The Plunger

I’m beginning to experience the fallout from this financial catastrophe for both me and my clients. For the first time since I started my business, “high end” clients are paying me with credit cards that are maxed out. I wake up in the middle of the night and start second guessing decisions made years ago about how to manage business, finances, etc. Funny thing, two years ago I was right. There were models I had always used. No longer.

I looked at some of my investments and note some have decreased in excess of 40%! I was never rich, never poor. Today, I am moving toward a condition where I look at frugality as a necessity for survival, rather than something with which less fortunate have dealt. The Bush Machine and his cronies have punked the world with a rusty stake, little ceremony and no lubricant. It reamed Europe, Asia, the mid-east and everyone it touched.

The Machine, functioning as the Grande Parent Placenta cemented his three banks, gave $850 billion to a tethered puppet for distribution. Working as Grand Pimp, this puppet doles out booty to bitches complicit in the dissolution of our entire financial infrastructure.

The first tier Bitches hire their stable of sub-whores to “resolve the financial issues of the day”. The Grand Pimp creates the perfect loop. They use the booty to purchase for themselves the residue of our former riches. In computer speak we call this a loop.

I don’t understand how anyone with simple cognitive capability cannot see and feel these thrusts as they are being reamed up the psyches of kneeling supplicants. If you refuse to see the curtain that reveals the brothel, the next thing you feel will be the plunger.

One of the earlier statements by the Machine regarding the bailout-cum-rescue was,”We need to get the money working now. We can look at regulating and controlling it later.

Funny thing, that! The first financial crisis was answered by a check in the amount of $300 for everyone, with the admonition, “Go out and spend it. Let’s get the economy rolling again.” The second crisis upped the ante to $600 with the same admonition. Now we were ready to go to the Big Show! Let’s give a gift of $850 billion to the major players who had lost it. The new subtext, “We’ll tell them we will use it to restore the economy. But, let’s just hold it a while.”

Rape always hurts.

Fly on the Wall

“Good job! We Got’em”
“Right where we wanted them . . .”
“They never saw it coming.”
“They saw it, but didn’t know what it was.”
“Like watching a kid doing a handstand on a basket ball.”
“Opps! Missed that landing! Ha! H!”
“Pick yourself up, son. “
“You can go at it again”
“But, we’ll keep this ball. Hahahahahah!”
“How did we do it?”
“You know the old saying. Keep ‘em barefoot, hungry, scared and pregnant and they’ll follow you to hell!
“You can’t talk like that today.”
“Just a metaphor”
“SHHHHHHHHHH! Quiet. He’s coming.”
“He’s speaking.”
“He looks good, don’t you think?"
"Yeah, he's got that look"
"That's ma' prez."

HE moves to the podium, pauses until the hushed silence. He speaks in a soft almost inaudible voice.

“I told you we could do it!”
“First, we we create plans and have them in place.”
“Then, we create subtle incremental victories.”
“These victories are measured and controlled by the management of fear indexes”
“For example, children should go to sleep worrying about things they never heard of nor understand”
“As we move toward our goals, anxiety becomes a part of the physical and psychological barometers by which we leverage our victories.”

A hand is raised to ask a question.

Q: “Sir, when or what was the first Victory.”
A: “The ground was laid several years before I arrived on the scene. All implementation plans were laid out. All we needed were the incremental Incidents.” The first Big One! The Hole in the Ground.

Long silence. Mutterings throughout the crowd

"What was the Hole in the Ground?!
“Was? Still is!
“Matter of fact, there were of two of them.”
“Oh! I get it.”

Q: “Mr. President. Exactly, where are we now”
A: “The last hand is being played even now. The surprise you heard of, expected, and doubted is here. Today their hands will fold. With one last full house, look at what we have accomplished.
We Privatized Social Security, education, health care, and highways
Cleaned out the treasury with a jackpot $700 billion dollars Golden Parachute
We managed it with no legal or private oversight
We passed legislation to protect Our Managers from any form of criminal culpability, and this protection is grandfathered to include any previous acts.
We made permanent the tax breaks that continue to stimulate the economy and created Three Banks that will manage our empire
We have shuttered descent by nationalizing the National Guard and sending them to fight terrorists abroad
We shut down avenues for dissemination of information that runs counter to our objectives
We then privatized the military and they can now be deployed anywhere in the world, either at home or abroad.
Recently we have deployed some of these good men to political rallies, voting places and other disruptive demonstrations that ran counter to our objectives.“

"I saw a picture of a building at the Los Angeles Times recently. It had a quote from Patrick Henry. He said, “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without papers, or papers without a government, I would not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”

Mumblings heard from the crowd“Patrick Henry? Who’s He?”
“I donno”
“Jefferson! It was Thomas Jefferson who said that.”
“He rewrote it.”
"He didn't rewrite it, he just didn't remember it"

Chuckles from the crowd. President Continues.

I disagree with Patrick Henry. A great American but , , ,
“Huh, Huh, He’s doing it again.”
“So?”
“I believe, with most of the American people, that the press has been the enemy …”
“What’s this? Where is he going with this?”
Scattered applause heard throughout the gathering. The President raises his hand for quiet.
“We have a need to erect a monument to some of the brave men who are now guarding our borders, polling places, university campuses and retention centers throughout our great country. This quote from Patrick ….”
Shouted from the crowd
“Thomas Jefferson! You $$%^@head!

A commotion in the midst of the crown and a small huddle of uniformed soldiers are seen headed toward an exit. A hushed silence ensues.

“This quote from Patrick Henry! . . . From Patrick Henry!. . . It will be replaced by a monument to the Guardians of our Freedoms.”

A commotion in the midst of the crown and a small huddle of uniformed soldiers are seen headed toward an exit. A hushed silence ensues

“There is one last thing. Some of you might be aware that there was a clause inserted into a bill and signed by the House and the Senate during the period of the creation of the Patriots Act. It gives the President the power to declare a National Emergency. In such an event, he can suspend the constitution, declare Marshall Law, and suspend the powers of the Supreme Court as well as the Congress. The National Emergency will continue until The President, in his wisdom, determines that stability has been restored. “

“I was going to wait until October, but What the F(*_&$%$%! “
“If you'll pardon me, I have to go and . . . give some.”
“God bless you and god bless America! “

The President looks at the body of his followers and then tracks them to his left. He espies an insect crawling up the wall. Irritated, he points to a minion who immediately produces a can of mace and dispatches the fly with one sweep. As fumes drifted toward The President he turns, walking back down the red carpet.

Soto voce mutterings throughout the room

"What just happened?"
"Ah dunno! Whadda you think?"
“Did you see McCain on TV today.”
“No.”
“He might have had a little stroke”
"When’s October?"

Lend me a dollar

Shot: Daddy, where are you going?
Dad: Out to make a dollar.
Shot: Oh. Can I borrow a dollar?
Dad: Can you pay it back?
Shot: Ah, no, I don’t have any money.
Dad: Well, if you borrow, you have to pay it back. And if you take it from me, you go to jail.
Shot: So, what can I do?
Dad: You should have asked if I would give you a dollar.
Shot: OK. Will you give me a dollar?
Dad: Maybe you’ll approach it better next time.

Little Hands

Between 1934 and 1947, my parents bore nine children. Many of my friends and associates are aghast when they consider these numbers. They ask the obvious question. Why?


Grandparents on both father's and mother’s side were slaves. Life expectancy was short. You secured yourself and your family by what you owned. In our time, at that time, the only thing you really owned, with which you could secure your life and the lives of your family, was your children. If you had a small farm, they were your farm hands. In the late autumn and winter of your years, they cared for you. When in harms way, they were your fortress.



My father was born in 1899, the youngest of eight or nine children. His survival instincts were honed at the foot of his parents. My mother was probably born between 1920 and 1925. She would never divulge her age. “Never ask a lady her age. That's rude!“ she said on more than one occasion when we queried her. I don’t think she really knew. She never knew her mother. She was raised by cousins. Shortly before her death, as she lay on her bed, never to rise and walk again, she revealed to me that one of her great sadnesses was that she knew what it was like to say, “Mother.” I looked at her, even then, soft, tan skin and ...


I was later determined that she was the descendent of slaves who were born, and or served on a plantation of Dutch descendents. Her maiden name appears to be Dutch. Slaves inherited the surames of the plantation owners.


During slavery, some of the more articulate and dynamic slaves became itinerant “preachers” allowed to move freely to the outlying plantations. They would spread the gospel, “Honor your masters today, and you will receive your reward in heaven.” I have a picture above my fireplace of my mother’s great-great-great grandfather, (I think that’s enough greats) with long beard, light brown skin, hat and jacket that makes him look more like a caricatured Quaker. He was one of those traveling preachers. Many of his and other descendents of those wandering ministers to the minions of yesterday are today, controlling and shaping the lives and psyches of their congregations with the admonition, “Suffer today. You will receive your rewards in Heaven.” That however, is discussion for another day.


My mother had soft tan skin, perfect teeth, and flashing eyes. It was the soft brown eyes that could freeze you on a spot and never release until she moved. Her voice was also soft and textured. When she spoke, we all listened, particularly if she did not raise her voice. If anyone dared to question her, she had a strong yet subtle mode that would stop us in our tracks – with one exception. One of my sisters, whom we simply called Sister, was the rebel. She tried to challenge mother, would not cry when spanked, when scolded to would try and engage in conversation with mother. She never tried that with Dad. But then, Dad knew her, as he did all his children. He knew when to let them run and when to tighten the reins.


The children were divided into two groups, the four oldest and – the rest. The four were a hierarchy that managed the house in the absence of the parents. When they were away, whoever was the oldest was in command. Casanna, because we could not pronounce here real name, was the oldest. She was more like Mother than Dad, stern, not prone to joking, and the early artist that I would later chaperone to piano lessons. I was second. Eula whom we referred to as Sister was third and Doris, who became Baby Sister, the quiet one, was fourth.Once, when I was probably 10, we received word that Sister had been hit by a bus while on her way home from school. It was later determined that she actually ran into the side of the bus, not the bus into her. She became, in some sense my strongest, closest bond among the siblings. She was probably the better athlete of us all, and throughout our childhood could be controlled by no one. More on this rebel later!


Another of my specials was Eva, of the small soft hands, with a soft pretty face like mother. She was four years younger than me, and I loved to pick her up and toss her toward the ceiling and catch her, tickle her, all the things that big brothers do to little sisters. We had little hand fights where she giggled with her childish little squeak. Even at a young age I could see her evolving agility to control people around her.

One of the great treats for the family was when Mother went to Sears to get patterns and materials to make clothes for the girls. She would return with all the goods, and a large bag of popcorn. She evenly distributed portions to all of us. Little Eva would wait until all we had gobbled all of ours. She would then eat hers, one grain at a time while we looked on. Her tiny hands would tease us with the little nibbles that we all wanted. She would not share.

UDURU SENTINEL - Covering the World on a Bike for a Dime

by Adari Miwiqui Udofus

IRIKI, UDURU -- Reporting from the footsteps of the paper terrorist headquarters in Iriki, Uduru, we have gathered evidence that a movement has finally taken foothold in the homeland of the United States of America. Until the 2000 elections, the United States had been abastion for democratic governments. Leaders were elected by popular votes that translated into electoral votes which ultimately determined the newly elected president.

With the injection of the United States Supreme Court into a tightly contested vote counting aberration in the state of Florida in the year 2000, then governed by the brother of a presidential contender, a simple resolution was found. Stop the count! The Supreme Court will appoint the president. How simple. An appeal was made. A decision was rendered. It was done. The son of a previous president, and former Governor of Texas was selected to rule the land based on voting irregularities in a state, governed by the brother of the newly selected President, and by extension, son of the former president.

Said one merchant in the streets of Uduru, “This follows the model for selection of chieftains of Iriki Uduru for a thousand years. All praise to the god Elephantux, who guards and protects the rolling plains and rustling winds that clean homes of mothers and fathers of man”.

Since presidents are no longer elected in the United States there are new rules of engagement. When the Selected President decided he wanted to engage in a war against a sovereign nation, he informed the congress and the American people that “his lawyer” had informed him that he did not need congressional approval to declare a war. His lawyer was later chosen by the Selected President for a judgeship that put him in the Supreme Court!

The new President subsequently had his minions establish military tribunals to try criminals. HE determines who can be tried. Only HE can grant clemency. Persons on trial have no rights. They cannot face their accusers. The have little or no access to evidence related to their "crime." As a matter of fact, HIS tribunal abolished habeas corpus, which had been the basis of their justice system since the founding of the country.

This New Order now found new quandries that impacted the ability to manage this evolving New Nation!? A true dictator needs a tool that allows him to round up citizens, execute or incinerate (sorry, spelling error), and incarcerate them for indefinite periods of time. Parents, relatives, attorneys will be denied access to prisoners. The prisoner need not be made aware of his/her crime. Local governors, mayors, district attorneys can identify a citizen, making him subject to the new “tool”. In Chairman Mao as well as Stalin's reign, family members, employers with grudges, anyone could identify a citizen and bury him/her in the bowels of the system. The scope of the tool has not yet been determined, however there are whispering in the winds of extensive use of it to harness the media and, in the end, create a new information agent tailored to the needs of HIM. This psuedo Marxist idiology as partially implemented by Chairman Mao and Stalin had success with this philosophy for managing the masses for several decades.

The “Paper Terrorist” was one of the new euphemisms for handling “problems” in the New Order. A legal definition of Paper Terrorist cannot be found, though citizens have been tried, found guilty, had property seized, and been imprisoned or disappeared. THEY haven't identified the scope of the "Total Solution" but it is apparently in the pipeline -- according to informed sources.

The citizens of the United States have not yet determined how they should address the new head of their nation. A non-scientific street corner poll of citizens of Uduru elicited these suggestions -- King, Dictator, Eminence, BigMoFo, LilMoFo, and finally, daBush. These suggestions will be passed on to the US inner circles through secured channels.

Having now followed the politics for that nation for some eight years, we are confident that the new president will be daMac, and at his side daWoman who already speaks and listens to her personal gods. These gods will direct her path when daMac steps down after a few weeks for undisclosed illness, to spend more time at his seven mansions, or other reasons to be determined. The gods of daWoman has already identified evil nations and religions whose souls will never find god. One of her Her implied intents is to have Jews convert to Christianity in order to remove them from the targeted list of The Evil. This designation is an evolution from Evil Doers of daBush regime.

Said one official, who spoke under promise of non-disclosure, "Come spring of next year, we will invite them to hunt and eat with us. Perhaps they will bring Polar Bear Skins as offerings and we will provide gifts equal in mass and intent."

Miz Ramey and Miz Clyde

As our family grew during the mid and late 40s, both Mother and Dad had to work. All of the children were at St. Augustine Catholic School, in Memphis, TN. Tuition was high, two dollars a month for elementary level and three dollars a month for high school. With six children in classes from grades one through eight, tuition for the gaggle would have been twelve to fourteen dollars per month.

Dad worked at The American Finishing Company, standing over a boiling pot dying fabrics. He was a strong union man and made $32.00 per week and was paid bi-weekly.

I had a paper route, selling the Memphis World. Two issues a week with a Tuesday edition for five cents and Friday topping out at six cents. Thus, at the end of the week, I would make the rounds and collect eleven cents from each customer. Of this amount, six cents went to the publisher and five cents to me. Occasionally I would hear the familiar refrain, “I’m sorry, I just can’t quite make it this week. Can I double up next Friday? If I didn’t have to carry too many over to the next week, it was a forced savings. I had approximately 30 customers, so this could give me about $1.50 per week.

For a while, on Saturdays I would go to an old woman’s house to vacuum her floors and help clean around the place. For that, I would get a quarter. One week, I tried using the carpet sweeper for the first time. Instead of moving forward with it and picking up dust, I went backwards and laid a wide streak of detritus down the middle of the carpet. I was fired. Fortunately, no one knew I had the job so there was no need to tell anyone about it. The extra quarter I used for movies during the middle of the week. A twelve cent movie, nickel for popcorn and another for a Baby Ruth was my entry into the world of Mario Lanza, Kathryn Grayson, Gordon McCrea, Jane Powell and all the great musical singers of the day.

Mother was, at this time, probably thirty years old. She had two jobs. At one she cleaned the customer area at Fitzgerald Furniture Store for $12.00 per week. Afterward she went to the home of Miz. Ramey and Miz. Clyde. We never knew how much they paid because, as a very private and proud person, Mother didn’t discuss such things. In all probability, Dad didn’t know how much she made either. Nor would he have asked.

Often the mistresses of the Ramey-Clyde manor would announce a little something for Lee and her kids. This was generally a care package of left over foods. One found parts of cold cornbread and biscuits, chicken necks and thigh parts, neck bones and greens, greens, and for the children to grow on, greens. Mistresses would leave the package on the table at the back door, where Mother would see it as she exited out back. She would take the package, thank the mistrisses and walk down the six steps to the streets and start the long walk home. There was no bus that was convenient in the area, and it cost seven cents for the bus fare, so she saved the money and walked.

On arrival home, she would place the package on the kitchen table and leave it. Whoever was responsible for cooking for the week was responsible for it. The rule of the house:

Whatever was prepared by whoever had the responsibility for food preparation for the week would be eaten.

No matter the quality of the food or preparation, the entire family ate it.

On one occasion, Mother left the package at the house. One of the mistresses called and reminded her of it. Fearing that she might have offended the mistresses, or that she might even lose the job, she asked me to go and retrieve it. I took the long walk, ascended the back steps and waited. The door opened, and the package was presented in an extended hand that had no distinguishable face. I offered a polite , “Thank you.” I didn’t use a name because I could never tell them apart. They were short, white haired, pick faced, wore dresses with pinkish flowers and smelled old. I’m sure they were at least 45 or 50 at that time.

I took the package and in a fast trot, turned a few corners. When saftely out of the white neighborhood, and totally out of sight, it was deposited it in the nearest garbage can. There were stray dogs in the neighborhood. They would clean it out before the next pickup.

When I arrive home, Mother was waiting. She noticed my empty hand.

"Did you get the package?” she asked.

I answered, “Yes, Mother.”

“Thank you,” she said as she touched me on the forehead.

There would be no more packages.

The Violin

I’m in 8th grade. I’ve long since graduated from the tonette to the mellophone. While PaPaing to the oomp provided by C. D. on the tuba, Sister Mary Evangelist mentioned that she would like to expand the band into an orchestra. I had heard her playing the violin in the past and was fascinated by this possibility.

It was a weekend afternoon and I was sitting in the kitchen with dad as he was cooking. He liked to cook. He did most of the holiday cooking for the family. He remembered our birthdays and would make cakes. Mother could cook, but she worked during the day as a maid for two sisters on the other side of town. Her specialty was lemon meringue pies with vanilla wafer cookie crumbs for crust.

As he was peeling onions for the black-eyed peas that would be further seasoned by either bacon or fatback, I broached to subject.

“Daddy, “I said, “How poor are we?” He wiped his chin with the palm of his hand, took an inordinately long time to respond and said, “The cockroaches leave our house and go next door to eat.” He always did that when I wanted to have a serious conversation. He also never laughed as his jokes. This meant, I would not laugh either. It was a tie.

I had to hold my ground. The easiest approach was to get to the point. I firmed my cheeks with as much authority as I could muster then said, “Daddy, I would like a violin so I can join the orchestra that Sister is starting.”

Without missing a beat, without taking his eyes off the onions he replied, “I think you’re right. You should have a violin.” There was this long pause. Then he spoke, “How are you going to get it?” Our eyes locked together and he smiled and returned to the cutting board.

Cotton fields! In Memphis in those years, a truck appeared in the neighborhoods around 4:30 in the morning to collect people who would be going into Mississippi or Arkansas to chop cotton for the summer. In the fall they would take the load to pick cotton, and later toward winter, the cycled ended when the crew would pull cotton. Pay was $2.75 to $3.50 per day to chop. There were three roles you could take in the summer process. You could chop, be the hoefiler, or be the waterboy. Waterboy was the hardest. You had a big metal bucket and dipper. Your job was to fill the bucket with water, walk back into the field, catch up with the choppers and hand them a dipper. No matter now thirsty they were, no one would drink more than one dipper. I think they all remembered when they walked the rows with the heavy bucket, their arms aching, and the hands getting the first blisters of summer as they trekked the dusty rows.

The first time I got on the truck, I had no expectations. I arrived in the field, was given a hoe and a row. My first swipe took out cotton, weeds, and perhaps any little critters beneath the top crust of dirt. A woman in the row next to me showed how to use the corner tip of the hoe to work around the cotton stem and leave a clean stand. The boss watched me a while, then called in my replacement. To me he said, in a kind, paternal way, “You’ll be OK directly, son, but I gotta have somebody who can keep up. Go get the water bucket. You can practice this some more tomorra’.”

By the end of summer, I had graduated back to the rows and could chop with the best of them. I counted my savings in late August. I folded the bills neatly, put them all in my pocket and took the 4 Walker bus, and transferred to a cross town carrier that dropped me off at Gold’s Music Store in downtown Memphis. I scanned and touched the contents of every case in the store. I then made my selection. The shiny body with the highlighted yellowish glow when the sun hit was one of the most beautiful, aesthetic sights I have ever seen. I looked inside at the little white label and read, Stradivarius Model.

I couldn’t wait to show it to dad. I stayed up until he came home after work. He went upstairs to the bath room to shave, then into the bedroom, and changed into his night clothes, came back to the kitchen and dashed two large spoons of coffee grinds and some eggshell for the bottom of the pot started his nightly brew. I never understood the egg shells. As he sat down at the table and waited for the coffee, I gave him his Memphis Press-Scimitar. He always decompressed by reading the papers from cover to cover at night.

I went up to my room, got the violin and took it down in the case. I placed in on the kitchen table, and opened the top. The smell of the newness caused me to shiver as I took it out and presented it to him. He looked at it for a long time, placed his large hand in my head, looked me in the eye and said, “Nice fiddle, Son.” I then knew what he had done for me. The fiddle was mine. Not a gift. It was mine.

It was the egg sandwich what done it

St. Augustine School, 903 Walker Avenue, Memphis, TN.

I was to live and breathe with the holy nuns of the order, Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, from second grade through high school. They were a constant stream in my life, recurring over and over as I progressed through the system. I would have the same home room teacher in 9th and 12th grades. Two of them I would always cherish because one gave me music and the other gave me literature. The first was Sister Mary Evangelist, BVM. She was a violinist, pianist, band teacher and gave me my first tonette. The second was Sister Mary Janelle, BVM, who would later cast me as Mr. Boggins in our high school play, Professor How Could You. But, I’m rushing a bit. We’ll probably visit this little schoolhouse and chapel on the hill quite a bit as we roll on.

Circa 1948. I’m in fifth grade, in a class room on the second floor of the main building. It is near noon and we are in arithmetic class. I was good in math, and generally did my homework. As we are going through the lessons of the day, I hear footsteps on the fire escape on the left side of the room. A head is seen moving up the stairs, and the classroom immediately turns attention to the door which opens onto the fire escape. Sister Mary, whomever she was that year, clapped her hands and instantly regained control.

There is a knock on the door. Sister goes and opens it. I could not immediately see who was in the doorway because the angle was somewhat acute. Sister turned to the class and announced, “We have a visitor.” The Pavlovian response to all was rise and turn toward the door. Sister announced, “Mr. Brooks, Christopher’s father!” Everyone, in unison child soprano, perfect pitch declamatory style intoned, “Good Morning, Mr. Brooks.” I had difficulty saying Mr. Brooks, and couldn’t say “Good morning, Daddy,” and then I suddenly needed to go to the bathroom. Immediately! I knew I would have to “hold it until the morning, ” an old admonition when we lived in the shotgun house, with the outhouse out back and no one wanting to go out in the dark with me.

Dad stepped inside the room, and in his perfect sonorous voice said, “Sister, I’m sorry to disturb you but my son left his lunch.” I had my lunch under my desk!

Sister said, “Welcome, Mr. Brooks. I’ll give it to Christopher. “Thank you,” he replied, and turned to go. Just as he was about to take the first step down the ladder, he turned and asked, “Do you mind if I stay and watch the class?” Sister was delighted. No parent, to my knowledge had ever entered a class room during normal school hours.

Sister, turned to the class, and seeing that I was standing, aghast, suggested that T. J., or whomever he was move to the front. Dad would take his seat next to me. I think I was too young to sweat, but I really needed to pee. I would hold it. I was trained. The Brookses could hold it. Dad came back and sat down next to me.

The class continued. Sister peeled out the next question? “What is the difference between an acute and isosceles triangle?” I, sitting in a daze did not know what was happening. I turn to look at Dad and his hand was in the air. There was this din of children all vying to be the first one to answer, while Sister looked in the direction of my father. All the children turned and look in my direction. I looked up, and my father’s finger was pointing down at me.

I don’t remember whether I answered the question or not. I don’t remember when the class was over. I don’t remember getting the fried egg sandwich. I don’t remember much about the rest of the day.

Dad left, because he had to go the work. He had the swing shift. When he came home around 11:30 that night, I was at the kitchen table reviewing my homework. He said, “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I looked at him, and he left the kitchen to prepare for bed.

Start with a Tree

During Roosevelt’s Administration in the early ‘40s, one of his grand projects was the Tennessee Valley Authority. One byproduct of TVA was housing projects sprinkled throughout the Southern States. One of them, LeMoyne Gardens in Memphis, TN, became our first home after as we moved from a shotgun structure in the depressed area of one of the darkest Negro sections in the city.

The new unit had 8 apartments, lettered A-H. Apartment 794A was designated for our family of 6. We were the second resident in our unit, and we landed in what was to us, a two story 6 room mansion. Rent, based a percentage of the family income was $32.00 per month.

We had a coal heater in the living room, a coal stove in the kitchen, and a concrete coal bin attached to the back of the house. Once every two weeks a coal truck would crawl the streets, stopping at each apartment. For $.25 we could fill the bin. My first Job, with no salary, was to keep the coal bucket full.

Some weeks after moving in, the developers began planting trees in front of selected apartments. They staked one up in the center of our front yard plot and left the site. My father looked at it, and secured the stakes. We were, then, all given the same message, “Don’t touch the tree!” He watered it, trenched it to retain moisture over time, and we watched it grow. Most of the other trees died, or were eventually broken by children climbing before the trunks were strong enough to sustain them. Others were disfigured by carvings or died through lack of care. There was also the whip.

A parent, generally a mother, would utter the fatal words, “Go get me a switch, and don’t bring me a little sprig. And . . . (long pause) I don’t want to have to get it myself.” The first area to search would be hedges, if there were some left. The larger the family, the smaller would be the remaining hedge growth. Finally, a damp scar on the side of a spindly tree trunk was the only reminder of a branch, now in the hands of the designated switch hunter as he trundled toward his front door.

Sometimes, after the closing of the door, and an extended silence, a tentative hand stretched out with the retrieved branch presenting it for inspection. Then the explosion, “You call that a SWITCH? Do you want me to get it myself?” Trembling the hunter backed toward the door, tears streaking down the cheeks. Then, the next sound, a softer whisper, “Baby, get over here. I don’t want to whip you with this thing. . . . this time. But if you ever do that again, I won’t send you to get it. I’ll do it myself. Do you understand me?” The relieve whisper, and a tight little smile, and then, “Yes, ma’m. I’ll never do it again.” The mother, softening after making her point, crosses to him, takes his shoulders and says, “Now give me some sugar.” She kisses him and points him to the door saying, “Now, you go on out to play. But you stay in your yard where I can see you. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’m,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief.

Over time, the life of The Gardens drifted through hard times. There were drugs, prostitution, and gangs. Public works cut back on garbage pickup. Some schools in the area were closed. I took a drive through the area some 40 years later and saw people sitting on stoops who had never left the area.

When I visited it last a year or so ago, a new housing development was going up. My brother took me to the location of our old apartment. My Father’s tree was the surviving remnant of the life in The Gardens.