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.