The first television I saw had a screen like a porthole. It held no interest for me. A few years later, though, the appliance stores put televisions in their storefront windows. These TVs had square screens; the reception was better and the shows were on weekly. Mom and Dad bought one.
Television may have changed America, but it didn’t change us. Aunt Mimi still played her piano. We still gathered on the porch. The personalities and feuds of Mother’s Sunday-school class, class number thirty-six, proved far more dramatic than anything on TV.
We watched the news. Mother loved the morning show with Dave Garroway. I could watch one show a night if I had no homework. Usually I was outside. I didn’t watch much.
I loved Lucy. Didn’t we all? To see those shows when they were first aired was a little bit of heaven. I laughed until I cried. She can still make me laugh until I cry. Many years later, when Miss Ball was in her sixties or seventies, I met her at the opening of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences Hall of Fame. I could have kissed her. I didn’t. I thanked her for her work and moved along. But I loved shaking her hand, meeting one of the comic geniuses of our time.
Tragedy is easy. Comedy is hard. You’ve heard it before and it’s true. If comedy were easy, everyone would be doing it. It’s harder to act, harder to direct and, trust me, harder to write.
Eve Arden dazzled us with Our Miss Brooks. The appeal of the show lay in its being set in a school; everyone could relate to school, and the fact that Eve Arden was a beautiful, beautiful woman who played against her beauty was interesting. That technique worked for Lucy, too.
Milton Berle, whom I also met many years later, mesmerized the nation. No one knew what he would do next. We’d sing along with the Texaco lyrics, waiting for the appearance of the star.
Mom and Dad liked The Honeymooners. I was too young to really absorb the tension between Gleason and Meadows.
But that was about it. Television was not yet a substitute for real life.
I never imagined that I would write for TV. Of course, there are days when I still can’t imagine writing for TV.
The sweet cycle of winter, spring, summer, fall, of Advent, Easter, Trinity, created punctuation points to the year. Recognizing Ash Wednesday or the first Sunday in Advent or Memorial Day made me feel grownup.
Whenever people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d say “president” or “I want to be like Bill Hardtack.” Bill Hardtack, a jockey, could ride even the devil to the finish line.
The fact that I never said “nurse” or “teacher” was noted. People laughed and told me a woman couldn’t be president or a jockey.
Well, we proved them wrong on the latter and we’ll eventually prove them wrong on the former.
No amount of buttering me up could sway my opinion. I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. Mother, subtly or flat out, told me what women could do and could not do. Aunt Mimi waged a full-scale campaign to make sure I knew my place.
Bless them. Their banging and badgering toughened me. I stood up to them. I wouldn’t let anyone tell me what to do or how to do it.
Mother used to say in a rising tone, “You’re heading for a fall.”
I’d snap back, “Least I got on the horse.”
She swore that adolescence would change all that.
Dad upset everyone’s applecart before I could enter the dreaded teenage years.
27
Kumquat May
The winter of 1954–55 brought my tenth birthday and Grandma and Grandpa Brown’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. Since their anniversary was the same day as my birthday, November 28, Mom and Dad threw a huge party. I was overshadowed but didn’t mind. I had sense enough to know that fifty years of marriage outweighed ten years of my being around. Mother Brown, in a buoyant mood, a side of her I’d never seen, allowed pictures of us together. In ten years I’d never had a photo taken with my paternal grandparents. Nor did Mom give Mamaw my school photos. Although she was willing now to forgive my illegitimacy, Mamaw’s interest in me remained constant: none.
She did, however, promise me an iron horse doorstop should she leave this earth. Robust and confident she was sure her exit visa was in no danger of being stamped.
What I didn’t know was that Dad was planning his first real vacation. He would turn fifty on August 7, 1955, and a quiet rebellion simmered in his dutiful breast.
The first glimmer occurred in February. He and Mom arranged for me to leave school for two weeks. I finished my lessons ahead of time and turned them in. I was already ahead of the game, anyway. They packed the car, arranged to have the neighbors feed and love on the animals and off we rolled down old Route 1.
A cruise through Charleston, South Carolina, showed me that while Philadelphia contained lovely Federal and Georgian architecture, Charleston gloried in it. Back then the Charleston slums were dreadful, though. I remember driving slowly down one street north of Broad, and second-story porches, seemingly hanging by a thread, were filled with people.
Georgia impressed me for the great number of pigs and cows walking along the highway. I’d never seen a place so poor and I stirred up trouble at the five-and-dime when we stopped for lunch. Thirsty, I skipped to the closest water fountain and pressed the button. Suddenly a harpy of considerable proportions bore down on me. This black-haired lady with pointy glasses pushed me away from the fountain so hard I fell down.
“Girl, what’s wrong with you?”
“I beg your pardon?” (Pre-cotillion at work.)
“Can’t you read?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My eyes followed her fleshy arm, fingers pointing to a sign reading Colored.
About that time, Mother, hearing the commotion, trotted over to me. She didn’t acknowledge the huffing and puffing defender of the Aryan race. She simply grabbed my hand and escorted me out of that five-and-dime in Macon, Georgia.
Mom and Dad left their food on the counter. I thought I was about to be dressed up one side and down the other.
All Mother said was, “Lardass,” referring to the harpy.
Neither Mom nor Dad indulged in philosophical lectures or exhaustive explanations about much of anything. By virtue of attending school in York County, I was accustomed to seeing colored people. No one paid attention to the fact that we were integrated. We didn’t even know we were integrated. It was a fact of life. Since schools grew out of their communities, the reality was that the student population was not balanced. At Valley View, when I was in fourth grade, there was one colored kid, in the sixth grade. Two years at that time of life is a Grand Canyon. He was high and airy, being so much older than us “weenies.” But his classmates liked him and it wasn’t an issue for anyone.
So this first encounter with the virulence of American apartheid scared me silly.
“Some people can’t drink out of a fountain marked Colored?”
“No, and you can’t sit in a waiting room marked Colored, either.” Mother folded her arms across her chest.
“But it’s wrong.”
“People have their ways.” Dad, hungry, was looking for another place to eat. He could eat—never put on a pound.
Mother, cooling down, counseled me, “When in Rome do as the Romans do.” She paused a minute and then added, “I don’t think it’s right, but I don’t know what to do about it, and don’t you get any ideas because you’re too little to do anything about it.”
“Mom, what about Jesus at the temple?”
“What about it?”
“He threw out the money changers.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that mean we’re supposed to fight when something’s wrong?”
“I’m taking you out of vacation Bible school,” she laughed.
“Does that mean I can leave Sunday school, too?”
“No.”
Sunday school, a series of droning lectures illustrated with pictures of a sanitized Jesus, could turn even the most devout Christian into an atheist. Worse, Christine Welch, in my class, was so
pretty, had such cute dimples that the Sunday-school teacher looked only at adorable Christine. Poor girl, her face had to be sore from all that forced smiling.
Then too, how many geraniums can you plant on Easter Sunday? If I received one more potted geranium, I was planning to toss it right at the teacher’s head.
We puttered along, Dad glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Maybe things will be better when you’re grown-up.”
“Maybe I’ll make them better,” I bragged.
“Thank God my sister isn’t along to hear this. She’d beat us over the head with her rosary beads.”
“She’d try to convert the Baptists.” Dad giggled. He had the most infectious giggle, especially since it emitted from that powerful body.
“Our Lady of the Rosary.” Mom was off and running, and we laughed the entire way to the Florida state line.
Driving to Florida before the advent of superhighways tested your patience, but not as much as finally reaching Florida. You can’t imagine how long the state is until you drive it. You drive and drive and drive and it’s still Florida.
After spending the night below Jacksonville, which smelled reassuringly like Spring Grove, which is to say like one moist paper-mill fart, we set off in the hour before dawn and Dad picked up AIA. As the sun rose we stopped by a beach filled with sea grape trees and undergrowth. We walked down to the Atlantic, a path of red beckoning to us as the sun peeped over the horizon. A school of dolphins broke the surface of the water. No one uttered a word. We watched as the water streaking off their bodies sparkled in the air like thousands of tiny rubies.
One exquisite sight after another greeted us. Mother fell in love with royal palms—those are the tall straight ones whose bases look like poured concrete. I liked the coconut palms and the flocks of wild parrots.
Fort Lauderdale, a small town with one public high school for whites, one Catholic high school, one private school, and one colored high school, enchanted everyone. It was laced with deep canals and boasted a good harbor in Port Everglades. Mother played on the beach across from Birch State Park. Her figure, and she was about to turn fifty herself on March 6, showed little wear and tear. Wearing her bathing suit, she turned heads, which afforded her no small pleasure. Dad, content as always, was happy because she was happy.
We visited the Hialeah and Gulfstream racetracks. Mom, per usual, talked me into the backstretch. I hoped I’d see my hero, Bill Hardtack. I didn’t. I saw good horses, though. The Thoroughbred industry in Florida was just getting under way and would challenge California’s and New York’s with the great horse Needles. Excitement bubbled beneath the surface. Hialeah, distinctive with wrought-iron work and perfectly manicured grounds, contrasted with Gulfstream, whose buildings and grounds weren’t as pretty. However, the Gulfstream infield, stocked with pink flamingoes, was gorgeous.
I saw my first polo match in south Florida. Apart from foxhunting, it was the most thrilling sport I’d ever witnessed. After the match, I raced to the sidelines and asked if I could hot-walk the ponies—walk them to cool them down. I did and the head groom gave me a quarter—a quarter for doing something I loved.
Mother kept a diary. Her utilitarian entries are interesting for what caught her attention. Miami Beach. How do they pay their electric bill? So many lights. It was seventy degrees this evening and women wore mink coats. I wore shorts. Rita only wants to see the horses. Butch inspected two meat markets and three supermarkets today. He wore sandals. I can’t believe it. I picked an orange off a tree in February. It wasn’t ripe, but still. Butch bought oranges from the Piggly Wiggly, isn’t that a funny name? I made the kid eat one. That kid hates fruit. This is paradise.
Every day she’d scribble in her leather travel book. We crossed Alligator Alley, skimming the tip of the Everglades. Armadillos waddled to and fro. Naples, next on the agenda, was as appealing to me as to Mom and Dad. It was tiny then, a pier jutting into the Gulf of Mexico. One high school and wonderful weather, that was Naples.
We cruised up the west coast of Florida, marveling at Sarasota with its handsome houses, wondering if the bridge over to Tampa would hold, zooming through St. Petersburg, which had so many old people they always took a body count after the movie was over. Just in case.
Then we veered over to Tarpon Springs and Silver Springs and finally we reached Ocala. The limestone soil there is perfect for horses. The big farms were in the process of being created. I loved it. Mother liked it too, but Mother wanted those ocean breezes, so we headed back over to AIA.
Our last day in Florida, Mom cried. She didn’t want to leave. We got on Route 301 and headed back home. Just inside Maryland a snowstorm whacked us hard. Dad stopped to buy chains and he and the service station man put them on the car. There was something funny about watching suntanned Dad out there in the snow.
He was steaming. I’d seen my father lose his temper only once before. He cursed the entire rest of the trip back to York, which with the filthy weather and the bad roads took twelve hours when it should have taken four.
The next morning I woke up to find Dad and Mom at the breakfast table. He had one day of vacation left and he wasn’t going in to work. That alone was amazing. Ralph Brown, who sometimes worked from 6:30 A.M. until he dragged home at 10:00 P.M., wasn’t even calling to see how the store was doing.
Their sudden silence made me think of “little pitchers.” Children overhear stuff, and you never know what the buggers will repeat in company.
Mother placed a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice before me, from the mesh bag of Florida oranges on the counter. The only way I could get the rest of my breakfast was to drink the orange juice, which I unwillingly did every morning.
Dad made breakfast. Mother and I sat there while he served us food garnished with a stream of his early morning jokes, which were so corny, but, well, so Dad.
“How would you like to live in Florida?”
“Me?”
“Is there someone else in the room?” Mother joked.
“Where in Florida? Ocala?” I parried.
“Fort Lauderdale.”
“Naples?”
“The west coast is hotter than the east,” Mother said.
“Can we go now?”
“As soon as you finish school. That way you can start seventh grade down there and we’ll have time to sell the house. And don’t say anything yet. We haven’t told Uncle Claude or Uncle Earl or Sis. We have a lot to do and some people might be upset. So you let us do the talking.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Daddy poured me another cup of tea. “Mom, what about Tuffy and Chap and Ginger?”
“Aunt Gertrude has always wanted Tuffy. Dad knows a man who’ll buy Chap because you’ve done such a good job with him, and we’ll find a good home for Ginger before we leave.”
“I don’t want to leave my animals. You drop me in Virginia and keep going to Florida.”
“There are lots of diseases in that tropical heat. These animals aren’t acclimated to it and they’ll get sick.” Mother usually didn’t use big words like acclimated.
“What about us?”
“They say it takes a year for your blood to thin.” Dad spoke up finally. “Once we’re settled you can have another kitty and puppy, ones that have been born there.”
“Well … I’ll go if I don’t have to go to Sunday school. I’ll go to church, but I won’t go to Sunday school.”
“Why don’t you see what Sunday school is like there? Maybe it’s better.”
“Mom, I hate it.”
A long, long silence followed.
Mother said, “You’re of an age now where you must take catechism classes. I guess that’s enough.”
“No vacation Bible school.”
“I guess not.” She laughed, then pointed her fork at me. “But you are enrolling in cotillion the minute we get there, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Butch, do you have anything to say?”
“Where’d she learn to drive such
a hard bargain? Must be your side of the family.”
“How about a horse?”
“When we win the Irish Sweepstakes. Are you going to eat that sausage?” Mother leaned toward me.
“I’m saving it till last.”
Disappointed, she said, “Oh.”
Dad got up and fried more sausage.
“Why do you eat all your egg, then all your toast, then all your sausage? You do that at every meal. You have to learn to sample from each food group.”
“It tastes better this way.”
“It’s not proper.”
“Well, I’ll learn when I get to cotillion—in Florida.”
“You know, honey”—Dad placed the sizzling sausages on my plate—“you’ve got the makings of a first-rate politician.”
“Don’t encourage her, Butch.”
And that’s how we landed in Florida.
28
Skinks and Land Crabs
There must have been a run on smelling salts at the drugstore, because each time Mom and Dad spread the news of their decision, somebody just about passed out. Mother Brown opted for the Bismarck approach: tight lips, iron gaze. Aunt Mimi, once she regained her breath, offered token resistance. Of all people, she was the one I thought would pitch a home-run hissy. Her secret agenda emerged later.
Ralph Brown, that beast of burden who toted his load and everyone else’s, quietly but effectively rebelled. He sold out his share of the store. Our house sold in a flash. Before I knew it we were packed and ready to go.
When we took Tuffy to Gertrude, I wavered. Tuffy lived a long and honorable life with Gertrude Buckingham, but I missed her.
Chap and Ginger were already in their new homes, and I received praise for my work with the dogs. I would have preferred my dogs to the praise, but I hoped PopPop could look down on me and smile. They weren’t hounds, but still, I’d trained them. I vowed that when I was big and strong, I’d handle hounds.
We sold nearly everything other than Mother’s treadle sewing machine and the family heirlooms, my favorite being the one knife with a wooden handle that the Yankees had left after they looted the place in Maryland. They stole the hot stove and then returned to steal the smoke. All we had left after 1865 were a few dishes and odds and ends.
Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser Page 13