Browse Tag

nostalgia

Secret Place

newscart

Elementary School was not an enjoyable experience for me. Besides the nuns meting out physical pain for infractions, there were the class bullies. And there were a few of them.

In the classroom there was no problem, but at recess they plied their trade of picking on anyone they thought would not stand up to them. I was one of the unfortunate victims of peer abuse.

One year in particular it was difficult to avoid confrontation. I was in fifth grade when the bully group decided it would play Civil War after reading about it in history class. Their idea was very simple. They would come up to you and ask if you were North or South. It didn’t matter which side you declared since they would automatically be on the opposing side, declare you the enemy and pummel you around a bit before confronting another unfortunate straggler.. It didn’t take long to realize you couldn’t win.

One day, when I saw them approaching, I ran off around the side of the school, past the rectory and into the alley in the hopes of eluding the enemy. As I rounded the corner into the alley, I saw the news cart used by one of the parishioners on Sunday to house and sell newspapers to people leaving the church.

It was up against the rear of the school and as I pulled it slightly away from the wall, opened the doors at the bottom where newspapers were stored, found that it was empty and would house a kid my size. I crawled inside and shut the door.

The cart was perhaps five feet long and five feet high and was on rollers. It had the storage area below and an upper part which the newspapers could be displayed and an awning above to keep our rain or sun. And it all folded up into a compact unit when closed. I declared it my secret place and retired there often during recess and lunch period in order to avoid the roving bands of Civil War enthusiasts in the playground (which was actually a parking lot and the street in front of the school).

When necessary (like getting back from lunch too early and wanting to avoid confrontation in the playground), I would sneak around to the back of the school and climb into my little fortress where I would munch some penny candy and read a comic book until I heard the warning buzzer sound for the resumption of classes.

This went on for several weeks, maybe a few months, until one day I arrived to find the doors padlocked. My secret place had been discovered, no doubt because I had left telltale candy wrappings and/or comic books within. It was okay, however, because the Civil War was winding down and things would be quiet until a different method of bullying was employed. I would just have to make sure that I didn’t return to school after lunch all too early.

Perhaps I could watch a little more of Lunchtime Little Theater or Uncle Johnny Coons and eat a bit slower from now on.

Good Humor

12527-good-humor-truck-old-days

One of the sounds of summer I remember as a little tyke, besides the clickity-clack of the manual lawnmowers, was the gentle wafting rings of the bells on the Good Humor truck as it headed down my street. There were a series of (I think) four bells strung across the front windshield of the truck, attached to a cord that the driver would be constantly pulling on with one hand while steering with the other.

Unlike the scratchy recorded chicken dance music that bellows from a cheap speaker on the faux-ice cream truck of today, pasted with stickers of a variety of vegetable fat concoctions, the Good Humor truck slowly wound its way along the side streets of the neighborhood and we could gauge, by the approaching bells, how much time we had to run into the house and ask our parents for money and get back on the street as the truck rolled closer to our location. On occasion, one of us was designated to stop the truck and delay the driver by pretending to make up his mind what he wanted, while we ran in and out of our houses with the cash.

During the summer months, the Good Humor Man, dressed in white shirt and pants and a cap, Would ride down the street in the afternoon but many of us were out playing in the parks, or swimming and missed his rounds. It was in the evening, just after suppertime, around 7:00pm when the bells were heard and the possibility of father popping for the after dinner treat were at high expectations.

Good Humor ice cream bars cost a nickel more than the store bought kind, but there were reasons (besides home delivery) such as the variety of bars available. My favorite was the chocolate malt bar and the only way to get it was off that truck…and to get the fifteen cents off my old man, which was not always easy (unless he was in the mood for one himself) because of my two sisters who would also be included which meant a purchase of five items (six, if Grandma was downstairs at the time) totaling seventy-five cents. I do not recall there being sales tax charged at that time.

All playing stopped for fifteen minutes as we sat on the front stoop of someone’s house and ate our bars as the melting ice cream leaked out the bottom cracks of the chocolate coating onto our hands.

With the changing times, growing safety concerns (for drivers as well as kids) and cost increases, Good Humor eventually went into the freezer compartments of the food and grocery stores and the trucks and carts slowly fazed out. I feel we lost something there along the way of progress.

The offerings off of the trucks today, in my opinion, cannot compare to the taste and delight of having an ice cream bar from the Good Humor Man of the 1950s. And, of course, as Poe so aptly put it: “the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.”

Pirates

pirate ship

Around 1954, my folks bought me a special toy. I had seen it on display in Zappa’s corner store and could not stop talking about it. It was a pirate ship, but not just any toy ship. It was Ideal! This boat, named the Jolly Roger, had it all: masts, sails, rigging, gangplank, cannon, lifeboat, anchor, crow’s nest and a crew! And, it could be pulled along on wheels or float in water. It was the ultimate plaything as far as I was concerned and I wanted it. At the time it was around five dollars, a costly item to own.

I played with it out in the front yard, back porch and bath tub. My crew of white plastic pirates looked for buried treasure and towns to plunder. I could place the crew on deck, in the rigging or lifeboat; even make them walk the plank if necessary. I really enjoyed that ship and took good care of it.

The next year, we moved to our new house on the northwest side of the city. The pirate ship came with me and provided some connection to our old apartment. I would come home from school, after being taunted as the new kid, and take out the Jolly Roger to direct my crew to sail on and discover a tropical island somewhere away from the bullies.

My youngest sister had been recently born (the reason I believe for the move – as it would have gotten crowded in the old place!) and I remember one sunshine summer day while mom was out in the back yard hanging the laundry up on the clotheslines, it became my duty to watch her.

I took out the pirate ship and headed for the bathroom where I plugged the drain and began to fill the tub with water to sail the boat. While the tub was filling, and my little sister was at the edge of the tub watching the swirling water encompass the ship, I went to the back porch window to ask my mom something (which I don’t remember), perhaps when lunch would be or something.

She became excited and asked me where my sister, who was not quite one year old, was. I told her and she yelled for me to get in the bathroom and watch her so she didn’t fall in! I really didn’t think that could happen since she could hardly walk and the walls of the tub were high for her, but I said okay and headed back.

To my horror, my sister had fallen into the tub, and I found her flailing about on her stomach trying to keep her head above water. She had managed to lean over the rail of the tub, probably to touch the boat, and slipped over the edge. Thankfully, it must have been only a few seconds, since the water was only about 2 inches high, but I was terrified as to what would happen next. I grabbed her and took her out of the water, grabbing a towel to wipe her down. I remember saying something to her like, “don’t tell mom what happened!” Certainly I would be punished for this! But I wasn’t.

When mom came in, very shortly after, she saw my sister in her wet diapers and me with a look of “I’m really sorry,” on my face. I realized then that my little sister, within a matter of seconds, could have drown in the shallow water of the bathtub had I stayed in the back window a bit longer. Mom must have had a sixth sense of what was about to happen.

I do not recall, after an immediate admonishment from mom as she changed my sister’s wet clothes, any more being said about the incident. I know my father was told about it because after that day, my pirate ship disappeared, never to be seen again. I figure there was no punishment because I didn’t do anything wrong or intentional, I was just 10 years old and not ready to be a baby sitter for mom.

But the Jolly Roger made its last journey, no doubt, to the concrete mausoleum in the back yard.

The Color Flesh

flesh2

As a small child, I never wondered what black kids thought when they reached into their box of Crayolas and pulled out the “flesh” colored crayon.

How someone in the executive ranks could have possibly been that ignorant as to label a color “flesh,” and then have the company actually produce it, is beyond today’s comprehension, but it did exist for a time, as well as “Indian red,” and was accepted into our culture – a predominantly White culture.

Back in the 1950’s, coloring books were basically marketed for White folks. We had Roy Rogers, Howdy Doody and other prominent television idols, drawn into a book that we could use our crayons to color. There were not too many visual references to people of color, so we mostly had so-called Caucasian images and, of course, with the Western books, Indians! We needed an appropriate colored crayon to help us in our quest for cartoon realism.

Although we had colors like Burnt Umber, Peach and Olive, my guess is someone decided to make it clearer for us white kids, without giving any thought to the effects on children of color who might also enjoy coloring in the book, to include “Indian red” and “Flesh,” as a way of guiding us in our creativity. Of course, if the image was a person of color, we could simply use brown, black or chestnut hues to fill in the image. They didn’t market “Negro Black or Brown” crayons.

But the fad was not limited to crayons. There were also flesh colored bandages which appeared, again having sort of a peachy/cream color. Unfortunately, if you were a person of color, the bandage didn’t really blend in to your skin tone. As a matter of fact, it didn’t blend into mine either, although it was better than the pure white bandages that preceded the toned ones.

At the time, it didn’t disturb me because we were growing up in an age of ignorance and what we now call White Privilege. And the companies that marketed the flesh colored items failed to realize that flesh is not a color – unless you happen to be racist.

Peppermint Pattie

mint

There were only a few choices of candy in the house when I was growing up, mainly because the old man would buy what he and mom liked and, it was rationed to us kids on a limited basis. For the most part, if we wanted something sweet, mom would take a slice of Wonder bread and spread butter over it followed by pure cane sugar sprinkled on top (something left over from the Depression years, I presume). But there was, on occasion, real candy in the house.

There was the Tango bar, a marshmallow, caramel chocolate covered concoction, Three Musketeers (which, at the time was sectioned so each of us kids got a piece) Bull’s Eyes (caramel creams), and spearmint leaves and an orange sugary item called circus peanuts. Caramel Creams, the leaves and peanuts are still available today and I still ration myself in eating them.

I never understood circus peanuts, although they looked like a peanut in the shell, they bore no taste resemblance and were more like a banana flavor. As far as the tango bar, on occasion when I returned from school wanting one, knowing they were in the pantry, I would subtly start singing “It takes two to Tango,” hoping mom would get the hint. She didn’t (or didn’t want to).

One time, dad brought home a box of chocolate covered thin peppermints. He offered us all one and I liked them. He mentioned that when he was a kid, you would go to the penny candy store and buy one and if the center was pink, you got another for free.

For some unexplainable reason, one afternoon I decided to see if one of the mints in the box dad brought home contained the treasured pink mint. I carefully bit a tiny portion off the rims of all the remaining mints (at least 20 of them), and found nothing. They were all white mint under the dark chocolate coating. That evening, after supper, in front of the television, dad brought out the box of mints to share with us. Upon opening the box, he saw the tiny mouse-tooth marks along the circumference of each mint.

“What the heck is this!” he exclaimed with some displeasure, and asked me if I had anything to do with the disfigurement of the mints. I had to confess that it was I and tried to explain the reason behind my action. “I was looking for the pink one.” I responded in defense. There was a look of perplexion on his face as he explained they didn’t do that anymore as far as he knew and even if I did get a pink center, there would be no free piece for me anyway. I don’t remember him bringing home any more thin mints after that incident.

Candy had been changing as I was growing up. The original Three Musketeers bar had three sections (thus its name), and each was a different flavor, chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Later, although the bar maintained its triple section look, the interior changed to all chocolate. Even after that, the bar changed its look from a triple sectioned to a double section and later simply a single bar.

What used to be three flavors in three sections to share with your friends, eventually became a bar that was “big enough for a friend and you!” and then, ultimately, a bar just big enough for you. Period. During this transitional time, the price remained five cents but now, though smaller in size, it costs a bit more than a nickel.

Occasionally, I still purchase some thin mints, especially the Junior Mints in a box because they are “cool and quite refreshing.” But I doubt I shall ever find a pink center. If I do, considering the atmosphere of today, I might wind up calling the Health Department.

Cinder-Alley

garbagecan

When I was growing up, there were no paved alleys. They were comprised of cinders and no one had any idea how the city was able to get that many cinders (fire residue) to cover all the alleys, but they did somehow. Speculation was that they were remnants of the Chicago Fire and were transported from various locations such as downtown’s lakefront, where most of the debris from the fire was used as landfill, and the old Ashland (appropriately named) avenue dumps including the Riverview area around Belmont and Western.

In those days there were no plastic bags either and when mom went shopping at the food store, all the groceries were packed into handle less paper bags. They were not easy to carry (especially the heavier ones), but most of the time mom made it home without any of the bags ripping. Milk and juices were delivered to our homes and shopping was at least twice a week in order to carry all the meats and groceries.

The paper bags were saved and used to collect the family garbage. All the table scraps and left over trash were placed into the bags and daily transported to our huge cement garbage containment locker located in the back of our yard.

This mausoleum was huge, and had a heavy metal flip top where we kids would throw the bags of garbage which would be picked up once a week by the sanitation department. The men who collected the trash were then simply known as garbage men, and they would open the bottom front of the cement behemoth, facing the alley, and shovel out the bags of trash into the truck (a messy job it was).

The entire process was not as sanitary back then as it is now. The cement blockhouse would occasionally be hosed out by my father onto the cinder strewn alleyway, but most of the time the thing stank with the remnants of the week’s (if not years) dinner remains and expired foodstuffs.

Part of the excitement of emptying the garbage was to see if you could make it from the house to the bin without the grease and oil soaked bags falling apart in your arms as you carried them to the back of the yard for disposal. Usually, the bags would give way as you lifted the metal top and hoisted the bags up to drop inside. Many a time I had to shovel the dropped fruit cores and rinds along with chicken skins and beef fat off the grass and sidewalk and dump it into the cement depository, followed by a hosing down of the outlying area.

Winters were not all too bad for garbage but the summer months brought on all the flies which accumulated around and inside the bin, attracted by the pungent odors which emanated from the crypt. In an effort to disguise the behemoth, my mom took out her paintbrushes and drew plants along the outside of the concrete container which looked okay, but the area certainly did not smell like flowers in the least.

I don’t remember exactly when the city assessed homeowners in our neighborhood for the new, improved concrete alley which would replace the old cinder way, but I remember it was $300 per home and most of the neighbors, including my father, were not too happy about it. A short while after the alley was paved, homeowners also had to start using lidded garbage cans and give up the concrete crypts which for so long had plagued the area with ominous odors and unwelcomed pests and vermin.

Even though we no longer used the cement contraption, I do not remember it being destroyed and, thus, could possibly still be there in the back of the yard like an old World War Two bunker, long forgotten as to its necessary use, but still visible to history buffs who like that kind of garbage.

Don’t Quack Up

angry_donald_duck_2

One of my favorite cartoon characters has always been Donald Duck I realize now that the reason is simply identification with the duck. For Donald, the day starts out sunshiny and bright as he sings his way into the day unaware that, within a very short time, all havoc will break loose.

I first met Donald through comic books and later at the movie theater where Saturday afternoon was cartoon frolics and the old Will Rogers would show at least 20 cartoons in a row before the double feature movie. All for twenty five cents. It was the Saturday sitter before television. I was elated when a Donald Duck cartoon came on the large screen. For Donald, simple tasks became insurmountable through obstacles which began to hinder and ultimately frustrate the poor duck to the point of uncontrollable outbursts of incomprehensible quacking.

As a kid (and even today) I didn’t battle with smarter than me nephews, conniving chipmunks or intelligent bees, but I did identify with Donald’s frustration. Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.

One cartoon I remember from years ago was Donald sitting on s stack of uncountable potatoes. He was in the Army-Air Force (it was a World War Two era cartoon) and assigned to the Kitchen Police (K.P.), and his job was peeling the spuds one by one. He was unhappy with the job as he joined the service not to peel potatoes, but to fulfill an ambition.

As Donald woefully sat amid the starchy mountains, he gazed out the window and watched the planes flying off into the wild blue yonder and, after the roar of the engines subsided, mournfully stated, “ I wanna fly!”

Even as a child I realized that Donald, consigned to a monotonous job, was so engrossed in self pity that he failed to realize that, after all, he was a duck…and ducks could fly any time; all they had to do was spread their wings and go.

As a small kid, I didn’t realize the full impact this little cartoon would have on my development. I was like Donald many times, feeling sorry for my current situation but too busy to realize what my wings were for. Too often we depend on other people or a change of conditions to meet our expectations. We do not give ourselves the credit we deserve by realizing and exerting out own potential.

Donald accepted his position, peeling potatoes and that was his job, what he was good for, according to someone else, and he reluctantly accepted what others thought he was incapable of doing.

Donald had something no other flyer had in the cartoon. Wings. He didn’t need an airplane to fly. He was a duck, but failed to understand what that meant and continued using his wings to peel potatoes rather than realizing his dream.

When I get frustrated and discouraged, I think back to that cartoon I saw several times as a young kid. Like Donald,I find myself frustrated to the point of jumping up and down with my fist in the air quacking obscenities. Never the less, each morning starts out as a new day, greeting by a song and thankfulness and hope. I may have had to peel potatoes for a while in order to survive, but I realized I did have wings and could use them when the time came.

We all have wings. It is time to stop quacking and start soaring. Thanks, Donald.

I Remember Mama

IMG_5233

There was a television show in the 1950’s, based on a movie (which I had seen), called “I Remember Mama.” It was the story of an immigrant family and their life since coming to the United States. The story was told by the daughter who aspired to be a writer and the focus was on Mama, the bulwark of the family. It was the TV show that got me started in writing about my experiences and was an influence in guiding me in the basic styles of personal writing.

As we all do, I remember my mom. She passed a long time ago, but the memory of her is deep within my heart. Mom was the mediator between my father and I (even though she sided with him most of the time). She softened the blows of his displeasure and although it was the old man’s castle, she ran it.

Although I was father’s son, I was mom’s child. I was closer to my mother than my father, not only because he worked long hours, six days a week at times, but because of his strictness and emotional distance. Dad was more the law giver and punisher, coming home and meting out disciplinary measures (usually applied to my rear end with a fraternity paddle), while mom was the diplomat always looking for peaceful solutions to matters at hand.

Mom would take me with her on the daily trips to the grocery store, meat market, variety store and, occasionally, to her lady friends homes where they would discuss neighborhood politics while I was kept busy with coloring books, milk and cookies.

When my two sisters came along, separated by two years, time with mom was shared but she always had enough love for all of us. We were clothed, fed, and repaired when broken, Having three kids kept mom busy around the house so lady friends sometimes visited her, and for us, while they chatted, it was either the television or more coloring books.

Mom would mete out discipline for minor infractions like a swift hand to the rear or perhaps temporary grounding, but the biggest fear was committing an offense that would cause her to utter those ominous words, “Just wait until your father gets home!”

Making my mother cry was the most miserable and emotionally painful experience I had as a youngster. On a few occasions, my belligerence and and backtalk caused her to shed tears. Making mom cry brought me to the lowest depths of my existence and all the “I’m sorrys” did not compensate for the miserable feeling within me. After profuse apologies and my own tears of repentance, only her hug of forgiveness could redeem my soul from self-hate in hurting her.

Mom changed my diapers (and that was way back before disposable ones), bathed me, healed my scrapes and scratches and even prayed with me. She shared her life because I was part of her and she, now, is still a part of me. There are occasions, such as Mothers Day, when her absence is more strongly felt and there have been times when I raised my eyes to heaven to talk with her.

Some believe that once you are dead, you are no longer involved in the world of the living and some believe departed souls cannot see or hear us any longer. Perhaps. As for myself, I believe that God has a special place in his heart for mothers and, especially on Mothers Day, even if He doesn’t let them see or hear us, I think He lets them know, somehow, that we are thinking of them.

Hooky

IMG_5187

It was a dismal, overcast morning as I headed off to school. I had just started second grade. The rain had held back as I approached St Francis Church. It got very dark and suddenly started to rain again so I took shelter under the front doorway of the church. I did not have my raincoat or umbrella for some reason that morning. I guess mom thought the weather was clearing before I left the house. Another kid, a few years older than me also ran for cover in the doorway. We talked about getting wet and possibly being late for school.

The rain really started pouring down so we stayed under the doorway to wait until it let up. It was a bit chilly and I had a jacket but if I got wet I would have to remain in school with soggy (I thought) clothes. I stayed there until after the first and second bell rang. Classes had begun and I was outside still.

The rain finally let up and the sun began to shine through the parting clouds as I decided to leave and head for the school. The kid who was with me said we would get in trouble if we went in now so maybe it would be better if we just played hooky that day. He said his parents were at work so we could go back to his house and wait until school was over. It sounded like a good idea, after all, older was supposed to mean smarter, so we went back to his house.

The kid lived on the same street about half a block down from my place. I would sometimes run into him on the way to school and we would walk together (he once offered me a rotten walnut). I didn’t really know him well but felt comfortable that we would have a good time playing in his house. He had lots of toys and for a few hours, I was having a good time. It was getting a bit uncomfortable, however, because he was acting bossy and deciding what we would do and I had to go along with it.

After we had eaten lunch (mom would make me a sandwich and I would eat in school), I developed a sense of guilt and foreboding, and wanted to leave and go back to school…or maybe home and confess, after all, it was my first offense and I might get off easy. I announced to my friend I was going to leave.

We were sitting at the kitchen table and he got up and went into a counter drawer and pulled out a steak knife. He pointed it at me as told me I wasn’t going anyplace and to sit down. He sat across from me and proceeded to stick the knife through the plastic table cover announcing he would do the same to me if I tried to leave. He said I would have to wait until school let out and then I could go.

The next two hours were terror filled for me as he led me around holding the knife while we continued to play games he wanted to play. I forget what they were entirely. We went to his room, played and then went back to the kitchen where we played some board games at the table. He stuck the knife through the table cover a few more times just to impress me with his ability if I should try to leave.

Three o’clock could not have come fast enough as we went to the front room and peered out the window waiting for the first indication kids were on their way home. Finally, as the kids appeared he said I could leave. He opened the front door and looked left and right and then said, “Okay, now.”

I hurried out the door and headed home wondering if I should say anything at all (he had warned me not to), but I did not know the school had called my mom asking why I wasn’t in class that day. She confronted me when I got home.

To the best of my ability, I explained what happened and how I could not leave and was held prisoner for the day. I don’t think my mom believed me at first and I do not remember the specifics of our conversation although we waited until my father got home and he would decide the course of action and my punishment.

Upon hearing my story, dad decided we would go over after supper and pay a visit to the kid and his parents and settle the question of my defense. I don’t remember too much at all about the confrontation other than my folks repeated my story to the kid’s parents and they did not believe me. They asked the kid who, of course, denied everything (while giving me one of those, “I’ll get you for this” looks). My defense was kind of flimsy, my word against his, until I remembered the tablecloth. I went over to the drawer and pulled out the knife and told them he had run it through the tablecloth several times. They checked, and found the slits which were made. There was dead silence as his parents and mine looked at each other, at the kid, and back at each other in disbelief. I was exonerated.

We left and went home, my parents leaving it up to them what to do with the kid. I never heard anything more about the incident, nor did I ever see that kid around the neighborhood any more. We moved the following year and I never did find out what and if anything happened to that kid, or if my parents followed up at all. Soon, I had forgotten about the incident and my parents never mentioned it after that meeting. I do remember being told about the hazards of playing hooky and getting into trouble like that. I learned my lesson well. I never did it again. I do not remember being punished at home or at school the next day.

What remains until this day, is my aversion to knives. I am very uncomfortable with anything larger or sharper than a butter knife. For a time, I didn’t know why until the incident was recalled years later.

I hope that kid got help.

The N- Word

brazil nut

Cashews and pistachios are my favorite nuts. There are a few, however, on my list I will never eat because of the psychological effects they have had on me. I think it was nuts that opened the window of racism for me although, at the time, I didn’t understand the implications.

I was around seven years old while walking to school one morning when a friend offered me a walnut. I had had walnuts before so I gladly accepted. It had a hard to open shell so I placed it between my teeth and bit down. It cracked open and when I separated the shell with my fingers, the interior was a brown sawdust looking mess and staring back at me was a worm. I screamed in disgust and tossed the nut into the street. My friend offered me another which I refused. I have refused walnuts to this day unless the meat has already been extracted from the shell.

The above is a nice way to ease into the next category. Being under ten years old, most of the words I learned to identify things were from my parents. Unknowingly, I am certain, they taught me in the ignorance of the times without understanding the long range effects it would have on me as well as others.

I liked certain nuts my parents, and everyone else I knew, called “redskins.” I knew them by no other name until one day saw a newspaper ad regarding a sale on a pound of Spanish Peanuts. I was confused as to why they were called Spanish when the name redskins implied (to me) Native Americans. Needless to go into detail, it took a while for me to understand the social incorrectness of my parents terminology. Eventually, I didn’t like the way the flaky skins stuck in my throat so I stopped eating them.

Then there was the nuts I knew, again, by no other name but “N-word toes.” The term, as my mother had to explain was not because we were actually eating someone’s toes, but only that they looked like that and so, the name. Well, I didn’t know, because I had never even seen a person of Color (much less their toes) in our neighborhood on the Northwest side until I was fourteen years old!

I grew up in all White neighborhoods, went to all White schools and shopped with my folks in all White stores. Honest, it was that segregated at the time. The first Black people I even talked to were two men who cleaned the Will Rogers movie theater when I was an usher at fifteen years old.

I do not blame my parents for their ignorance because they grew up learning the same things they were passing on to me and, I didn’t know any better for many years because of my non-association with people of color. So it was not only me calling them Brazil nuts “N-word toes,” because when my mom went to the store and ordered a pound of them by that name ( she, like many others, probably never knew their actual name) as she also did with “Redskins,” the clerks knew exactly what she wanted. She was never confronted nor admonished. No one was. It was the 1950s.

By the way, I never did eat Brazil nuts, only because of the mental image I had of eating someone’s toes, even until this day.

As an aside, I never heard my parents use the N-word when discussing people of color (only when ordering Brazil nuts) and the folks in my neighborhood did not have to deal with the presence of people of color until the City started bussing Black students to schools in 1967! Then racism, exposed, reared its ugly head and things began to change.