Autobiographical

Caught Red-Handed

sandyjwhite Autobiographical, The 1950's

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It happened in second grade.
A Weekly Reader had been placed on each desk.

It only took a second for me to notice.
The corner on my copy was badly crumpled.
Actually, it was slightly torn.

This imperfection was starting to
make my stomach churn.

What was I to do?

Dan, the student seated directly behind me,
was absent that day.
I glanced at his desk and noticed immediately
his copy was pristine.

Quickly, I made the switch….his perfection…
in trade for my dog-eared.
The deed was done.

With a crisp, clean copy in hand,
all was well with the world.
A sense of calm enveloped me.

My serenity, however, was short-lived.
In no time flat, the teacher was at my side.
She had witnessed the swap.

The fact, as I explained, my Weekly Reader
was blemished from the get-go, fell on deaf ears.

Life is tough when you’re a kid far too detailed
for your own good.

Where In The World Is Waldo/Sandy?

sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Just For Fun, Photos, The 1950's

IMG_9124Tillman Elementary School, Kirkwood, Missouri

Group Class Pictures

           Top To Bottom:  2nd Row, 3rd From Left; 2nd Row, Center; 1st Row, 4th From Left; 1st Row, 2nd From Left

The Saga Of Colonel

sandyjwhite Autobiographical

Scan0068Little girls have a thing about horses.

Perhaps it’s part of that Prince Charming Fantasy…
the one where you are swept off your feet by a knight in shining armor…
riding into the sunset, to live happily ever after.

I was six or seven when, low and behold, a real, live pony magically materialized
before my very eyes.

As part of his work at Ralston Purina, my dad became acquainted with Eddy Arnold (1918-2008), an American country music
singer.  Eddy was managed by Colonel Tom Parker, who later masterminded the
career of Elvis Presley.

One Christmas a red and white checkerboard saddle arrived at our door, courtesy
of Colonel Parker. After the saddle had occupied valuable space in the basement for a period of time, my dad threatened to dispose of it. My sister implored him not to…reasoning that a pony to go with the saddle would arrive NEXT Christmas. My dad decided to humor her.

Sure enough, the following year, there was a call from Nashville informing us a pony had been loaded into a pickup truck and was on its way to St. Louis.

My dad scrambled to find a place to board our new equine friend….not an easy task on such short notice.

He was a beautiful dapple grey Shetland stallion with a blond mane and tail.
In honor of Tom Parker, we named him Colonel.

Unfortunately, they neglected to tell us that Colonel had been neither completely broken nor fully trained, prior to transport. He was an ornery son of a gun who preferred to spend his time chasing mares or hanging out in the barn, consuming oats and hay like there was no tomorrow.

Given that staying upright in the saddle was a real challenge, boarding a horse in the city was an expensive proposition and my dad was allergic to him, Colonel was living on borrowed time.

A year or so later, the farm where he was stabled was sold to make way for a new school. Colonel wound up with a local dairy as part of a team of Shetlands used to pull a wagon for promotional purposes. At long last, that little devil had to shoulder his fair share of the load for a change.

Looking back, my pedal race horse was a lot more fun than Colonel ever was.

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Through The Eyes Of A Child

sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Family, Social Commentary, The 1950's

Scan0048When will we put raceScan0049 aside
See instead what lies inside
Not as different or worth less
Just as valued as the rest
At last abate our angry cries
Find the place where peace resides

 

My first experience with race relations was as a child in the 1950’s and early 1960’s in Kirkwood, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis, just a stone’s throw away from Ferguson.

Like most post WWII families, dad was the breadwinner, while mom stayed home to tend to the children…all three of us rug rats…born between 1945 and 1948.

That’s when Cleola and Liz entered the picture.  Cleola helped with household chores of all types, from cleaning, to cooking, to babysitting, to laundry (done in the early days by hand on a wash board and hung on the line outside to dry).

She rode the bus from the heart of downtown, where the vast majority of African Americans lived, to Kirkwood, several days a week.  Liz made the journey on Friday evening to join her and both would babysit the three of us while our parents enjoyed a night out with friends.

I have fond memories of hot summer evenings when Liz would walk with us to the neighborhood drug store to get an ice cream treat.  Onlookers to our trek never gave us a second glance, automatically assuming that our parents knew where we were and trusted this individual to watch over us.

Bystanders today witnessing this scene would probably fire up their cell phones immediately, dialing 911 to alert the police to an African American man who had abducted three Caucasian children.  Our parents would be deemed unfit by Social Services for letting us out of their sight, and we would be placed in foster care.

The innocence of youth did not completely shield us from the harsh reality of racial discrimination.  We were aware Cleola and Liz’s day to day existence was in stark contrast to our own.

Yet, within the confines of our home, things could be different.  Setting the example for us to follow, our parents always treated Cleola and Liz as members of the family.  We in turn regarded them with the same respect and implicit obedience accorded all adults in our lives.

But, there was more to it than that.  In some ways, we were the children they never had, while, for us, they were the grandparents who had passed away out of our lives, too soon.

It is human nature to fear that which is and those who are unfamiliar to us.

With familiarity comes understanding.

It is distance which breeds contempt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where’s The Cheese?

sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Writing

It all began with the cheese…or lack thereof… to be more precise.
I had ordered my customary grilled cheese sandwich for lunch at Straub’s…
one of a few select foods I would actually eat during the first decade of my life.
The waitress set the plate on the table before me. The bread was a golden brown.
But hold the phone. Something was wrong here. It was as flat as a pancake.
Closer inspection revealed the problem…They had forgotten the cheese!

As Dr. Seuss might say:

Oh me!
Oh my!
No cheese.
A grilled cheese
Without cheese
You see
Simply cannot be!

Find the waitress. Summon the cook. Bring me a replacement at once.

And so it came to pass that the infamous grilled cheese sandwich sans cheese
became the subject of my first composition in grade school.
I discovered early on that while the word “essay” struck fear in the hearts
of many students, it made mine pound in anticipation.