by Eddie Payton
We were living the life in those days. We had chickens, a pig pen, and yes, an indoor bathroom. We’d come a long way, baby! Or so we thought. Walter and I actually had no idea just how little progress we’d made. We had no clue that this big step up was only a big step from the perspective of little toddlers with such little legs. We thought we were out of the ghetto, but looking back, we were really just in a new ghetto with new things to do.
The facility at the top of the hill was a place locals went to get a job. It was a processing plant for the neighborhood cucumbers, and it had some official name, I’m sure. To Walter and me, it was simply the pickle plant. Right across the tracks that ran in front of the pickle plant and across from our new front yard was an old abandoned brakeman’s hut. It lured Walter and me in a time or two (or a hundred) to play. We’d build fires and roast marshmallows in that old building. No one would bother us in there, and we had the time of our lives. That brakeman’s hut wasn’t but 30 yards back from the house, so it was Momma-proof, too. That was the best part, actually. When she’d get home, it was close enough that we’d know it and could get back before she’d have to come out calling for us from the front porch.
That old building must’ve been an eyesore to all the adults who could see it. Thinking back on the view from our front porch, it was something awful. In addition to that abandoned brakeman’s hut, the city dump was a measly 80 yards away. We traded the smells of an outhouse for the smells of the city dump. Eighty yards! Shoot, I’ve returned footballs in NFL games longer distances than that (in fact, I returned a kickoff and a punt for touchdowns in the same game once, both over 80 yards). So, basically, we’d go out the back door, down the hill, and BAM…we’d be in the city dump, right there with all the smelly and unsightly mess that goes with it. Ironic, too, that right up next to the dump was the Pearl River. It was only about 200 yards or so from the backside of the house and seemed to press right up against the dump. The EPA would have a fit over anything like that today and rightfully so. Walter and I played down there all the time, and we even saw a bulldozer push garbage right into the water. And you know, I’m not even sure it was wrong to do stuff like that at the time. Funny how some types of “right and wrong” (“black and white,” too, maybe?) can change over time.
Anyway, the Pearl River is where Daddy took us fishing, so we’d catch a little junk to go with our fish. Still, even the junk and nasty smells of the dump are fond memories in my heart. Actually, as a kid, the whole area was amazing. To Walter and me, it was sort of an oversized playground and the perfect place for playing hide-and-seek, army, or any other active, outdoor, crazy-fun game that kids just don’t play anymore. A lot of kids these days have much nicer things than Walter and I had growing up, but they don’t have any good places to play. That’s the truth.
Walter and I had no time as kids to think about what we didn’t have. We were too busy running around and enjoying what we did have. There were certainly other families back then that had more than we did in terms of material things, and the kids in those families had nicer toys and such, but Walter and I never noticed the difference. Today kids have to have the latest gadgets, video games, iPads, etc. They don’t seem to care much anymore for trees, mud holes, old abandoned buildings, and yes, even city dumps. “The best things in life are free” is a cliché for a reason. Walter and I didn’t spend time wanting what the other kids had, because we just wanted to have fun, and we had the most fun with all the free stuff outside our back door.
Another uncle of ours lived a few houses down. Between our uncle’s house and the city dump was a little pond that seemed like Toledo Bend Lake to Walter and me. It was huge in our little eyes, and we just knew there had to be a world-record bass swimming under the surface. Though we never found that elusive giant fish in the water hole, I can tell you a couple of things that for sure lived there: leeches and snakes. Saw plenty of those. Or were they slimy blood-sucking monsters and man-eating anacondas? Well, that’s what “Edward Charles” would’ve said, so let’s just go with it.
Walter and I were blessed to grow up when playing outside was all a kid could do to have fun and stay out of trouble. There was no Internet, no cell phones, MP3 players, no Xbox, or any other electrical doodads kids are distracted by today. Even television wasn’t a distraction back home growing up. It was a while before we even got a little black-and-white unit. And when we finally got that, it wasn’t like there was a whole lot on the thing to pull us in from the outdoors. When I was allowed to spend time in front of the TV, all I really wanted to watch were the Ole Miss football highlights. I’d sit there and dream of playing for the Rebels. Looking back, it was appropriate that those highlights were trapped in a box…and even more appropriate that they were in black and white. The reality was that I wouldn’t be able to play for the Rebels in Oxford, Mississippi, because of the color of my skin. I knew it, too. Playing for Ole Miss was a dream I had that couldn’t be realized until Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. realized his. Perhaps that should’ve bothered me, but as a kid, I guess it didn’t. Back then, things were just how they were, and that was that. We could focus on what we couldn’t do in Oxford, or we could focus on what we could do in Columbia. We chose the latter.
Our momma and daddy likely had no idea just how much they had given Walter and me by moving us all to Smith Quarters. Their goal was to provide something better. They simply wanted to give us the best they could. As should be clear, they gave us so much more than that, and it took me a while to realize just how much they sacrificed, how hard they worked for us. And it truly was for us.
In the current day and age, it seems a lot of parents work two jobs out of want rather than out of need. Some mothers say they would love to stay home, but that they have to work to make ends meet. Make ends meet? Really? I think that phrase has lost its meaning a bit. As a society, we now have all these things. All this nice, expensive stuff. Phones, cars, TVs, cable, houses, two- and three-car garages, multiple indoor bathrooms, you get the point. A lot of families need two incomes, not to make ends meet, but to maintain the current American lifestyle of having too much stuff. But back in the day, in Columbia, Momma and Daddy worked day and night, two jobs each, for a much greater purpose. It wasn’t to maintain a lifestyle of want; it was to provide a step up (however small a step up) for our family and to give us kids what we needed. Momma and Daddy each worked two jobs, not so we could have three TVs and 400 channels, but to get us out (and to keep us out) of Korea Alley.
It’s important to point out, too, that the two-income family in the Payton house didn’t start until all of us kids were in school. A step up was important, but not so important to allow a step back in our connection with Momma. She wanted to build a very strong bond with us while we were small, and it sure worked. We definitely felt close to her in a way that we wouldn’t have had she worked outside the home and let someone else watch us during those years. There’s no way to replace time spent with family, especially when we’re talking about a momma who could cook.
Momma baked up the best-tasting, from-scratch, hand-squished Southern biscuits ever! Walter and I chipped in for breakfast, too. Momma would have us hunt a wooded area at the end of the street for some squirrels to go along with her biscuits. We loved doing that so much that sometimes we’d get up before Momma, walk to the woods, kill us a mess of squirrels, get back home, and have ’em cleaned and ready for Momma to cook before she even got out of bed. I’ll always cherish those memories of hunting with Walter and helping Momma with breakfast, memories I wouldn’t have if Momma hadn’t been home when we were kids. And though the squirrels were tasty, it was those handsome, orangey-brown, candy-crispy, crunchy, firm-but-tender biscuits from Momma’s oven that we savored in the morning. And that just set the stage for a day with her.
Momma didn’t leave the house to work when we were kids, but looking back, I think those were actually the years she worked the most and the hardest in her life. Walter an
d I weren’t exactly easy to raise, as you might’ve guessed. Along with my fond memories are the times Momma had to say, “Wait ’til your daddy gets home.” We required plenty of “child-rearing” from Daddy, as you already know. I’m just thankful we at least had a break from that during the day while Daddy was away!
Daddy worked as a custodian and a maintenance man at the Pioneer Recovery factory, where they made parachutes. That was his main job. Once we were all in school, Momma started working at that factory, too, as a seamstress. When Momma was ready to take on other jobs, she picked up a sponge and a fryin’ pan. She cooked and cleaned at the country club and at the homes of many prominent white families in Columbia. Some might read that last sentence and think of my momma as “the help” and feel sorry for her, but she actually loved that work. She never once complained about her “second job.” And if you asked me as a kid what my daddy’s second job was, I’d probably respond by saying “everything.” He had a truck he used to haul stuff for people and help them move. Basically, he’d use that truck in any way he could to bring in some extra money. He also would cut grass, shine shoes, whatever. Like I said—everything.
Daddy was a proud man, but he wasn’t above swallowing his pride if it would put food on the table for his family. He always did what he had to do for as long as I can remember, even back to our days on Korea Alley. I say this with great shame now, but Walter and I weren’t always proud of Daddy’s work. In particular, we’d try to make sure the other kids didn’t find out Daddy shined shoes. Not sure what it was about shining shoes. Perhaps it was too much like servitude, I don’t know. All I know is, Walter and I would try to avoid Daddy when he was shining shoes. And we’d do that on the way to church of all places.
Walter and I always walked to church. We had two paths we could take: (1) the long way or (2) the point-A-to-point-B way. The long way required us to head out the back door, cross a log over a ditch that was always full of water, walk up the road, and then go straight ahead to Orange Street. The short way was to go down Orange to the corner and cut across directly to the church. Though the short way was obviously the better choice for two kids trying to get to church quickly, Walter and I would take the long way, because on Sunday morning, Daddy could be seen shining shoes along the short way. We didn’t want the other kids to make fun of us, so we just avoided him altogether. Shameful, I know. Daddy swallowed his pride to shine shoes and provide for us, and if I could do it over again, I’d give him the respect he was due.
The adults in our neighborhood knew better than Walter and I did. Our parents were very well-respected in our area, and that included over at the local bank. When Daddy was ready to move us all up from our double-barrel shotgun house, he went to the bank for a construction loan. Let’s just say he didn’t need a shotgun to get them to give him money. He secured a construction loan and mortgage based on his reputation alone and soon started the project of building us our third house. Looking back, I’m amazed at how shrewd a negotiator Daddy was. Plain and simply, he was a “can-do” kind of person. When he wanted to do something, he found a way, whether we’re talking about securing money to build a house or actually building it.
When Daddy started building our new house, he went to the high school shop teacher and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Daddy presented him with the generous opportunity to use the construction of our new house as a project for the kids in his class. Brilliant. The shop teacher quickly agreed, and his students worked alongside Daddy and his subcontractors to build the house. A “learning experience” for the kids, a fulfillment of job requirements for the teacher, and free labor for Daddy. Win, win, win. That’s what our daddy did.
That new house Daddy built for us is still standing to this day. Though I was only eight years old at the time, I remember feeling a little uneasy about moving into the house, not because high school kids had helped Daddy build it, but because I had grown to love our place in Smith Quarters, despite (and maybe even because of) the less than desirable surroundings. Saying good-bye to the city dump, the abandoned brakeman’s hut, the pond, and the Pearl River was difficult for sure, but I also knew we were moving on up to something better once again. The excitement of moving to a new house that was built just for us began to grow as we got closer to the moving date, and I knew it was a step up, because others were wondering why we built ourselves such a “big house.”
Well, not only did Daddy build that big house, but somehow Momma figured out a way to buy the house next to it, too. She had a vision to make us some extra money on the side, and she ended up renting that other house to a couple of school teachers. Momma had a real good sense about how to make money, how to save money, how to invest, how to spot opportunity, and even how to borrow when needed. She developed all of this because she wasn’t too proud to work jobs others might look down on, and because she was always on the lookout for what she could get out of a job.
One of the prominent white folks Momma worked for was W.E. Walker, who was the founder of Bill’s Dollar Stores, a discount variety store with locations mostly in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Momma cleaned Mr. Walker’s house and cooked for his family, starting from the time Walter went to school, and she still cooks for their family to this day. She did her best for Mr. Walker and consequently won his respect. He began to share some of his business sense with her, and Momma would listen and learn, taking it all in. Most importantly, she wasn’t scared to ask questions and to seek specific advice from him. She’d be doing her job well, all the time picking Mr. Walker’s brain and gathering pearls of business and money-related know-how. Over the years, Mr. Walker shared a lot of information with Momma, teaching her how and when to borrow money, how to buy property, and how to put people in it and cash flow it. And Momma wasn’t gathering this info to just sit on it, either. She put it to work. At one time, she had about 13 units that all made money. Not too bad for “the help,” don’t ya think?
So, there we were, owning houses other people lived in, and living in a big ol’ house of our own. But please don’t think for a second that having a big house meant Walter and I could just sit around in it. No, sir. Our parents didn’t just care about providing us with a good place to live; they were set on making sure we got out of the house and actually did live. There was a time to be in the house, and there was a time to be outside. Monday through Friday, your ass better be in the house when the streetlights come on. But between school and the streetlights coming on, you better be out there working, playing, or doing something. When we weren’t working, Walter and I were mostly out there playing football in the front yard with other kids or basketball in the backyard using a bicycle tire rim tacked up to a tree. Mostly just staying busy, having fun, and passing time.
As kids, we weren’t allowed to just play sports, either. Momma was all about broadening our horizons, so Walter and I had to take music at school and piano after school before we were allowed to play any kind of sports during our outside playtime. We played other instruments, too, and all three of us kids were in the marching band. I played trumpet, Walter played drums (makes sense with all that rhythm, don’t it?), and my sister, Pam, played clarinet. Thanks to marching band, Walter and I even mixed sports and music together from time to time.
I was in the concert band for football and basketball in the winter and for baseball in the spring. Walter was also in the band for football when he played, though we were never on the field together in high school (whether running the ball or marching in the band). When I started playing football, I just marched with the band at halftime in my football uniform. When there was a parade for homecoming, I’d march in uniform during the parade. Walter did the same when he started playing football. And Momma would always be out there watching whenever Walter or I would be marching in the band. I think she liked that part even better than watching us play football. Looking back, I can see why. I mean, it must’ve been a sight to see a football player in a wet, smelly T-shirt a
nd cleats out there marching and playing his instrument with a bunch of other kids dressed up like toy soldiers. Regardless, from Monday to Friday, whether it was sports, work, or music, Momma was behind it in some way.
And on the weekends, well, that was family time. On Saturday, there was always a family outing of some sort. And that usually involved work, of course. We’d sometimes visit our relatives out in the country. When we were there we’d help them pick greens and work in the garden before having supper and visiting with them. My parents knew the importance of strong relationships and helping others when they needed it, whether in times of emergency or just when a little work around the yard was in order.
Then came Sunday.
Sunday was for church. And I’m talkin’ the whole day was for church, okay? We went to Owens Chapel Missionary Baptist for Sunday school, regular church service, and then the evening service. No one dared complain about being there all day, and I wouldn’t have complained even without the threat of a whoopin’. I actually liked being there because I got to see a bunch of kids I didn’t get to see during the week and sing songs with family and friends.
Walter, Pam, and I were all in the church choir. That’s until they realized I couldn’t sing and had no business being in the choir. The powers that be soon viewed me as a “congregational singer,” and then it was just Walter and Pam representing the Payton kids. Walter had quite the voice, too. He often sang solo, and I’ll never forget the time he just kept repeating the same verse over and over. There he was, belting his little heart out….