could fill several volumes. Dad wanted to complete a surgery residency but after 2 years he needed to support his family and 15$/mo wasn’t going to do it. My mother and I were living in Atlantic City, she teaching and I enrolled in grade school.
My Dad had always intended to move back to the East to practice medicine, but with his dream of being a surgeon dashed he looked around for another place to practice. It so happened that a doctor in Evansville, IN had put up a notice at the hospital that he needed someone to take over his practice while he sought some advanced training. So, my Dad contacted him and they agreed on a plan.
My Dad had never driven a car and he needed to buy one. At the end of his two years he had a bonus of 500 dollars coming when he finished that year. Uncle Red took him to a car dealer where he purchased a Model A Ford for 250 dollars and then took him to Forrest Park to teach him to drive. After a couple of lessons, Red pronounced that Dad was ready to go. Dad asked “How do I get to Evansville”. Red replied “take US 40 east to Terre Haute, IN and there make a right turn on to US 41, go south until you reach the Ohio River and you are there”. That is how my Dad got to Evansville and where later a new chapter in my life began.
"Machine Gun Kelly"
This is the story of an incident that happened in Atlantic City when I was about 3 years old. One afternoon my cousin Bill and I were playing in the front yard and my Aunt Mad was hanging clothes in the back yard. All of a sudden we heard sirens, screeching tires and the drone of a small airplane circling the block Three burley men with drawn guns ran through the backyard and told our Aunt “lady, get in the house right away” and she grabbed us and we all ran in the house. Because of our curiosity, we climbed up to the attic and peeped through a tiny window to see what was going on across the street.
On the corner was a tavern, a hang out for local mobsters, where my grandfather got his daily pail of beer. There were cops with pistols and shotguns everywhere; city, state police and G-men all surrounding the place. All of a sudden they battered in the door and charged inside. We could hear gun fire and after a few minutes out came about a dozen men in hand cuffs which they loaded into the paddy wagon. We were scared to make a sound.
Much later my Papa went over to where a crowd had gathered and found out that “Machine gun Kelly”a notorious mobster had been holed up there, but had escaped just before the police arrived. In the 1930’s he, “Baby Face Nelson” and John Dillinger were the America’s Most Wanted.
We found out later that the men in our yard were G-men.
On the corner was a tavern, a hang out for local mobsters, where my grandfather got his daily pail of beer. There were cops with pistols and shotguns everywhere; city, state police and G-men all surrounding the place. All of a sudden they battered in the door and charged inside. We could hear gun fire and after a few minutes out came about a dozen men in hand cuffs which they loaded into the paddy wagon. We were scared to make a sound.
Much later my Papa went over to where a crowd had gathered and found out that “Machine gun Kelly”a notorious mobster had been holed up there, but had escaped just before the police arrived. In the 1930’s he, “Baby Face Nelson” and John Dillinger were the America’s Most Wanted.
We found out later that the men in our yard were G-men.
Uncle Billy
My mother had two sisters and two brothers. Uncle Billy was the baby and I was told always mischievous. When he was drafted into the army in WW2, his brother Eddie was already fighting in Italy, he was sent to Fort Dix, N.J to take his basic training. Not wanting to be in a segregated army he pretended to have a mental problem so he could be discharged; they finally admitted him to a psyche unit for evaluation.
One day as he was going through the chow line and the server said “move your ass nigger!”
Uncle Billy in his hospital robe threw down his tray and rushed to the commanding Generals’ office, dashed pass the generals aide and shouted to the General “sir do you want to stop a race riot “. The General said “where, when!” Billy replied if some white SOB in the mess hall calls me a nigger again there’s going to be one right here. Rather than lock him up he was summarily discharged that day with a section 8.
Uncle Billy was a young version of our Papa; telling tales and taking on a different persona to suit the situation
At times he was Professor Herberto, a far eastern mystic wearing a robe and turban, who conjured up “policy numbers” for people to play. Sending them out written on incense boxes or paper fortune slips he sold for his subscribers to play. Literally hundreds of these a day was mailed and many would hit! People were poor and bet 1, 5, 10 and at the most 25 cents. A penny paid 22 dollars. DO THE MATH. (. Naturally those that hit would send him a little piece of the win which was called a “coattail”. He did this for years and had ads in the Black weekly papers from NYC to Chicago and Pittsburg to Atlanta. He did real well with this hustle and once I saw paper bags of money stashed in closets and drawers throughout his home.
He also declared himself the Rev.William Bothwell Herbert (I don’t know what his bone’ fide’s were or where he got his it Reverend) but he started a store front church in Harlem and had an enraptured congregation, that loved him. Eventually housing him in the luxurious Lennox Terrace Apartments in the middle of Harlem.
He married a beautician who was high yellow, fine and 15 years his junior. At the time Uncle Billy was about 50 years old.
One of his business ventures was that every spring he would take his big black Road Master Buick and canvas the south selling hair straightener (conk) to Black folks.
with Mary doing their hair.
When he left NYC he and Mary were side by side up front, but as soon as he crossed the Mason-Dixon Line he’d have her get in the back seat and put he’d on his chauffeurs cap. This ruse avoided stops and harassment and probably being lynched for being with a “white women”.
Uncle Billy died recently at 96 years old. I really loved the family player, who my mother tried to have me keep my distance as a poor influence to me and my cousins, but how could I. I’ve got more tales about him later.
One day as he was going through the chow line and the server said “move your ass nigger!”
Uncle Billy in his hospital robe threw down his tray and rushed to the commanding Generals’ office, dashed pass the generals aide and shouted to the General “sir do you want to stop a race riot “. The General said “where, when!” Billy replied if some white SOB in the mess hall calls me a nigger again there’s going to be one right here. Rather than lock him up he was summarily discharged that day with a section 8.
Uncle Billy was a young version of our Papa; telling tales and taking on a different persona to suit the situation
At times he was Professor Herberto, a far eastern mystic wearing a robe and turban, who conjured up “policy numbers” for people to play. Sending them out written on incense boxes or paper fortune slips he sold for his subscribers to play. Literally hundreds of these a day was mailed and many would hit! People were poor and bet 1, 5, 10 and at the most 25 cents. A penny paid 22 dollars. DO THE MATH. (. Naturally those that hit would send him a little piece of the win which was called a “coattail”. He did this for years and had ads in the Black weekly papers from NYC to Chicago and Pittsburg to Atlanta. He did real well with this hustle and once I saw paper bags of money stashed in closets and drawers throughout his home.
He also declared himself the Rev.William Bothwell Herbert (I don’t know what his bone’ fide’s were or where he got his it Reverend) but he started a store front church in Harlem and had an enraptured congregation, that loved him. Eventually housing him in the luxurious Lennox Terrace Apartments in the middle of Harlem.
He married a beautician who was high yellow, fine and 15 years his junior. At the time Uncle Billy was about 50 years old.
One of his business ventures was that every spring he would take his big black Road Master Buick and canvas the south selling hair straightener (conk) to Black folks.
with Mary doing their hair.
When he left NYC he and Mary were side by side up front, but as soon as he crossed the Mason-Dixon Line he’d have her get in the back seat and put he’d on his chauffeurs cap. This ruse avoided stops and harassment and probably being lynched for being with a “white women”.
Uncle Billy died recently at 96 years old. I really loved the family player, who my mother tried to have me keep my distance as a poor influence to me and my cousins, but how could I. I’ve got more tales about him later.
Aunt Mad
My Aunt Mad (Madeline) the oldest child was the stalwart in the family, being the mother figure after theirs. Died when she was 10 years old. Papa worked 12-14 hours a day and she cooked, cleaned and help raise her 4 siblings.
Not only was she a child doubling as mother, she excelled in school. She later graduated at the top of her class from AC high school. She earned a working scholarship to Cornell University in Ithaca, NY. That meant she had to get there and work in private for room and board and carry a full class load. She arrived in frigid upstate NY without a winter coat and only10 dollars she and Papa had scraped together. She told me that she lived on apples for a month until she got a job as a live-in housekeeper and cook for a wealthy family
She majored in biology and between working and excelling in school was one of the first Delta Sigma Thetas in the US, and was able to graduate cum laude in 4 years.
Her first job offer was teaching biology at North Carolina A&T Univ. in Greensboro, NC where she remained one year. Her best friend there was Anna who later married the famous scientist Percy Julian. She and Anna later moved to Washington, D.C and Baltimore respectively. Aunt Mad secured a job teaching biology at Dunbar High School in DC eventually becoming the department head after getting her masters at Univ. of Pennsylvania. Many of her students rose to prominence, one was Edward Brook of Massachusetts, who became the first Black US senator since reconstruction.
Every year my aunt would spend the summer with us in AC and on weekends our apartment would overflow with guests who came down to the south Jersey shore for surf and sun.
The apartment was filled with the smell of cooking, baking and laughter and story telling as friends flowed in and out from the beach and night life. My cousins and I were right in the midst of this weekly affair, soaking it all up.
In later years Aunt Mad went on cruises, satisfying her yearning to explore the world. She continued to travel well into her 90’s
Aunt Mad was about 5’ 4” and petit. One of my most memorable recollections was an event that happened to her during the depression. At the time teachers were being paid in script and money changer would exchange script for cash on the street corners around DC. She had just gotten her monthly script converted to cash and was walking away when a man snatched her purse with all her money, basically every thing she had and took off down an alley she in hot pursuit, grabbing him and wrestling her purse away, he being twice her size said “lady are you crazy” and she said “yes”. I asked her if she was afraid and she said I was afraid of having nothing to my name. Aunt Mad never married and was like a second mother to me. I believe that the early responsibilities imposed on her early in life made her wary of raising a family. But she loved all her niece and nephews dearly as we did her. For some reason, I was special and she nicknamed me Earley Burley. and my cousins made up a rhyme “Earley Burley puddnin pie kissed the girls and made them cry, when the girls came out to play Earley Burley ran away”
Not only was she a child doubling as mother, she excelled in school. She later graduated at the top of her class from AC high school. She earned a working scholarship to Cornell University in Ithaca, NY. That meant she had to get there and work in private for room and board and carry a full class load. She arrived in frigid upstate NY without a winter coat and only10 dollars she and Papa had scraped together. She told me that she lived on apples for a month until she got a job as a live-in housekeeper and cook for a wealthy family
She majored in biology and between working and excelling in school was one of the first Delta Sigma Thetas in the US, and was able to graduate cum laude in 4 years.
Her first job offer was teaching biology at North Carolina A&T Univ. in Greensboro, NC where she remained one year. Her best friend there was Anna who later married the famous scientist Percy Julian. She and Anna later moved to Washington, D.C and Baltimore respectively. Aunt Mad secured a job teaching biology at Dunbar High School in DC eventually becoming the department head after getting her masters at Univ. of Pennsylvania. Many of her students rose to prominence, one was Edward Brook of Massachusetts, who became the first Black US senator since reconstruction.
Every year my aunt would spend the summer with us in AC and on weekends our apartment would overflow with guests who came down to the south Jersey shore for surf and sun.
The apartment was filled with the smell of cooking, baking and laughter and story telling as friends flowed in and out from the beach and night life. My cousins and I were right in the midst of this weekly affair, soaking it all up.
In later years Aunt Mad went on cruises, satisfying her yearning to explore the world. She continued to travel well into her 90’s
Aunt Mad was about 5’ 4” and petit. One of my most memorable recollections was an event that happened to her during the depression. At the time teachers were being paid in script and money changer would exchange script for cash on the street corners around DC. She had just gotten her monthly script converted to cash and was walking away when a man snatched her purse with all her money, basically every thing she had and took off down an alley she in hot pursuit, grabbing him and wrestling her purse away, he being twice her size said “lady are you crazy” and she said “yes”. I asked her if she was afraid and she said I was afraid of having nothing to my name. Aunt Mad never married and was like a second mother to me. I believe that the early responsibilities imposed on her early in life made her wary of raising a family. But she loved all her niece and nephews dearly as we did her. For some reason, I was special and she nicknamed me Earley Burley. and my cousins made up a rhyme “Earley Burley puddnin pie kissed the girls and made them cry, when the girls came out to play Earley Burley ran away”
Chicken Bone Beach
You won’t believe this but back in the 1930’s, the AC beachfront was as segregated as the south. They even had a Colored Life Guard Station (my Dad while in med school worked there one season as a beach doctor). The part that was reserved for us Blacks was just in front of the Convention Hall and south of Heinz Million Dollar Pier at not so ironically Mississippi Ave. It was nicknamed “chickenbone beach”.? Why, later!
The funny thing was you could walk the shore line from the inlet to Mississippi ave , but you couldn’t stop on the actual beach in front of the exclusive hotels and cabanas
In the summer, as kids we just roamed the boardwalk and beach. The older kids shined shoes up on the boards and we little ones trailed along dashing under the boardwalk with tea strainers copped from the kitchen sifting for coins that fell through the spaces in the deck above, scurrying like little beach rats that we were, eluding the Beach Patrol that tried to shoo us away.
All summer, we out and about turning darker with the sun and salt, up before dawn until well after dark surviving on our wit and guile; since our parents worked long hours.
We hustled tourist and found coins and swiped potatoes and dug clams and built fire pits out near the back bay to cook hobo meals, as I remember they were pretty good. If we had a quarter we got half a Hero sandwich from the White House Sub shop which even today are the best I’ve ever tasted. were . I got one of the worse whipping from my momma when she found out I had told my Uncle Clarence I had made all “E’s” on my report card to get a quarter for a sub. Never thought he would ask to see the card, revealing I had lied
Now back to the beach and the name. As I related earlier AC was the summer destination of wealthy whites, especially Jews who spent their summer at the shore.
Blacks along the East coast and other destinations also sought to vacation at this seashore resort.
The city was filled with numerous rooming houses that rented by the week or summer and one hotel as I remember the “Liberty”. There were trains and buses from NYC, Philly, Baltimore, DC and destinations up and down the east coast that every weekend spilled literally thousands into this jumping city. After a day at the beach, the Black city pulsed all night as the clubs, like Club Harlem, Blue Flame and after hours joints came alive.
Now the people who came to AC to were coming from long distances and many brought packed lunches to picnic on the beach. And one of the least perishable foods was fried chicken. And forevermore it became known as“ chickenbone beach” I bet if they had an archeological dig there centuries from now, the consensus would be that the society that existed had been sustained by lowly the chicken and there would be no evidence that whites were ever present since their elegant beach foods would not be traceable.
The funny thing was you could walk the shore line from the inlet to Mississippi ave , but you couldn’t stop on the actual beach in front of the exclusive hotels and cabanas
In the summer, as kids we just roamed the boardwalk and beach. The older kids shined shoes up on the boards and we little ones trailed along dashing under the boardwalk with tea strainers copped from the kitchen sifting for coins that fell through the spaces in the deck above, scurrying like little beach rats that we were, eluding the Beach Patrol that tried to shoo us away.
All summer, we out and about turning darker with the sun and salt, up before dawn until well after dark surviving on our wit and guile; since our parents worked long hours.
We hustled tourist and found coins and swiped potatoes and dug clams and built fire pits out near the back bay to cook hobo meals, as I remember they were pretty good. If we had a quarter we got half a Hero sandwich from the White House Sub shop which even today are the best I’ve ever tasted. were . I got one of the worse whipping from my momma when she found out I had told my Uncle Clarence I had made all “E’s” on my report card to get a quarter for a sub. Never thought he would ask to see the card, revealing I had lied
Now back to the beach and the name. As I related earlier AC was the summer destination of wealthy whites, especially Jews who spent their summer at the shore.
Blacks along the East coast and other destinations also sought to vacation at this seashore resort.
The city was filled with numerous rooming houses that rented by the week or summer and one hotel as I remember the “Liberty”. There were trains and buses from NYC, Philly, Baltimore, DC and destinations up and down the east coast that every weekend spilled literally thousands into this jumping city. After a day at the beach, the Black city pulsed all night as the clubs, like Club Harlem, Blue Flame and after hours joints came alive.
Now the people who came to AC to were coming from long distances and many brought packed lunches to picnic on the beach. And one of the least perishable foods was fried chicken. And forevermore it became known as“ chickenbone beach” I bet if they had an archeological dig there centuries from now, the consensus would be that the society that existed had been sustained by lowly the chicken and there would be no evidence that whites were ever present since their elegant beach foods would not be traceable.
Atlantic City
There is a saying that life is a journey and any journey begins with the first step. Life is a journey that begins at birth and ends in death and the space between is the tale I’ll tell in this chronicle.The chronicle that unfolds follows my life from my birth in 1932 until the present. To give some perspective, I was born during the depression to Earle and Gwendolyn Robinson, in this resort city, that was a summer destination for the east coast wealthy.
My mother was born in Lynchburg, Va and was going to Glassboro Teachers College and my father was born in West Grove, Pa and going to Lincoln University in Pennsylvania. They met while he was working in AC as a bellhop one summer.
My grandfather, Papa, had come here as a baker from Philadelphia
years before. He ran away from home in Hampton , VA after finding his older brother had been lynched.
I n Philadelphia, he got a job as a helper in a German baker shop. Eventually over the next 10 years, the baker taught him the trade along with some elementary German.
Papa was a story teller and told me stories almost from birth, using props and dialect to hold me spellbound. He and my mother essentially raised me since my father was in college and later in medical school.
We were an extended family Papa , Momma, Uncle Clarence, Aunt Mina, their kids Junior, Billy and Evelyn and Aunt Mad who taught school in DC and came to stay every summer. We all were crammed in a little house on Ohio Ave, but none the worse for our plight.
Atlantic City, then as now, is like an elaborate stage show. The finery is gaudy and brassy and in the wings behind the curtains are the dirty crumbling props. The boardwalk, beach and the elaborate hotels were the stage and the Black neighborhoods hidden behind a racial curtain. They even had a designated colored beach called “chicken bone beach”. I’ll relate to that later.
I really don’t remember having any interaction with whites as a child since my world centered around a segregated society, and I took it for granted that stores, schools, movies, night clubs were black and the norm and didn’t realize there was a different world I was not part of .
Stanley Homes Village
We moved from dwelling to dwelling rooming at times or cramped together with my aunt and uncle’s family until 1937, when my mother was able to qualify for an apartment in the Stanley Homes Village projects. These units were brand new and my aunt and uncle also secured a unit for their family. “The Village” was one of the first public housing experiments in the country and the tenants were overjoyed to have such a nice dwelling. The lay out included court yards and grassy play areas with designated trash houses, making it a place that everyone took pride in living there.
My Papa rose every morning at 3AM for work. In cold weather he would put layers of newspaper inside his coat and shoes to blunt the icy winds blowing off the ocean and trudge to work as a master baker at one of the Grande Dame hotels on the boardwalk.
First, the breakfast sweets and then the breads for the day and after a mid morning nap, start the dessert pastries, pies and cakes for dinner. This was a daily routine.
He came home around 4pm and my job was to run to the corner store and get him an evening paper, 2 cigars for a nickle and what was left from the dime he gave me I would get some penny candy.
When I was about 5 years old, my cousins who were like 13, 11 and 9 decided to go see Papa at the hotel where he worked. The hotel was a magnificent structure, a kind of replica of the Empire State Building, “ The Claridge”.
Naturally we had to go to the service entry in the back. A man said “what you children want”? We asked if we could see our Papa. He said “whose that!”, we said Mister Papa. Finally my oldest cousin realized that maybe they didn’t call him Papa so he said William Herbert
He said “Oh! Bill, he’s back there”, pointing to a dark corridor. We wound our way through the bowel of the hotel amid hissing steam pipes and strings of dim light bulbs to a dungeon like room with a cot. There stretched out on the cot in his baker apron lay Papa napping.
We all yelled “Papa” and he was startled awake and said “what are you children doing here” clearly embarrassed “ “ We wanted to see where you worked” Sternly he sent us home. Later I realized he didn’t want his grandkids to see him in a servile position. And we never again went to the “Grande” hotel.
This is a poem I wrote about my papa in 1984
He had a chiseled face
Roman or Indian
Choose
He was both!
He had the bearing of a
Caesar or Chief
Choose
He was both!
He had a way with rich and poor
He was neither,
yet
He was both!
I miss him in a way I cannot describe
He was my friend and
my Papa
He was always both!
There are so many stories about AC as it later became known
Uncle Clarence and Blue
.Here is one. My Uncle Clarence was a milkman, who worked for
Kligermanns dairy driving a milk wagon. The wagon was pulled by a horse named “Blue”, who knew the route and every delivery stop. He would start at 3AM and finished about 8Am. When the weather was mild Jr, Bill and me ( Burley) would help him deliver his route. We had all the orangeade, chocolate milk and sweet buns we wanted. Uncle Clarence would nap and Blue would plod the route and we would run back and forth delivering orders and picking up empties. When the route was done he would wake up and say “Barn Blue” and Blue would trot, literally gallop, back to the barn. This was a around 1937 or 8. Sometime later the dairy got rid of the milk wagons and got milk trucks and Uncle Clarence couldn’t sleep his route with us doing the work anymore. The modern age was coming for us all. How sad.
What we did as kids!
In any part of this country and in every country in the world, if you leave children to their own devices, they will be creative sometimes dangerously so in finding an outlet for their energy and curiosity.
We kids in AC were no exception. We had an ocean, a beach, the back bay and the meadows that encompassed us and gave us a unique playground.
No one actually taught us to swim we just went in the water and bobbed up and down letting the waves toss us to and fro. The life guards would blow their whistles to wave us in or warn us of rip tides. Once a current swept me out almost to the end of Heinz Pier and up against the pilings and they came and got me. My arms and legs were covered with cuts from the barnacles on the pilings. Boy was I scared.
There was a board walkway laid on the sand partially down to the water. On any hot day, the sand where you had to walk where the boards ended, was like burning coals. Since we didn’t wear shoes or sandals, you either has to run fast or carry a towel to stand on until you could get to the water. If you ventured off “Chicken bone beach” the beach patrol would try to catch you, but to catch us was like trying to catch water in your fingers.
On the backside of AC were the meadows, a sprawling field of marsh grass and sand. Here we stalked each other like Indians with spears and bows and arrows and set traps and cooked stuff in fire pits we built in the sand. The city had a pile of cinders stored on a flat portion of the meadows that was used for the roads in winter.
It was 50-60 feet high and had a winding road up it’s slope for trucks to dump more cinders. This was our “mountain” and we would jump down to the soft pile of ash at the base or fight for king of the mountain. Give a kids a place and they will create a play ground.
When World War 2 started in Germany, before Pearl Harbor, the war news was shown at the movies on Saturdays which we stayed at all day and we were fascinated by paratroopers. We all decided that it would be neat to jump out of a plane and float down dangling from a parachute.
One day we found the top of a discarded beach umbrella and with
innate ingenuity we straightened the bent struts tying strings from them to the center pole to make it into a parachute, we thought!
There was about five of us and we need a place to jump from. What we found was a 2nd floor fire escape in back of an apartment building. Every one of us wanted to be first, so to be fair we flipped coins until the odd man could be chosen. The lucky jumper was “Bunky”. Grinning he climbed up to the landing and perched on the railing. And we shouted in unison “Jump”, “Jump” As soon as he left the rail the umbrella turned inside out and he fell like a stone on top of a bunch of trash cans, breaking a leg and an arm.
When our parents found out what had happened all us would have preferred to have been the one who jumped and hopefully to have died. A few years later a couple of us went on to jump from a real plane in a real war. ( not me, I was too young ).
Street games are a part of growing up and their origin is probably lost in history. But there was a game we played called “Scummy” that I have never seen anywhere except in AC. In later years, I would show my kids the game but I guess with their current interest it never caught on.
All one needed to play was a piece of chalk (swiped from school) and side walk or paved parking lot. Also you needed some disc to shoot like you do marbles which we made out of little round tins that samples of hair oil or Vicks salve came in about the size of checkers .Someone always had a piece of chalk and we all carried our shooter tin in our pocket with our marble sack We would draw out the play board and go at it. It was like a cross between marbles, croquet and shuffle board. We could play it all day anywhere and any time as long as there was light even the street lights. Great memories!
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