I spend a lot of time here taking long strolls down Memory Lane. I write about my love for my hometown. And, as we're often guilty of doing, I fear I show only the shiny side. Today I'm feeling a little sad. Not sure entirely why - I'm just kinda prone to sad days from time to time. And too, even though Donald is home today and we're calling it a holiday, it's actually a hard won day of celebration of a man I greatly admire. You've read a lot about Cambridge, MD here. Well, Cambridge has a not so shiny side when it comes to this man and to his fight. Here's an edited version of a previous blog. Edited out are the shiny parts. . . . What I haven't written about is how my heart was broken by this town during the '60s. Cambridge was one of the first places the Freedom Riders visited in 1962. Here's what I remember. My dad and I stood at the beautiful big bay windows in our apartment in the Arcade. We watched young, well dressed blacks get off a bus and attempt to walk into the drugstore in our apartment lobby. I remember asking my dad what was going on, and he explained a little by saying the people we were watching get off the bus wanted things to change. And that people were scared of change. And that it would get ugly. That is the only memory I have of that day, but I knew something was wrong. I was 12 years old. The memories following this day are a jumble, but they're vivid. For the next few years all I remember clearly is that we seemed to fluctuate between things being normal and things being violent. I don't have a clear time-line of it all in my mind. I remember National Guardsmen lining our downtown streets. They were armed with rifles and bayonets. They slept in tents in our school yards. Then they were gone. Then they were back. The drugstore in the lobby of our apartment building closed down. This rather than serve blacks. The public swimming pool closed down. The chief of police said he would rather pour dirt into the pool and plant flowers than allow blacks to swim in it. We were on TV. People all over the country watched a white man who owned a local restaurant smash a raw egg over the head of a young black man who was part of a sit-in in front of the restaurant.
We were written up in Life Magazine. Robert Kennedy came to town. H. Rap Brown came to town.
Ironically, another memory is of my dad and I standing together at the window again. But this time it was a window in our house on Bucktown Road, outside of town. It was 1967 and I was 17. We had, sadly, only recently moved away from the Arcade Apartments. We saw flames in the distance and my dad said, "Oh, my God, they're burning down the town." And as dumb as it might have been, because by this time the violence had gotten really bad, mother and dad and I got in the car and drove into town to see if it was, in fact, burning down. What was burning was the black section of town. This act has since been attributed to words spoken by Mr. Brown while standing atop a car shouting "If this town don't come around, this town should be burned down."
I didn't write about these things, but Peter B. Levy did, in a book named CIVIL WAR ON RACE STREET. (ISBN 0813026385).
No, I have never been so naive as to think or remember Cambridge as Utopian.
No, sadly, I know better. I remember. And if I ever come close to forgetting, I remember a more recent incident. We were at a class reunion a few years ago. Donald and I walked down to the water. A classmate, someone I considered a close friend, walked down to join us and we chatted about how much we loved Cambridge. And how much we loved the Class of '66. He looked at me and smiled and said, "Know what I love best about it?" What, I asked. "That we were the last class to graduate without any niggers." Something inside me shattered.
And, I will never, never forget the smile on his face. But, still - my love for Cambridge rests in my heart.
It made me who I am. And I thank God most days that I'm not that classmate filled with such ugly hate. Hate that he's so stupidly proud of.
This was one of the original versions of a piece I wrote a few years ago. There were many. A better version (edited by the incomparable Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham) was published in the regional anthology WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES. It's a wonderful collection from a group of extraordinary women. I'm proud to be included.
(isn't the cover wonderful?! It was done by Karen Hollingsworth. You can see more of her work at her webpage)
This is dedicated to Celia. She may not remember this, but I'll never forget. When we were at the "Meet & Greet" for WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, standing around chatting, having pictures taken, etc., she looked at me and said, "You were born to write. I want you to stick with it." Celia, every word I have written since you said those words - and every word I ever write until I am no longer able to find words, or to write them, will all - always - be dedicated to you. With my heart.
I spent the first 16 Christmases of my life in the home of my heart. The Arcade Apartments. It wasn't fashionable, but oh my, it was special. Made special by my parents, Hazel & Al Wilkinson, their families and friends and my friends who they always welcomed with open arms. And as those of you who know me already know, it was in Cambridge, Maryland where I was born and raised and still hold dear.
Here's my Christmas gift to all of you. I hope you enjoy it.
HOME OF MY HEART
As much as I dearly love these mountains and our life here, my heart often gets a longing for my childhood home. I grew up in a small town on the water and it’s essential to my very soul to get back to it when I can. Back to where I learned how to ride a bike. Learned how to drive a car. Kissed my first boyfriend. And even learned what it meant to have my heart broken by a best girlfriend. Back home to stand on a riverbank and stare out into the expanse of forever where the sky and sea become one, in a small town named Cambridge, on the eastern shore of Maryland. A land of charming, gracious living.
I feel its pull, and know its tug at my roots; calling me home. I feel that need to cross bridges over huge expanses of water. To watch white sails skimming elegantly across sun speckled azure seas like ballerinas on-stage. When I mention this urgent need for water to Donald he points out that we have a creek, and we have a pond - a pond chock full of rainbow trout, by golly. True enough. And quite lovely. But. Not big enough for need of a bridge, and certainly not big enough that I'll ever see a sailboat out there. I need to smell marshy smells. Need to eat crabs that have recently been blissfully swimming along minding their own business. I need to spend a little time with friends who have known me since we were kids. People I can just be myself with; letting down all walls and defenses. So off I scoot to where I’m safe in the knowledge that lifelong friends will open their arms and their hearts yet again and give me back my sense of home. Where I can feel salty air cling to my skin.
I get to cross my bridges over huge sweeps of water, and, just as lovely – smaller ones. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge makes my heart swell. The Choptank River Bridge into Cambridge makes me cry buckets.
Once I’ve crossed that bridge, there’s an almost indefinable pervasive sense of wholeness that wraps me in a hug. A sense of peace not easily explained, but effortlessly understood by anyone who has experienced the joy of returning “home.”
From the time I was 3 months old until I was 17 we lived in a grand, if somewhat bedraggled, old apartment in The Arcade. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and dining room had immense bay windows. Those two rooms opened into one another through an archway. The kitchen was huge with a separate pantry and our stove was an old timey thing on high legs.
This kitchen was “the” place to be. Many an hour was spent sitting at the kitchen table looking out the windows. One window overlooked a big grassy lawn, which sadly, after a few years, became a parking lot. Sad for me as a kid ‘cause there went my back yard. Fun for me as I got older, however, and enjoyed observing some of the goings-on that took place when folks didn’t realize there were eyes above them. Oh my – the tales this girl could have told!
From the other kitchen window we would watch the rear door of Woolworth’s and see who was coming and going. Thus began my love of people watching.
This was not Eloise at the Plaza. This was small town living. We were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we had been out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant socializing, mixing and mingling with the folks buying tickets to see a movie. Since everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are you’s?" to get up those stairs.
None of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked. Which also meant we never knew who might be there waiting for us. Rest assured, there was always someone. It might be one of my aunts, uncles or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends from school. Amazingly enough, as odd as it might now sound to some, it was never cause for concern back then. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station." And the kitchen was the hub where everyone gathered. Even if we weren’t there.
That wonderful old kitchen was where we had most of our meals. The dining room was for “special occasions.” We had, of course, that ubiquitous chrome and leatherette table and chairs; a set I’d surely love to have today.
This was where we sat for conversation and gossip over a cup of coffee. Hot chocolate for the kids.
And it’s where I sat and watched my mom and dad cut a rug.
There was a radio that sat right inside the kitchen door. I have the most delightful memories of my dad scootin’ through that door, turning up the radio and leading my mom into a vigorous jitterbug all over that room. Oh my. Could they dance!
I remember a lot of laughter around that table, one day in particular . . .
(Laws, I hope my dad forgives me for telling this one!)
When I was growing up there were a couple of "stag" bars in Cambridge. No women. I don't know if they specifically ever said "No Women," or if women just wouldn't be caught dead in them. There was one not far from our apartment called the DD Bar. It was owned by a friend of Dad's, and it was a wonderful little place. I adored it. The DD Bar was one of those grown-up "No Kids Allowed" places I would sneak into under the guise of “needing to see my dad.” Then acting all stunned and bewildered about why I had to leave when my mom showed up at the door to retrieve me. It was a long, narrow, and dark. With a charm that only bars from that era can possess, without a smidgen of artifice. There were maybe 4 booths in the front, along with a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail. There were also pinball tables, a shuffleboard table and a dart board. Nary a fern to be seen; plastic or otherwise.
If Daddy needed to work for a couple hours on Saturday afternoons, he thought it was a great way to make some extra money. Where else could he earn a few extra dollars while hanging out with his buddies laughing and watching a ball game on TV?
We had a local radio station and on Saturdays the DJ, Ed Brigham, would make a phone call to give away a free prize to someone if they could answer the question of the day.
On this particular Saturday, Mother and I were home, in the kitchen, and the radio was on, of course. We heard Mr. Brigham announce that the question of the day phone call was about to be made. We crossed our fingers hoping it would be our phone to ring. Well, it didn't, but we did hear a very familiar voice over the radio say "DD Bar, Al speaking."
How fun! My dad!!!!
Mr. Brigham said "Hey Al, this is Ed Brigham, how ya' doin'?" After a few minutes of small talk exchanging some "how's the family" kinda stuff, Mr. Brigham told Dad he would win two free tickets to the Arcade Movie Theater if he could answer the question of the day.
You could hear all the local Cambridge bar flies talking and hollering and laughing in the background, along with the TV blaring and pinball machines ping-pinging. Dad told everyone to quiet down 'cause Ed had a question.
The question was "How long is a decade?"
Well, Mother and I laughed and she said she guessed she and Dad would be going downstairs to see a free movie soon.
Then we heard dad over the radio yelling to the guys in the bar "Ed wants to know how long is a duck egg?"
WHAAAT?!?
Mother and I just about fell in the floor screaming we were laughing so hard.
A DUCK EGG?!
You could hear all these men saying stuff like, "a Duck Egg? Hell, I don't know, Jim Bob - what do you think?" Answers like "2 inches, 3 inches - oh hell no, an inch and a half," and things like "Who even cares??" “Is that a real question??” were all loud and clear over the radio. This went on for awhile and finally dad stopped laughing long enough to say "Well, Ed, we think maybe an inch and a half."
Ed Brigham was hysterical and said "Al. Hazel is going to kill you. NOT a Duck Egg! A DECADE!!!!!!!!"
Dead silence on Dad's end. Then he started laughing really hard and had to tell the guys he'd made a mistake. When he told them what the question really was we could hear them hootin’, hollerin’, shoutin’ and a brayin’ – mass hysteria.
For years, when we went out to eat or went shopping downtown, someone would holler "Hey Al! How long's a Duck Egg?!"
We all share a common bond of memories of “home.” Those special moments which make our homes unique and special.
I have a beezillion of them.
There was a little mini-community besides the movie theater in the Arcade lobby. There was a jewelry store, a beauty shop, an insurance company, and the gas company. I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with me. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation.
The three of us were also piling into the car for a weekend away every so often; usually to the beach and boardwalk in Ocean City. One particular weekend while we were off doing who knows what, one of my uncles was going to paint our dining room. Mom & Dad bought the paint and said it should be enough to cover the walls well enough if he was careful.
Our dining room was a big room with a big bay window. The sun would shine through that window seems like all the time. Well, that ol’ sun told some tales on those painters.
When we got home on Sunday evening, everyone was really pleased about how terrific the room looked with its new paint. Mother was pleased as punch.
The next day was a whole different story, let me tell you. Wheweee.
Seems my uncle, who was quite the artist, invited a friend to help him. Adult beverages were involved. Artistic tendencies arose. From the muses came pictures of Mickey Mouse and all his pals on our dining room walls. The painters, at some point, realized this was not what my folks had in mind when they asked to have the walls painted, so they painted over the Disney guys. But, not well enough. With the sun streaming into the windows, those images showed right through the paint.
Its made for hilarious stories since, but things were a little tense around the apartment for awhile. They did put up another coat of paint and it did help, but even years later, if you knew where to look, you could find a shadow of Mickey's face. Or Goofy's. And, honestly? It was a fun and lovely thing. What is lovelier, after all, than a home that possesses a bit of whimsy and can make you smile? That is, after all, what makes it "home."
Note: If you're interested in purchasing a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, I think there are still some copies available through Celia's webpage. Along with another regional anthology I'm quite proud of, CLOTHES LINES. AND some of Celia's books may still be available there also.
There's a special bond between the two, and if you grew up with a dad like mine it makes for fun and lovely memories. And some terrific stories when you're all grown up. All grown up maybe, but at times miss your dad so badly you feel as small and unprotected as you did when you were 4 and wanted him to chase away the monsters living in your bedroom closet.
Here are a few of my memories of my dad . . .
From the time I was 3 months old until I was 16 we lived in a wonderful old apartment in Cambridge, Md. The Arcade Apartments. I loved that place. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and the dining room had big bay windows with window seats. The kitchen was huge and our stove was an old one that sat up on legs. Remember those old stoves? Anyone else have one of those?
A friend of my mother's, Clara Rook, kept bringing me little chicks one Easter. Those pitiful little chicks that people would dye pink and blue and green at Easter time? AWFUL! and, of course, they usually died fairly quickly, bless their hearts. Well, my sweetie pies didn't. They just kept getting bigger and bigger. In an apartment! Daddy knew I loved those chicks. Every time the subject came up about them being too big to live in an apartment, I would start crying. Finally my dad put some chicken wire around the legs of that old stove and put the chickies in there. You just know how much my mother loved this, right? The chicks just kept growing and one morning I woke up hearing my dad yelling some pretty bad words. The chicks had knocked down the chicken wire and they were all hopping on Mom & Dad's bed. For real.
The chicks went to granny's that day. I was told they were going there so they'd have a big yard to "play" in. uh huh. Sunday Dinner. I'll never get over it. We went to my grandmother's for dinner and the minute I walked into the dining room I spied the fried chicken on platters on the table. Mother tells me I just squalled "My Sweetie Pies! Oh Nooooooo - You've cooked my Sweetie Pies!" and cried and cried and cried. Heartbroken. And nobody ate fried chicken that day.
I have a million memories of that apartment. But let me set the record straight - it wasn't a fancy big city type apartment. This was small town living. And we were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we were out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant mingling with the line of people buying tickets to see a movie before we would get upstairs and into our apartment. Since it was a small town and everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are You's?" and get up the stairs to home. And, since neither of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked, we also never knew who might be there waiting for us when we did get home. But it seemed there was always someone. It might have been one of my many aunts or uncle or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends of mine from school. Amazingly enough now as it might sound, it was never cause for concern back then. It was just an accepted thing. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station." (There are enough of these stories to keep this little blog of mine going for the next several years.)
There was also a jewelry store owned by Mr. & Mrs. Henry DeVoe in the lobby of the Arcade. Sometimes on Saturdays they would babysit me while Mother did the grocery shopping if Dad had to work. It was the beginning of my love affair with jewelry. Mr. DeVoe was my buddy - he opened my first charge account. Remember the silver bands we called "Friendship Rings?" They were $1.00. Sterling silver bands for $1.00. Can you imagine? Well, I loved those, but would lose them often. He would let me charge one and pay him on installments out of my allowance. About the time I'd have one paid off, I'd lose it and he would let me charge another one.
There was also a beauty shop, and an insurance company and I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with it. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation.
I don't think I'd trade my growing up years in Cambridge for a beezillion dollars.
My dad played basketball, and was apparently quite good. While growing up, I would hear stories about his basketball career. Many times in school my teachers and parents of my friends seemed stunned when realizing who I was - that I could be Alan Wilkinson's daughter and not have any more athletic ability than Adam's house cat was just not understood.
I had been gone from Cambridge for many, many years, and my dad had been gone for many years when Donald and I were home for a visit. We had gone out to the High Spot for dinner with our friends Pam and R.T., who I grew up with and graduated from Cambridge High with. Pam said there was someone in the restaurant she wanted me to meet - he had been a friend of my dad's. When she introduced me, he said he had played ball with my dad and besides my dad being quite talented, he had a trait which he admired even more and that was the simple fact that my dad was also a gentleman - off and on the court. "A good, clean playing ballplayer," he said. and I promptly burst into tears.
It's a lovely thing to have someone remember your dad in such a sweet and simple, exceptionally special way.
He was a very good man, my dad.
"My father didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it." Clarence B. Kelland
1. Lewis, 2. Irvin, 3. Roy, 4. Ethel, 5. Alan (my dad), 6. Pop Pop (Irvin), 7. Belle, 8. Grandmother Laura Mae. Picture taken by older brother Ed
Dad taught me to ride a bike - and I vividly remember when he was trying to teach me how to drive a car he made a comment or two about how the bike learning experience had been a whole lot more fun and less traumatic for both of us.
We were all three HUGE Oriole fans and it was a very big deal and very special occasion for us to go to Baltimore for a game. Not as big a deal as going there for a Colt's game, but still a big deal.
And pretty special to get to Ocean City too. (Think he's wondering "What's with the HAT?!)
Pop Pop's 90th Birthday - July 18, 1965
In front - Aunt Belle, Dad
In back - Uncle Lewis, Pop-Pop, Uncle Irv, Uncle Roy, Aunt Ethel, Uncle Ed
Deep sea fishing - Morehead City, NC
"It's sad when our daddies die. It makes one less person inside." Pamela Ribon.
I recently discovered a new (to me) author. I should be thoroughly embarrassed to admit to not knowing anything about this author previously. And ashamed of myself for not being aware of one of the mystery world's icons.
Ed Gorman is, I think it's fair to say, a prolific writer. He's written about 20 books, and is still writing them. They include five series and a couple of stand-alones. He's edited numerous anthologies. AND he co-founded and edited Mystery Scene Magazine (he is now Contributing Editor). He writes mysteries, crime fiction, horror fiction and western fiction, under three different pen names. AND he writes a blog. Prolific might be a fair term, don't you think?
The book I read was from Mr. Gorman's Sam McCain series - THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED (1999). This from Publisher's Weekly: "There's a dead-on sense of time and place (February 1958 in small-town Iowa) in Gorman's latest, which, despite minor problems with plot resolution, makes an enjoyable start to a new series. Narrator Sam McCain, "a young lawyer in a town that already had too many lawyers," earns most of his income by working as an investigator in Black River Falls for the wealthy and eccentric Judge Esme Anne Whitney, who smokes Gauloises in Chesterfield country and takes pleasure in shooting McCain with rubber bands. The day after a long drive to what turns out to be Buddy Holly's last concert before his fatal plane crash, McCain discovers the body of the wife of Whitney's rotten nephew, Kenny, and then is unable to stop Kenny from killing himself. Everybody, including the loutish local police chief, is sure that Kenny murdered his wife, but McCain has his doubts. Complicating matters are the troubles of a local former football star now crippled by booze and of McCain's teenage sister, who is trying to get an abortion. Gorman sketches the people of Black River Falls, especially McCain's family and various girlfriends, with a sharp eye, and even the very late appearance of a possible villain doesn't spoil the fun: despite the title, Gorman, as usual, rocks." I'm excited about having more in this series to read and hope I enjoy them as much as I did THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED.
But.
What I really want to know is how come a scene I was sure was a memory of mine, and mine alone, ended up in Mr. Gorman's book?!
Harumph.
Only thing I can figure is that he was hanging out with me in the Arcade Apartments in Cambridge, MD when we were kids. He's a few years older than me, but not much. He could have been one of the kids that, as my dad used to say, was "one of Kaye Alan's friends who was always underfoot." But no, I really don't think that's it either.
I guess I have to admit to myself that the memory I cherish must be a memory many of us must share. While I kinda hate that, it's nice to spend a little time remembering those simpler times. Times when wives could afford to be housewives if that's what they wanted, and young mothers could be stay-at-home moms, if that's what they wanted. Times when we kids knew we had to drop whatever ball we were playing with, in whomever's yard we might be playing in, so we could be home and seated at the dinner table at 6:00 p.m. NO excuses.
Times when moms and dads turned up the radio and danced in the kitchen.
From the time I was 3 months old until I was 16 we lived in a wonderful old apartment in Cambridge, Md. The Arcade Apartments. I loved that place and I wrote about it some in my Father's Day post. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and the dining room had big bay windows with window seats. There was a wall separating those two rooms, but it was a large archway. The kitchen was huge, and off the kitchen was a pantry which was larger than most kitchens I've had in my homes since then.
That kitchen. Oh my how I loved that kitchen. My memories are many - and still quite vivid. I remember that we rarely used the dining room. I remember sitting around that chrome kitchen table for meals, and continuing to sit for long periods of time after meals talking. Just talking. We three talked about everything. And, my love of sitting around the table talking after a meal has never diminished. I have to feel a small sadness for families today who seem to rarely. if ever, even have a meal around a table together, let alone that special time following the meal. There was always time for Mother and Dad to have another cup of coffee (and yes, that ever present cigarette) just so we could talk.
And I remember the radio playing in the background.
And Bill Haley - oh my! Whenever a Bill Haley and His Comets song came on, my mom and dad would dance. They would dance all over that big ol' kitchen. And they were good! I watched them jitterbug to Bill Haley more times than I can even count.
So, dang. Imagine my surprise when I read "They still dance in the kitchen on Saturday nights, the radio playing the old tunes, Benny Goodman and Harry James and Artie Shaw, . . . " That's Ed Gorman's Sam McCain talking about HIS mom and dad. Not my mom and dad. dang. Oh well, so I now share my memory of Mom and Dad dancing in the kitchen with a fictional character named Sam. I suppose things could be a whole lot worse. How sad to think about neither of us being lucky enough to have that memory.
Donald doesn't know this yet, but he and I have a date to dance in the kitchen tonight . . .
