Lessons From My Five Year Old Self (eBook)

Chapter 2

Cherish Community

The South is a very interesting place. Leaving was not a hard thing to do but a few days in New York City caused me to be grateful for the gentler, kinder winds of Dixie. Although Nashville was not classified as the Deep South like other cities such as Jackson, Montgomery, or Savannah, it still held the trappings of the traditional Southern lifestyle. Notably, the way people talked. Most spoke in a slow, unrushed fashion. Words that were composed of one syllable were made to have two. For example, the word boy when properly pronounced has one syllable. In the South, it is pronounced as if you were pronouncing the word joey. So instead of saying boy we said bo-ey with two syllables.

Although I lived eighteen years under my father’s roof, there were many occasions that I furled my brow in trying to figure what he had said. “Bring me back a seum-up from the store please,” he once requested. “A what?” I asked him to repeat himself. He did, but I still didn’t understand what he wanted. Luckily my mother was there to translate. “Bring him a 7-Up,” she said. Dad, or any of his colleagues in the community, did not pronounce the word seven as it was spelled. There was the s then the e and m; the m was pronounced like in the word hum. But there was no m in the spelling of seven.

Typical Southerners didn’t worry about too much, took their time with things, and loved a good ‘ole cold drink every now and then. The translation for “cold drink” could be Coca-Cola, Pepsi, or the old favorite, RC Cola. Southerners usually were not in a rush. They moseyed to the bank, strolled to school, and sauntered to church. Summers in the south were special. All of nature revealed herself as we welcomed the season for shorts and t-shirts. And that time of year everything seemed to slow down even more. This could have been due to the weather; nature seemed to take on the same lilt as its co-habitants. The heat was stifling with a humidity index that would sometimes beat the kids back into the house. Afternoon thunderstorms often wafted in through a band of heavy, grey clouds. After a day of sweltering heat, you could always count on a late afternoon downpour of rain. Fall and winter made their entrances and escapes without wonder.

October was always crisp, as trees willingly released their colorful leaves, entrusting an order that would reveal even brighter foliage the following season. Winters weren’t too harsh. There was never an abundance of snow, but an occasional ice storm would shut down the city for days. Nature seemed to keep with its consistent flow. You knew spring was approaching by watching her fresh blades of grass climb hills and high yards. Insects such as lightning bugs, ladybugs, and flying cockroaches, were all in full flight. Honeybees, singing birds, and dragonflies skated across shallow ponds and lakes; honey suckles in full bloom, made everything smell delightful. All seemed to celebrate the end of seasonal hibernation and a commencement that felt like a new birth. Seasons seemed to be given distinct months to reign. Perhaps, over the years, spring has been given the short end of the stick with winter rushing right into summer without stopping for proper preparation.

Summer was active and fun. Being out of school was a breath of fresh air for me, and my parents. Although dad liked to go rabbit hunting in the winter, he too welcomed the opportunity to catch more sunrays. I remember times when dad would take me walking down the road. We lived on Goins Road, named after Reverend Willie Goins, who had once served as a minister at Lake Providence Church, under the leadership of the beloved Rev. Samuel H. Simpson. Many of the streets in our neighborhood were named after celebrated residents—mostly those who were stalwarts in the church and community.

Self-proclaimed griots like Mr. Frank Patton could always be found sitting on a tree stump, shaded by the branch of a full-grown oak tree near the edge of Nolensville Road. “Come here son, I want to tell you a little something.” His invitations were always with a willing smile. He’d sit for hours talking about the history of the community. “I remember when this … and I remember when that…” he’d begin. Dad would often chime in with his own spin, affirming what Mr. Frank had already said. These stories were fascinating to my ears.

You couldn’t have storytelling without music. The South is known for some of the most groundbreaking and celebrated music in the world. Country music wasn’t the only thing permeating the airwaves. Kids would be in the streets dancing to Stevie Wonder, The Jackson Five, Earth Wind, and Fire, and The Isley Brothers. Old schoolers like my dad, would sit on the porch with their transistor radios, passing the steamy summer’s day with Billie Holiday, Nat King Cole, and B.B. King.

Ray Charles was my father’s favorite. Dad very seldom struck a chord of high-pitched laughter. It was sometimes hard to even get him to crack a smile at home. But when the music of Ray Charles played, he would sit up in his chair and begin tapping his feet. I even witnessed him snapping his fingers and bobbing his head. This type of conduct was unusual for my father. To see him move about in such manner was enthralling to my young eye. My dad had rhythm and he had Soul. His outburst was contagious, as it made me get up off of that cold porch stone and begin to dance.

Dancing was part of my DNA. It didn’t take much to make me bust a move, and seeing my father throw his emotional caution to the wind gave me all the reason to be my fully expressed self. Immediately after the song would end, my dad would turn the radio off and resume his “regular programming.” I would sit patiently, trying to figure out if he was resting a spell before turning the music on again, eagerly awaiting the next tune. I had a few more dance steps I wanted to try out. Having the undivided attention of my dad at that moment seemed to make up for all the disappointments of the past. Being in his presence made life so much better, and it made me feel alive.

Stoplights, bus stops, paved streets, and Nolensville Road, once a dirt path, is a major artery of the city that runs right through the community. From cobblers, to seamstresses, farmers, storeowners, and pastors, the little community of believers amassed an impressive list of professionals who had trod the major thoroughfare to make their ways to their destinations.

As we got ready to leave Mr. Frank to the rest of his evening, my father saw his friend at the fruit and vegetable stand across the street and waved at him. Two noted families, the Pratts and the Maxwells, kept the people nourished. The community never lacked in sustainable food. What we now call organic, my parents and grandparents called “homegrown” when I was growing up. The two are synonymous—no pesticides, no herbicides, no non-GMO. They couldn’t have afforded it either way.

As we continued our rounds through the neighborhood, the smell of somebody’s kitchen would catch our attention, and our appetite—aromas that made your mouth water and your bellies yearn. There were great cooks in our community, but hardly any could rival my mother. Fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, green beans, turnip greens (my favorite), creamed potatoes (sweet potatoes for Dad), and hot water cornbread was a favorite menu. A glass of lemonade or Southern iced tea (which always had loads of Domino’s sugar) would seal the deal and any thirst you might have. That remains one of my mother’s signature Sunday meals.

My mother, at nearly 92 years of age, still loves to cook. Now, she can only reminisce of the days when she could stand in the kitchen for hours with her favorite recipes. Distinct Southern cooking with a unique, home-style quality is the way I’d describe Mom’s dishes—the right temperature, the perfect seasoning, topped with her own special technique and made-from-scratch blend … Oh, and not to forget that it was always prepared with Mom’s love. Dad would pile his plate sky high. Within a matter of minutes, it would be gone. And in a fantastic finish, he’d wash it all down with a king size glass of water. Eating and dashing off to be with his friends was about the only thing that my father made haste of. In hindsight, I believe that his rush could have been left over from his Army serving days. It would take me a little longer, since I’d spend the first few minutes staring at Dad’s heap, wondering how he was going to manage all of that food in his fit, slender body.

There were no age limits when it came to honoring the older citizens. Though I was only a year into grammar school, making sure the elders of the community had basic needs like water and food was mandatory. In my neighborhood there were a large number of houses that did not have running water, including my grandmother’s house. In the middle of those yards were pumps and faucets for them to get water. I was my grandmother’s water boy, always making sure she had plenty to drink, especially in the summer, which can be brutal in the South.

My grandmother, like other neighbors, had an outhouse. “Granny what happens if you have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom?” I asked. “Well, I have something that I can use without having to make a trip outside at two o’clock in the morning,” she said.

Though in our house we had running water with proper plumbing, my father grew up without it. Many nights I would awaken to him leaving the house to go use my grandmother’s outhouse. I never understood why, other than it had been a...