When we got back from the farm, I had gotten pretty friendly with Charles who was from Maywood and we would catch the train and go into the Chicago and he would show me the sights. This was a time before parents worried about untoward things and the like happening to their kids, so we went all over, roaming from the lake to the west side and from the north side to the south side .Going into ( Jewish, Polish, and Black neighborhoods) sampling foods and the culture.
We both had a little bit of larceny in our hearts so one time we decided to make a foray to the town just west of Maywood, Melrose Park just across the Big Four railway yards. There were at least 10 parallel sets of tracks you had to cross to take the short cut to the town. Our destination was a Western Auto store with the mission to steal a bicycle siren.
We both had on knickers with one pocket torn open so we would have room to drop the loot down our pant leg. Real clever young criminals. I copped a siren the kind that you pushed a plunger on top to make it sound. As we were walking towards the door my siren went “errrrrrr” and I tried to walk slower but a clerk heard it and said “ what that in your pants?”. We both broke out the door, it was no way the guy was going to catch us and flew back across the railroad yard. My siren “errrrring” with every step I took. Just as we were in the middle of the sets of tracks, a train came hurtling towards us it’s head light swiveling the whistle blowing. When you looked down the track you couldn’t tell which track it was on and there were so many we froze. Falling down between the tracks, we flattened ourselves in the ditch. The train flew by showering us with ciders and sparks only a track a way. You talk about scared shitless. Charles and I were shaking all the way home and when I left Maywood I gave him the siren as a reminder of our close call because I didn’t want to ever be reminded of that day. This rank right up there with some of the dumb stuff I did and lived to tell about.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
St Louis and Camp RiverCliff
My father’s best friend was my godfather "Uncle Red", who had attended Meharry and Homer G. Phillips with him. He was one of the first Black psychiatrist in the country and remained in St. Louis to practice. He married Aunt Dot and they were unable to have children. So, I became their special child. They would have me come to St. Louis in the summer where he would take me to major league baseball games and she would take me to the zoo at Forrest Park or to some function to refine me. Uncle Red was from Gastonia, NC and his dad was a doctor and had owned a Black baseball team in the 30’s and 40’s. Uncle Red was a rabid fan and when Jackie Robinson played for the Brooklyn Dodgers he attended practically every game taking me to quite a few. At the time, St. Louis had the Browns in the American league and the Cardinals in the National league. They both played at Sportsman’s Park, on a schedule that allowed each league to have long game stands, at least a week at a time, based on their travel rotation. They had “knot hole” days, where kids got in free with a red pass for the Cardinals and a brown pass for the Browns. Though the park was segregated , we went to see the likes of Ted William and Joe DiMaggio when they were in town. When the Dodger’s came to town it was a big event, buses from Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia, and Louisiana, bringing Blacks from all over the south c to see Jackie Robinson play. My uncle would drop me off so I could stand in line for tickets and come back later when I neared the front to pay for the ttickets.. The city just throbbed with crowds of Blacks filling the city with palpable energy. At the park, Blacks were confined to an area in right field behind a screened bleacher called “the pavilion”, which one famous radio announcer, Harry Carey, frequently referred to as the “sable sea”
I saw many a game and met most of the ball players when Newcomb and Campanella joined the Dodgers, since they ate at the Deluxe Restaurant where we usually ate.
Since I ran out of things to do after several weeks , Uncle Red, decided to send me to River Cliff a YMCA summer camp. The camp season was divided into 8 periods that were ten days each. The first year I stayed two periods and took to camp like a duck to water. I loved it
My introduction to the Pine Street YMCA and Camp River Cliff was Uncle Red dropping me off at the Y at 6 AM to join a group of scruffy boys, ages 10 to 16 standing next to a pile of duffle bags. Parked at the curb, engine idleling, was a tarp covered truck with slated sides, the kind you haul cattle in;. this was our transportation. Mr Cook, the Y’s director, a short pudgy man directed the loading. Once we were all loaded and seated aboard about 30 of us, the tail gate was secured, and off we went like cattle. The camp was near a town called Bourbon, MO about 80 miles SW of St. Louis in the foothills of the Ozark mountains.
To this day, I can remember the smallest details of the lay out of River Cliff. It was bordered by a creek that partially circled it on the West and South; a sloping tree filled hill on the North with the Merramac River intersecting the creek to the East. Twelve cabins lined a path at the foot of the wooded hill. Each cabin held 10 boys and a cabin leader and asst cabin leader.
On a knoll near the entrance was a dining hall and cabins for the staff and an outdoor chapel.( where we use to sing “ the Old Rugged Cross”). Out in the middle of the camp was an outhouse building, knick named the KYBO (keep your bowels open) which each cabin rotated cleaning. Yuck!
Of all the creatures on earth kids can be the cruelest especially when naming someone with a physical disability. There was a boy “nub” had one hand, “double nub” both hands missing, both could bat and field a baseball. Also there was “one hung low” missing one leg who could swim like a dolphin.
Everyone had nicknames, Blubber, Hardhead, Rabbit, Chipmonk, Jimmy J, Big Dog, Poot Eye, Sissy Joe and I was Lil’ Abner ( because I always wore combat boots )
In the years, I went to camp there were a slew of street gangs in St. Louis ( Counts, Rats, Termites, Hawks, etc) but there was an unwritten pact that all beefs were on hold at camp. And over time friendships developed that helped defuse some of the long time gang wars.
I learned to swim really well and went from novice to master camper over a couple of years, staying the whole season, eventually becoming a lifeguard and cabin leader at age 15. Years later when I moved to St Louis to do my medical training some of my old camp mates kept me safe in some touchy situations I encountered.
We had a camp song that went:
“Campmates stand together, be a friend to all. Thru fair or stormy weather we’re there to help you if you fall. If you have to take a lickin carry on and quit your bitchin campmates at your call”
River Cliff was very primitive, we washed in the cold creek and rinsed off in the warmer river. I learned the species of birds, plants and trees, also how to row a boat and paddle a canoe, swim a mile and gig frogs as well as cook them. I guess a lot of independence I developed came from my days at camp.
One of the best experiences was at the end of camp when the counselors, cabin leaders and Directors, would take the canoes back to St. Louis. This was a four day river trip down the Merramac river to the Mississippi where the canoes were loaded up for storage. We camped at night on sand bars, shot rapids and had our share of spills. These are cherished memories that writing this have helped me recall.
Going to the Y and being at camp did not make life always safe in the streets of St. Louis.
One summer night I was with Blubber and Jimmy J in a variety store, both of them were "Hawk" gang members. In walked five "Counts". Blubber said “grab a bottle swing on somebody and run”. We broke out the screen door they in hot pursuit, we split. I took off down an alley and had a good lead when I heard shots and felt a searing pain in my left calf. I lived on the other side of town and had to catch a trolley home. This was during WW II and the trolley only stopped every other block. So I was running beside one beating on the side still being chased until it finally stopped and I jumped on, the motorman started off quickly leaving the gang behind. I looked down and blood was streaming thru a hole in my pant leg. I pulled up my jeans and saw I had a tear thru my calf. I pulled the jeans back over the wound and held it. The bleeding finally stopped. Back at my Uncles Red’s I slipped in the bath room and having seen far too many western’s where they poured liquor in gun shots. I figured I needed to put alcohol on it, it damn near killed me but I poured some shaving lotion in the wound. and wrapped it with a handkerchief. It healed fine and I never told anyone until later in life about this incident. The jeans I hid in the trash can and tried to sleep away my close call.
I saw many a game and met most of the ball players when Newcomb and Campanella joined the Dodgers, since they ate at the Deluxe Restaurant where we usually ate.
Since I ran out of things to do after several weeks , Uncle Red, decided to send me to River Cliff a YMCA summer camp. The camp season was divided into 8 periods that were ten days each. The first year I stayed two periods and took to camp like a duck to water. I loved it
My introduction to the Pine Street YMCA and Camp River Cliff was Uncle Red dropping me off at the Y at 6 AM to join a group of scruffy boys, ages 10 to 16 standing next to a pile of duffle bags. Parked at the curb, engine idleling, was a tarp covered truck with slated sides, the kind you haul cattle in;. this was our transportation. Mr Cook, the Y’s director, a short pudgy man directed the loading. Once we were all loaded and seated aboard about 30 of us, the tail gate was secured, and off we went like cattle. The camp was near a town called Bourbon, MO about 80 miles SW of St. Louis in the foothills of the Ozark mountains.
To this day, I can remember the smallest details of the lay out of River Cliff. It was bordered by a creek that partially circled it on the West and South; a sloping tree filled hill on the North with the Merramac River intersecting the creek to the East. Twelve cabins lined a path at the foot of the wooded hill. Each cabin held 10 boys and a cabin leader and asst cabin leader.
On a knoll near the entrance was a dining hall and cabins for the staff and an outdoor chapel.( where we use to sing “ the Old Rugged Cross”). Out in the middle of the camp was an outhouse building, knick named the KYBO (keep your bowels open) which each cabin rotated cleaning. Yuck!
Of all the creatures on earth kids can be the cruelest especially when naming someone with a physical disability. There was a boy “nub” had one hand, “double nub” both hands missing, both could bat and field a baseball. Also there was “one hung low” missing one leg who could swim like a dolphin.
Everyone had nicknames, Blubber, Hardhead, Rabbit, Chipmonk, Jimmy J, Big Dog, Poot Eye, Sissy Joe and I was Lil’ Abner ( because I always wore combat boots )
In the years, I went to camp there were a slew of street gangs in St. Louis ( Counts, Rats, Termites, Hawks, etc) but there was an unwritten pact that all beefs were on hold at camp. And over time friendships developed that helped defuse some of the long time gang wars.
I learned to swim really well and went from novice to master camper over a couple of years, staying the whole season, eventually becoming a lifeguard and cabin leader at age 15. Years later when I moved to St Louis to do my medical training some of my old camp mates kept me safe in some touchy situations I encountered.
We had a camp song that went:
“Campmates stand together, be a friend to all. Thru fair or stormy weather we’re there to help you if you fall. If you have to take a lickin carry on and quit your bitchin campmates at your call”
River Cliff was very primitive, we washed in the cold creek and rinsed off in the warmer river. I learned the species of birds, plants and trees, also how to row a boat and paddle a canoe, swim a mile and gig frogs as well as cook them. I guess a lot of independence I developed came from my days at camp.
One of the best experiences was at the end of camp when the counselors, cabin leaders and Directors, would take the canoes back to St. Louis. This was a four day river trip down the Merramac river to the Mississippi where the canoes were loaded up for storage. We camped at night on sand bars, shot rapids and had our share of spills. These are cherished memories that writing this have helped me recall.
Going to the Y and being at camp did not make life always safe in the streets of St. Louis.
One summer night I was with Blubber and Jimmy J in a variety store, both of them were "Hawk" gang members. In walked five "Counts". Blubber said “grab a bottle swing on somebody and run”. We broke out the screen door they in hot pursuit, we split. I took off down an alley and had a good lead when I heard shots and felt a searing pain in my left calf. I lived on the other side of town and had to catch a trolley home. This was during WW II and the trolley only stopped every other block. So I was running beside one beating on the side still being chased until it finally stopped and I jumped on, the motorman started off quickly leaving the gang behind. I looked down and blood was streaming thru a hole in my pant leg. I pulled up my jeans and saw I had a tear thru my calf. I pulled the jeans back over the wound and held it. The bleeding finally stopped. Back at my Uncles Red’s I slipped in the bath room and having seen far too many western’s where they poured liquor in gun shots. I figured I needed to put alcohol on it, it damn near killed me but I poured some shaving lotion in the wound. and wrapped it with a handkerchief. It healed fine and I never told anyone until later in life about this incident. The jeans I hid in the trash can and tried to sleep away my close call.
City boys on the farm
Living in Evansville didn’t offer me much to do in the summer except chores like putting in screens, painting the fence or cutting the lawn. My Aunt Mad was a close friend of Anna Julian, she and her husband Percy the famous chemist had a farm in Greencastle, In. So one summer, they invited me along with two other boys to spend some time on their farm. I was to stay at the farm for about 3 weeks and then go up to Maywood, Il so I could experience Chicago.
The Julian’s farm was mostly a retreat for him though he had “Mr. Jim” his "walk around man" who farmed some of the land and grew a garden for him
All of us were city boys, Charles was from Maywood and Leonard was from Glencoe.
Charles and I immediately hit it off, but Leonard was a prick, very spoiled and obnoxious. So we pretty much excluded him from every thing. We all arrived on a Friday and Dr Julian made a list of chores for us to do for the week. He would go back to Maywood on Sunday night returning every weekend.
The house was built like a log cabin and we boys were in a loft and at night Leonard would ask Mrs Julian to make him a glass of hot milk so he could sleep. You can imagine how that went over with us who thought he was a sissy.
One of our chores was to cut the lawn and he would seldom finish his portion making us have to get it done.
They had a cook and she showed us how to wring a chicken’s neck which we took delight in doing. Leonard was scared of the chicken and ended up strangling we ended up fighting with me trying to grab it from him.
The farm was situated on some beautiful land and one of the things Charles and I wanted to do was ride a horse around the farm. There were three old horses that kind of stayed in a pasture but had no real function.
One day Charles and I put a halter on one of them and bareback we rode him out to the woods. While trying to make him go down a ravine and he kept shying and fell. Luckily he didn’t crush us. He lay there so we ran to get Mr .Jim. He came and saw that the horses’ leg was broken and asked what had we done, we told him that he wouldn’t go down the slope. He said “damn he’s blind in his right eye “. So he had to call the Vet who put him down. When Dr Julian came on the weekend we were in deep trouble. He laid down the law to us, Leonard grinning at our punishment since he was not a party to the accident. “ GodDamn it, no more messing with the horses, they’re old and you boys stay away from the other two”.
He left Sunday for Chicago, giving us his list of chores. One was to sweep out the barn. While out there we found a machine that you put ears of corn through and it would shuck the kernels. It was so neat to do, we filled a wash tub full of kernels. Thinking that a horse, that was in the barn wanted some, we dragged the tub into his stall. He ate the whole tub full of corn and the next day his stomach was hanging almost to the ground. Mr Jim had to call the Vet and he said the horse had “bloat” and after doing something with a hose in the horse rectum that didn't work he put the horse down.
When Dr Julian came that weekend he was livid and I believe if we had been his kids and his wife hadn’t been there we would have been put down too.
We had one more week to stay and things were pretty uneventful but we still hadn’t ridden a horse. So Charles and I prevailed on Mr. Jim to let us ride the remaining horse who was actually an old work horse who had pulled wagons. We were to ride him slowly across the pasture and back. We mounted up and after walking him out a ways shouted “ YAHOO ” and slapped him on his butt. He ran about three steps and started foaming from the nose and mouth then pitched forward and dropped dead.
When Dr Julian returned for that weekend there was only silence in the house even Mrs Julian didn’t dare say a word. I was ready to go home not on to Chicago for another week.
Dr Julian was a man of precision and habit and when he came to the farm he brought a brief case filled with work and when he would leave he always put the briefcase beside his left leg in the car.
We were all packed to leave at about 5 pm and his routine was to drive to Kentland, IN about 2hours away have dinner at the Greyhound bus station then proceed to Chicago. He hadn’t said a word to us boys but that night we had heard him cussing to his wife something fierce.
We zoomed off, he had a big black Packard, with us lined up on the back seat like the see no, hear no, speak no evil monkeys saying NOTHING. He flew down the highway at 80 miles an hour reaching Kentland about a 2 hr drive in no time. As we all piled out of the car, he said “ Anna where is my briefcase?” she replied “Percy you ALWAYS put it in the car yourself”. He had forgotten the briefcase and he was livid and yelled “GOD DAMN IT, GET BACK IN THE CAR” We took off back to Greencastle being driven even faster. Once he retrieved it we sped back, flying past Kentland having wasted about 5 hrs.
Now here is where this get’s good. No one has had a rest stop from Greencastle to Kentland back to Greencastle pass Kentland on to Chicago. So on this race towards Chicago we smell a terrible odor and it’s coming from Leonard. He had been afraid to tell Dr Julian he had to go and had shit his pants. So Dr Julian pulled over, made him throw away his drawers wipe with some weeds and we had to ride with him all the way to Chicago with the window rolled down. It’s a good thing it was summer. Guess what? Later in life, Dr Percy Julian wrote letters of recommendation for me when I applied to medical school. I guess I turned into something of value he could attest to.
My stay in Maywood had some interesting twists that Charles and I experienced; more of that a little later.
The Julian’s farm was mostly a retreat for him though he had “Mr. Jim” his "walk around man" who farmed some of the land and grew a garden for him
All of us were city boys, Charles was from Maywood and Leonard was from Glencoe.
Charles and I immediately hit it off, but Leonard was a prick, very spoiled and obnoxious. So we pretty much excluded him from every thing. We all arrived on a Friday and Dr Julian made a list of chores for us to do for the week. He would go back to Maywood on Sunday night returning every weekend.
The house was built like a log cabin and we boys were in a loft and at night Leonard would ask Mrs Julian to make him a glass of hot milk so he could sleep. You can imagine how that went over with us who thought he was a sissy.
One of our chores was to cut the lawn and he would seldom finish his portion making us have to get it done.
They had a cook and she showed us how to wring a chicken’s neck which we took delight in doing. Leonard was scared of the chicken and ended up strangling we ended up fighting with me trying to grab it from him.
The farm was situated on some beautiful land and one of the things Charles and I wanted to do was ride a horse around the farm. There were three old horses that kind of stayed in a pasture but had no real function.
One day Charles and I put a halter on one of them and bareback we rode him out to the woods. While trying to make him go down a ravine and he kept shying and fell. Luckily he didn’t crush us. He lay there so we ran to get Mr .Jim. He came and saw that the horses’ leg was broken and asked what had we done, we told him that he wouldn’t go down the slope. He said “damn he’s blind in his right eye “. So he had to call the Vet who put him down. When Dr Julian came on the weekend we were in deep trouble. He laid down the law to us, Leonard grinning at our punishment since he was not a party to the accident. “ GodDamn it, no more messing with the horses, they’re old and you boys stay away from the other two”.
He left Sunday for Chicago, giving us his list of chores. One was to sweep out the barn. While out there we found a machine that you put ears of corn through and it would shuck the kernels. It was so neat to do, we filled a wash tub full of kernels. Thinking that a horse, that was in the barn wanted some, we dragged the tub into his stall. He ate the whole tub full of corn and the next day his stomach was hanging almost to the ground. Mr Jim had to call the Vet and he said the horse had “bloat” and after doing something with a hose in the horse rectum that didn't work he put the horse down.
When Dr Julian came that weekend he was livid and I believe if we had been his kids and his wife hadn’t been there we would have been put down too.
We had one more week to stay and things were pretty uneventful but we still hadn’t ridden a horse. So Charles and I prevailed on Mr. Jim to let us ride the remaining horse who was actually an old work horse who had pulled wagons. We were to ride him slowly across the pasture and back. We mounted up and after walking him out a ways shouted “ YAHOO ” and slapped him on his butt. He ran about three steps and started foaming from the nose and mouth then pitched forward and dropped dead.
When Dr Julian returned for that weekend there was only silence in the house even Mrs Julian didn’t dare say a word. I was ready to go home not on to Chicago for another week.
Dr Julian was a man of precision and habit and when he came to the farm he brought a brief case filled with work and when he would leave he always put the briefcase beside his left leg in the car.
We were all packed to leave at about 5 pm and his routine was to drive to Kentland, IN about 2hours away have dinner at the Greyhound bus station then proceed to Chicago. He hadn’t said a word to us boys but that night we had heard him cussing to his wife something fierce.
We zoomed off, he had a big black Packard, with us lined up on the back seat like the see no, hear no, speak no evil monkeys saying NOTHING. He flew down the highway at 80 miles an hour reaching Kentland about a 2 hr drive in no time. As we all piled out of the car, he said “ Anna where is my briefcase?” she replied “Percy you ALWAYS put it in the car yourself”. He had forgotten the briefcase and he was livid and yelled “GOD DAMN IT, GET BACK IN THE CAR” We took off back to Greencastle being driven even faster. Once he retrieved it we sped back, flying past Kentland having wasted about 5 hrs.
Now here is where this get’s good. No one has had a rest stop from Greencastle to Kentland back to Greencastle pass Kentland on to Chicago. So on this race towards Chicago we smell a terrible odor and it’s coming from Leonard. He had been afraid to tell Dr Julian he had to go and had shit his pants. So Dr Julian pulled over, made him throw away his drawers wipe with some weeds and we had to ride with him all the way to Chicago with the window rolled down. It’s a good thing it was summer. Guess what? Later in life, Dr Percy Julian wrote letters of recommendation for me when I applied to medical school. I guess I turned into something of value he could attest to.
My stay in Maywood had some interesting twists that Charles and I experienced; more of that a little later.
Story of St. John's Catholic Church and School
Evansville, IN had a very small black Catholic population in the 1920’s and ‘30’s and they had to worship in a basement auditorium of the Assumption Cathedral.
In the early 1940’s, Mary Fendrichs Hulman heir to the Fendrichs Cigar Co and the wife of Tony Hulman owner of Clabber Girl Baking Co and who would later own the Indianapolis Speedway, was patron for construction of the church dedicated as a memorial to her mother, because many of the Black members were employees at their factory.
The dioceses sent a young priest, Father Hermann Mootz a recent graduate of St Meinrad Seminary in the southern part of Indiana, to pastor the flock
It so happened the lot my father had purchased was next door to the Churches properties And almost simultaneously our house and parish house as well as the church was built. Soon after their completion an elementary school was built on the remaining land.
Because the church was just next door, I was invited to attend mass by a friend whose family numbered 26 children and were devote Catholics. I became enamored by the rituals and mystery of the service. I had been baptized Episcopalian and there was no place in Evansville for my parents to worship. I decided to join St. John as did Ernest, my friend, after taking catechism instructions from Father Mootz. Soon after, we became his altar boys as well as errand boys. A set of twins around our age from the large family I was fiends with were altars boys too.
My parents and Aunt Mad soon became converts probably because of me and their liking for Father.
Once the elementary school was built a score of kids from Lincoln wanted to enroll in St. John’s because they thought the nuns and Father would be soft, WRONG! After the first week most scrambled back to Lincoln, when the Catholic way became the only way to be in St John’s. Ear twisting, paddling and suspension was the punishment for the slightest infraction. I was in the seventh grade and didn’t transfer finishing my grade school courses at Lincoln.
Now an interesting thing happened, my mother wanted me to go to Reitz Memorial High School, a Catholic school in Evansville, where no Blacks had attended. Father Mootz’s cousin, Archbishop Ritter, was Bishop of the Indianapolis Dioceses and southern Indiana and had recently integrated the school system their. As I have reflected over the years, I believe my mother intentionally became Catholic to gain me entrance into a school that could afford me a better education. I knew the Bishop from occasional vacation trips he made to visit Father and I had served mass and at times drinks in the parish house on some of those visits.
Father sent me out to Memorial to register. They refused to enroll me and sent me home forthwith: the reason being I had not attended a Catholic grade school…. the real reason being that was I was Black and some parents did not want to integrate the school. Remember St. John’s had just been built and I was almost finished with grade school so finishing grade school at St. John’s was not an option. Father sent me back with that explanation and I was again refused. He then called the Archbishop who issued a proclamation that anyone objecting to my admission would face the possibility of excommunication. I was sent back again and was admitted and graduated. The Archbishop and my path cross later in life, but that is another story. When my father gave up his private practice in Evansville in 1965, my parents had years before given the church first option to buy our house and an adjoining lot. The church bought the house and turned it into the nuns quarters and they donated the lot to them for future expansion.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Working for an education
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.
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.
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.
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