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.