Tuesday, November 14, 2023

A Summer's Day in August, 1960

 


It was a hot and muggy St. Louis day. The dog


days of August, 1960, I recall.



Hobbling with arthritis, 64-year old Bessie, a


black woman, and her 14-year old nephew,


Albert, departed the Manchester 57 bus in


suburban Webster Groves that summer’s day.



They had several blocks to walk to the Hanch


house where Bessie had worked as a maid for


a number of years.



Mrs. Hanch, a divorced mother of three


teenage boys had a chronic heath issue


and needed domestic help around the


house.



My two brothers Mark, David and I were


each one year apart. We helped with


some of the household chores like grocery


shopping, taking out the trash and basic


yard work. But we were either unwilling


or inept when it came to doing the laundry,


washing, drying, ironing, folding and such.



Vehemently, we resisted cleaning the bath-


room and kitchen, dusting furniture and


mopping floors. Bessie had done that sort


of housework all her life. Back then, men


had their jobs and women had theirs.



The week before, Bessie had asked my mom


if on her next visit could she bring her nephew,


Albert, with her. Their inner-city neighborhood


was not a safe or pleasant place for a fourteen


year old black boy to hang out by himself, She


explained. Drug dealing and gang violence were


widespread and pervasive in the summertime.


It would ease her mind if Albert could tag along


with us for the day given we were all about the


same age.



Albert loved baseball and Bessie knew we


did too. And without hesitation, my mom


gave her approval.



Mom didn’t give a second thought as to


having a black boyy tagging along with her


sons in an all white neighborhood. As far as


she was concerned, this was our business


and “damn well none of the neighbors.”



That was over 60-years ago. I recall playing


catch with Albert in the back yard, and


talking about the St. Louis Cardinals, our


hometown team. Stan Musial, Ken Boyer,


Bob Gibson, Bill White and Curt Flood,


white and black, all played side-by-side on


our team. And they were equally among


our favorite players.



Race never came up in our conversations

during the day. It was not an issue as far


as we were concerned. But secretly, I was


pleased, even proud to have a new Negro


friend.



I could see initially that Albert seemed a bit


apprehensive about being where he was. But


as the day progressed, he lightened up and


enjoyed the same things as we did.



Mom thought it would be nice if we would take


Albert into town which was within walking


distance and treat Albert to some French fries


at The Toll House Restaurant. (We loved French


Fries, and The Toll House had some of the best


in the world as far as my brothers and I were


concerned.)



Mom gave us a couple of dollars, and merrily


we went our way in joyful anticipation of the


savory treat.



We entered the restaurant around lunchtime


and were immediately confronted by the


manager. “What can I do for you, boys?” he


asked in a rather unfriendly manner. “We’d


like to order some French fries, sir,” older


brother Mark responded. “Sorry, boys, no


French fries today. I’m going to ask you to


leave.” “But we have the money,” Mark


informed him politely. “Sorry, out you go now,”


the manager said sternly with a scowl on his


face.



We were shocked and upset. We had never


been treated like this before. We did nothing


wrong and didn’t understand.



Albert was silent. He never said a word, but


he knew. Aunt Bessie, she would know. Pretty


sure my mom did too.



It took this harsh rejection at The Toll House


Restaurant for three white boys and one


black to realize, 1960 in this all white


community, prejudice was alive and thriving


on the menu.



We took Albert to the Tasty Freeze down


the street and ordered 4-soft serve cones


at the to-go window.



Albert went home with his Aunt Bessie that


evening, and never returned again.



And likewise, my family and I never again


stepped a foot inside The Toll House


Restaurant.



We did learn to appreciate the pasta at Yacovelli’s,


however, a more welcoming Italian place a few


miles away.



Bessie is long gone now, but I often think about


Albert, and I wonder if he would feel the same?



                                  -30-


Chris Hanch 11-14-2023



No comments:

Post a Comment