Meals

His name was George Mason, and his family lived “up on the bayou.” That would have been Bayou Bartholomew, which, at that time, received raw sewage from the city of Pine Bluff, Arkansas. It was a breeding ground for snakes and mosquitoes during the dry months and a flood plain for the bayou during the rainy ones. In the dead of summer, the smell of sewage mixed with that of “cotton poison” made the air unbearable.

The poorest of the poor rented that house. That’s where the Masons lived.

Our school bus stopped each day to pick up George and his brothers and sisters, all sallow-complexioned kids with shaggy, greasy hair and swollen stomachs caused by poor diets. For some reason, we started sitting together, George and I. It may have been because he was older and kept the Fletcher boys from tormenting me. At any rate, I got to know him well enough that we talked openly.

One morning, the other Mason kids climbed the incline to the highway, loaded on the bus, and told the driver that George would be along. The driver honked until a figure ran from the door of the house, clutching a book and pulling on his coat. In a moment, he was sitting beside me. Breathing hard, he looked over.

“I’m sorry Jimmie,” he said. “I know I made y’all wait.” He settled back and regained his breath. Then he looked at me again and spoke.

“Momma told us this morning that she only had enough to fix us breakfast or dinner (Note: lunch in those rural days). The other kids said make them some dinner, but I said, “Mamma, I just have to have my breakfast’ and that’s what I was doing.” He stopped, then said, “Eatin’ my breakfast.” He couldn’t help looking at the paper sack holding my sandwich.

It has been a dream of mine since, and one that seems to be fading, that no child in America, or the world for that matter, would ever again have to make that choice.

Oh, and he had “dinner” that day, at least he had half of one.

Fort Lauderdale

I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It’s not only because Travis McGee’s mythical boat, The Busted Flush, was anchored there in Slip F18 of the Bahia Mar Resort. No, that strengthened my affection, but its source goes all the way back to 1970 when I was a seaman aboard the USS Hunley, AS-31 out of Charleston, South Carolina.

A little over a year before, I had returned from a year with the Naval Security Forces in Da Nang. Around that time—1968—may have been the least popular time to have ever served in the United States Armed Forces while wearing the two ribbons denoting service in Vietnam. It seemed as if the entire nation was divided into those who hated us and those who resented us.

There were the big things, like the angry crowd awaiting us at the airport when we landed from our tour. There were the little things, like segregated seating in airport lounges and our sea bags being thrown down three floors to a basement cage in the San Francisco airport to separate it from the baggage of regular passengers. Airline stewardesses weren't even cordial to us, more than necessary.

My own shipmates aboard the Hunley weren’t above needling us, “We always assign you Vietnam guys to the crappiest job aboard ship so you’ll learn your place." Of course, other military personnel weren’t treated much better when they went “on the beach.”

No, the people of Charleston provided no balm. They hated, in decreasing order of severity, people of color, military personnel, and anyone who had moved into the city since the 1700s. I made two of the three. Some of my shipmates covered them all.

By 1970, I could get dispirited with little encouragement. Then, our ship’s captain, a Captain Anders serving his last cruise and feeling charitable, decided the crew deserved some R and R, thus scheduling a three-day stop in Fort Lauderdale.

That’s when it happened.

After a smooth passage, we reached the city. The harbor pilot took us through the harbor and the ship began moving down a canal, lined with multi-story condos, to our berth. Those of us not on duty were expected to line the main deck in our best “dress whites,” and look as military as possible. We complied, standing at “parade rest” and hiding our desire to get ashore.

At first, nothing happened. Then, it was if something, like the ripple of an ebb tide, was moving along the balconies and windows of the condominiums. There sounded an almost audible buzz. Ahead of us, flags appeared. People materialized on the balconies and began to wave. Old men, so close we could make out their features, saluted. Some groups even clapped.

It was the first time in over a year that anyone, other than family, close friends, and fellow vets of that unfortunate war, had offered a kind gesture for my military service. Tears ran down my face then, as they do now when I think about that moment.

Yes. I’ll always think highly of Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Best wishes, dear city.