Krewe of Spirit 2016

Memories - Chapter 10 -- THE MOVIES OF BILOXI

Saenger Theater 

1955

Television was slowly making its way into every home.  It was limited to the larger cities - nearest the stations.  You see, "cable" back then meant the transatlantic phone system.  Being located  between Mobile and New Orleans, Biloxi was a "fringe" reception area - a nice phrase describing the snowy picture.  Even our 50 foot roof top antenna had problems with New Orleans when the weather was bad.  So, like most other Biloxi residents, we still depended on the movies for entertainment.

For a small town, Biloxi had quite a collection of movie houses - six in all -the Buck, the Roxy, the Bayview, the Avenue, the Biloxi (we called it the Meyers), and the Saenger.  About the only thing these movie houses had in common was a screen.  Each theater had its own peculiar character and clientele.

The Saenger was Biloxi's premier Movie Showplace - the biggest, the plushest, the most comfortable - with the biggest screen. Home of the first Cinemascope picture run on the coast (The Robe), and the first color 3D Movies (The Wax Museum).  The Saenger had a huge theater organ - used for special shows. More on the Saenger later....

The Buck was especially for the kids - located just one block south of the Bakery on Lameuse Street.  Every Saturday there were mobs of kid coming and going - the movies never ended - running back to back. While the movies ran continuously, the marquee never changed.  Until the day it closed - over fifteen years later, the dirty red plastic letters heralded                    "Always TWO features" but there were lots of short subjects, Our Gang comedies, and a few serials.  All of this for ten cents!  The Buck was also famous for its smaller ten cent bag of popcorn, which, if you started out with a quarter, left five cents for a bar of candy.

 The Buck, located on Lameuse Street, one block south of Howard avenue. Its floor plan was truly unique.  The concession stand (or candy counter as we called it) was outside - on the sidewalk.  On the adjacent wall were two doors - about twenty feet apart.  No matter which door you picked, once inside you suddenly found yourself facing the audience. Yes, the movie screen was on the wall behind you - about three feet over your head!

 We could immediately identify a newcomer by their reactions.  First the door opened, and after standing for a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, they saw everyone facing them!  Totally surprised and confused they exited.  And in a few minutes, the other door opened, and the scene repeated itself.  After the shock wore off and their eyes became adapted to the darkness, they began the search for a seat among the sea of kids.

The screen was tiny, and the films were old - but all of them classic kids entertainment - Gene Autry with Gabby Hayes, the Abbot and Costello classics "...Meets the Wolf Man, ... Meets Dracula, ...", Rin- Tin-Tin, and of course everyone's Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.  The Buck, had one problem - it ran serials - like Rocket Man - but somehow, the episodes never connected up.  So each episode left everyone trying to solve the usual cliff-hanger ending!

While all the other Biloxi theaters had air conditioning, the Buck's cooling system was just two industrial sized fans - mounted to the front and high above the audience.  They sucked the muggy air from outside and blasted it onto the audience in one continuous gale. Airborne popcorn boxes thrown upwards from the front often landed in the last row.  Yes, it was a pretty low budget operation, but for less than a dollar, four kids or two adults were entertained for hours.  I guess that's why they called it the Buck!

Now, the Avenue Theater, on Howard Avenue, was in the in the heart of downtown Biloxi.  It's entrance was nothing more than a small facade of black glass tile tucked between stores, movie posters in glass cases flanking the ticket window.  As someone giving directions best described it, "If you walk too fast, you'll miss it." The Avenue attracted the young adult crowd - mostly teenagers the high schools, and the airmen from Keesler Field, the local Air Force Base.  Young girls of Sacred Heart Academy, the Catholic High School, were discouraged from attending movies.  The nuns insisted that the girls could only go in groups of three or more - or risk expulsion if caught! Thinking back, I wonder how the nuns enforced this rule?  You see, at that time, nuns traveled in pairs, and were rarely seen outside the convent or the school grounds much less even near a movie house.

The Avenue's program was typically second runs - a lot of "B" movies - products of the minor studios.  I think the Avenue screened just about every science fiction and horror film that Universal and RKO ever made. They played them all - SHE, THEM, IT, Little Shop of Horrors, and everyone of the Roger Corman/Poe Classics - ironically, films that survived and went on to define the Hollywood Camp Movie.  Danny, Chuck, and I were usually there for the first showing of the afternoon.

The Avenue was also tenant to the two adjacent businesses.  On one side there was a tiny jewelry shop - the door took up half the width of the place.  The showcase ran the length of the alley-like interior.  On the other side was Bodie's Travel Service.  It too was small, but it had a bit more frontage.  We always paused to check out the miniature display in the window - a travel scene on a small shelf - cardboard standing figures of people in native dress, ships, airplanes.  Travel posters lined the walls inside the office area.  Dangling overhead, a mobile of airplanes, palm trees and smiling people, gently revolved and twirled - welcoming you to Biloxi's one-and-only travel agency.  The widow display changed about every six months - when the sun bleached colors became too obvious.

The Avenue Theater was incredibly small - everything in it seemed miniaturized - the seating area, the aisles, the screen, and the lobby that barely accommodated a couple of tubular steel arm chairs covered in green vinyl.  The candy counter was large enough for just one worker.  Even the framed movie posters on the walls were the smaller tabloid size.  But the manager - Mr.  Meyers - was far from little! Looking like the adult version of Tweedle-dum, he always stood at the doorway taking tickets, tearing them in half and politely returning you the other half - what for? .. I never knew.

There was another memorable part of the Avenue Theater -the clock.  It hung on the wall above the emergency exit at the front of the theater. It was one of those Deco style clocks - illuminated from the edge - the hands and numbers glowing a pale blue .  The dial and hands floated mysteriously over the black case on the wall as the second hand swept slowly over empty space.  Illuminated letters around the edge read "BILOXI LUMBER COMPANY".  The clock was essential equipment - telling us if we had enough time to "stay to the good part" again...  For others it was their sole reminder of time passing in the outside world. That clock was probably the best piece of advertisement the Biloxi Lumber Company ever had!

The Roxy Theater - down on Point Cadet - was in a "rough" neighborhood. It was flanked by cheap bar rooms -favorite hangouts for the fishermen when they weren't on the shrimp boats.  There, around the nearest corner lay one of Biloxi's "camp grounds" - left-overs from the 1930's - a sordid collection of small tar-paper shacks -homes to the poorest of the poor. The shacks were like boxes - no more than 12-15 feet on the side - with tin roofs.  In total contrast, on the corner - next to the Roxy, there was a wonderful old two story white cottage complete with gingerbread scroll.  The downstairs was a small variety store. The windows in front were always freshly decorated with themes - Easter, Christmas, Back-to-School, Halloween - that made it worth a trip to the "Point" to see.  A sign hung over the doorway "Bay Sundries" - a sign I found confusing, because I thought they had misspelled "Sundays"...

Because of the neighborhood, we always with our parents at the Roxy - and it had to be a special film to get us there.  I remember some of the classics shown there - Hans Christian Anderson -with Danny Kaye, Forbidden Planet, the Ginger Rogers and Fred Astair films, and my first 3D movie!

BayView Theater - Does Anyone Recognize the Young Man?

The Bayview Theater, was another one of the "neighborhood" movie houses - located on the back bay, right at the foot of Lameuse Street.  Like the Roxy, it was in a working class part of town, but the bar rooms, at least, were a little further down the street.  The Bayview had a somewhat unusual layout.  The ticket booth faced the sidewalk, and just past it was a huge open foyer.  One wall was the store front for The Bayview Florist Shop -its giant picture windows framed with artificial flower arrangements while refrigerated cases in the rear displayed roses and gladiolas  - pink, white, red, yellow.  Giant sized movie posters filled the opposite wall of the foyer.

After a short walk, you climbed a dozen triple-wide stairs separated by polished brass hand-rails, up to the lobby where the ticket taker greeted you.  The auditorium was pretty shabby  - the old laminated hardwood theater seats were terribly uncomfortable - especially if you sat in one that was missing a bottom - and in the pitch darkness, this was easy to do.  The air intake for the "sometimes-not-working-well" air conditioning system was a series of cutouts along the right wall - covered by heavy metal screens.  The air rushing into the black holes drowned out the film soundtrack; the nearby seats were definitely "last choice".  This was where Danny, Chuck, and I first saw The Wizard of Oz - but that was even a mildly disappointing experience - the film broke twice during the showing.

Then there was the Biloxi theater - a few blocks up from the Bayview on the corner of Lameuse and Division Streets - another neighborhood kids' movie house.  At times, however, the kids were pretty rowdy, and I remember seeing the owner ushering some of the worse ones out.  Danny and I would walked from the Bakery to the Biloxi when we were about twelve.  We had to cross the railroad tracks on the way - and this meant Mom had to give us a refresher course each time - on how to cross the railroad tracks.  One Saturday afternoon, before we reached the tracks, Danny came up with an idea - he wanted to see what would happen to a penny left on the railroad tracks.  We knew there would be a 3 o'clock train,  and we could hardly wait to see what happened to the penny.  But I made the mistake of telling one of our friends, Roger, what we did.

"You put a penny on the track!   You did?!  Oh, man don't you know that could cause the train to derail and crash?", Roger warned us - all too late.

What had we done? We were terrified.  We were already inside the movie, it was just beginning - we couldn't go back - we didn't have enough money to buy another ticket back into the show - and going back home we would have to explain to Mom what happened.  It was too late!  So, with typical child-like abandonment, we decided to watch Zorro instead...

During the movie, Danny looked my way, and I glanced back - very nervous when we heard the train whistle outside.  Any moment we imagined there would be a horrible noise -screams - sirens - and an announcement of the terrible disaster - that we caused - all because of a stupid penny.  And of course, we just KNEW Roger was waiting to tell on us. But - nothing happened!

On our way back, Danny searched for his penny while I kept watch for approaching trains.  There in the coarse gray gravel he found it, sparkling - bright and shiny.  It was squashed like a piece of chewing gum - elongated and curled up - the face of Lincoln still faintly visible among the scratches.  And, thank goodness, there was no train wreckage in sight.  We got by with it this time, but we both promised ourselves we would NEVER do that again!

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Memories - Chapter 24 - A Scouting We Will GO

September, 1954 -

Biloxi's Howard Avenue - At Lameuse Street 

      CHAPTER 24

A Scouting we will go...

September, 1954 -

Sunday was the day of rest.

And Sunday afternoons were for family - following Sunday Mass, and a big family meal.  There were no TV football games blaring from every house on the block. After the family meal, we dove into the Sunday paper – be it the New Orleans States Item or the Times Picayune. Dad and Mom got the “front sections” while we kids fought over the Dixie Roto Magazine and the Comics.  The Comics were a big feature of the paper - a full sized section loaded with pages of full color comic strips – literally something for everyone.

And buried inside the Comics was my favorite ... "Ripley's BELIEVE IT OR NOT..." - a bizarre collection of people, places, customs and man-made oddities - our version of today's X-Files.  But not even Ripley’s FIJI MERMAID could match the story of how a bag of hardware nails turned Mom into a Cub Scout Den Mother -believe it or not...

Like most “housewives” of the 50’s, there weren’t many free moments in Mom’s day  - taking care of two kids, shopping, preparing meals, doing laundry, cleaning,  making her own clothes, and even finding the time to paint the entire first story of the house! And, if that weren’t enough, twice a week in the afternoon, she "kept shop" in our bakery's retail store. On those days, my brother and I walked from school to the bakery.  It was a short walk - just two small blocks across town, but we had to follow “all the rules”: no crossing against the stop lights, no talking to strangers, no short cuts, no stopping - "come straight home".  We were ok with all the rules – except for one - the "straight-home-rule", and breaking it meant a long "discussion" if we arrived home more than 10 minutes past Mom's expectations. I'm sure she made one or two time trial runs on her own, and she knew exactly how long the trip took.  But we were kids - always pausing to look in a window along the way.  It didn't take too many windows before we were "overdue".  Eventually we came to an agreement to include "stop-overs" at stores along the way - the two "Five and Dime Stores".

By some quirk of fate, Biloxi’s only two Dime stores wound up in the same block - practically next door to one another separated by the miniscule Carpenter's Music store. Passing both "Five and Dime's" was a double temptation to stop,  but that wasn’t in the plan - so we alternated days between them!

Woolworth's was our favorite - mostly because of the lunch counter.  The cheapest thing was a dime soda fountain coke, and Chuck and I pooled our nickels ordering "One coke, please - with TWO straws!" – to the delight of the smiling waitress in the light green uniform.

Twice weekly mom worked the Bakery retail shop, and we trekked down Howard Avenue,  trying not to spend too much time looking in the store windows. The trip was pretty entertaining compared to our destination – nothing is as boring as a Bakery at day’s end. During our two hour holdover there were probably less than a dozen customers.  With little else to do we did our school homework, finished and looked for something else to entertain ourselves.   Sometimes, if  we finished our homework early, mom let us visit Ellzey's hardware store across the side parking lot. It was there that Chuck bought his famous "nickel's worth of nails."

Ellzey’s back door faced the parking lot. It was usually locked – not intended for the public – we had to knock loudly to get someone inside to open it. Regardless, Mr. Curtis and Ms. Lorraine Ellzey always greeted us with a smile.  The hardware store was filled with amazing and mysterious things; we were allowed free range – walking the aisles and asking typical kid questions – with the strict understanding that we were not to touch anything.  Some areas of the store were “off limits” – like the open display of knives and sharp tools, and we were gently reminded to avoid them.  During one visit,  when Ms. Lorraine saw the two of us coming, she began loading up a paper bag with nails from the mixed-nail bin – you know, the ones no one wanted to take the time to sort.  Grandpa was always amazed when he saw Chuck's "nickel bag of nails".  "Look what this kid's got!”, he chuckled. “They would charge me fifty cents - and he gets 'em for a nickel - the little monkey..."

Yes, Chuck had his way with the Ellzey's - those big dark eyes, and black bushy hair would melt any heart.  He was a kid of few words - all he had to do was point and say "more", and  Mrs. Ellzey tried to stuff in a few more nails - until at last she said, "Well, Chuck, that's all I can get in the bag.  We've gotta leave some room to fold the top closed..."

While Chuck got his nails, I continued surveying the store - asking lots of questions about this piece of pipe or that electrical gadget.  Mr.  Curtis was always so patient; he was truly amazed that I found a hardware store so fascinating.  He would say, "I wish Curtis Jr. was as interested in hardware!"  And he would look over at his son, Curtis Jr. - a strawberry blonde with a flat-top haircut matching his dad's.  Curtis pouted a bit and chimed, "I don't wanna do hardware, I wanna be a ball player when I grow up!"

Soon, it was time to go - either they were about to close or Chuck got tired of following behind me clutching his nickel bag of nails - the sharp points poking through the sides.  We left the store through the rear door and headed towards the bakery.  It was one of those days while making the trip back to the bakery, when I saw Mr. Clower and his father sitting just inside the open doorway of their furniture store - next door to Ellzey's.  He called out to us as we passed by.  "What're you guys up to?"

The conditioned warning signal went off in my head "...and don't talk to strangers."   I saw Mr. Clower lots of times in the bakery, and I knew that he, Grandma, and Grandpa sometimes went fishing together -so I quickly decided he wasn't a "stranger".  Still I made sure Chuck and I stood away - a respectable distance.  Well, he started asking us what we did after school - what hobbies we had – we didn’t even know what a hobby was...  Eventually he popped the question, "What do you guys think about becoming Cub Scouts?"

Hmmm.  I never really thought about it.  I had seen scouts at school wearing the blue uniforms and yellow neck-kerchiefs, once a week.   Yeah, I thought it was kind of neat ... Mr.  Clower went on - telling us what all the Cub Scouts did - the meetings, the activities - and how they became Boy Scouts and spent weekends at Camp Tiak in North Biloxi - where they cooked out and slept in tents...  Sounded pretty good to me!  I told him, I would ask my mom; then I excused the two of us and we hurried back to the bakery.  I couldn't wait to tell mom about this scouting thing.  And while we talked, Grandpa came downstairs to help mom close for the day.  Mom closed out the register - listening patiently to my endless prattling and pleading - every now and then answering "OK.  Well...  We'll see..."   Nearby, Grandpa helped Chuck finish sorting out his nails - putting them into smaller bags.   And each time you'd hear him say: "Geezum!  Look at the nails they give this kid for a nickel.  If it was me they would charge..." Chuck would smile proudly while folding over the tops of each small bag - carefully arranging them into a larger single bag - ready to carry home.

Mr. Clower was a regular Bakery customer, and soon word got back to him that our little talk had tweaked my interest in Scouting. He began hinting - this time to my parents, that we really should consider Scouting.  Mr. Clower spent most of his time managing his near-retiring father's business, but he was intensely involved in scouting – becoming one of the founders of the scouting movement on the Gulf Coast.  He was always looking for ways to expand the movement - especially finding new leaders.

My mother was his target - after all, she didn't work full time, the kids had "nothing to do" after school (not quite true) – but  she was certainly leadership material.  To be sure - if you ever saw my mom in action - waiting on a line of twenty customers during the Sunday-after-Mass rush hour, you'd see real leadership in action...  Mr. Clower was relentless - she was his sights to becoming a new Den mother - part of the new Pack 209!

Weeks went by; Mr. Clower did a lot of coaxing to get Mom to even consider the idea.  But Mr.  Clower was persistent, and eventually Mom gave in - he had convinced her Scouting was THE best after school activity for me and Danny.  Once mom was committed, that was it!  She was bitten by the Scouting Bug! Soon she began bringing home scouting magazines and manuals, reading up, and trying to learn exactly what made a Den Mother.

There were about ten members of the pack - and believe me, PACK described us perfectly.  The only ones I recall were Dickie Moran, Stephen Conroy, Billy Miles, Frank Corso, and my cousin, Danny.  But there were others who came and went during the Pack's brief history. My brother, Chuck was a bit too young to join the Scouts, but Mom always made sure he was included in the groups' activities.

Most of the kids in the pack attended our elementary school, SHA (Sacred Heart Academy) – many of them were classmates.  Dickie Moran was the only one I really knew well - we sort of hung out together on Saturday afternoons, and stuck together at school.  The Morans lived on Beach Boulevard East of us - across the highway from the old Biloxi Lighthouse.

The Morans were a very religious family - all the school age kids attended Catholic school.  Their house was a square white two story building - just behind the Gulf station at the foot of Porter Avenue. Inside the front door on the wall was a small holy water font - "to bless yourself with" as you entered.  Every room had at least one "holy" picture or statue.  It was the year of Father Peyton's famous "Pray the Rosary" campaign, and everywhere you looked there were signs or car bumper stickers proclaiming "The family that prays together, stays together".  And faithful to the pledge they had taken, the Morans remained at the table after supper to pray the Rosary together.  It was a very crowded table.  Besides Mr. and Mrs. Moran, there was Dickie's grandmother, his older brother, Joey, at least two younger brothers and sisters, and an older sister Beverly - who later became a nun.

That year I think Beverly was in the eighth grade – on the second floor – the all girls section of SHA.  As one of her responsibilities, Beverly took turns with other classmates tending the school bookstore during recesses.  The so-called "bookstore" was a really nothing more than a converted janitor's closet - with only one door and no windows.  Untrue to its name, the "bookstore" sold everything BUT books -the paper-back orange Baltimore Catechisms being the exception.  But you could buy lots of other things - pencils, pens, loose-leaf paper, and, of course - the bookstore's mainstay - candy! 

Back to Beverly’s brother, Dickie – he was a real prankster.  One afternoon, during recess, Dickie and I headed for the bookstore - we heard they had a fresh supply of our favorite candy - those red-hot cinnamon jaw breakers - a bargain at 2 cents.  Beverly, was tending the store by herself that day.  Somehow, Dickie had this notion that because his sister was in charge, he was entitled to a discount - or maybe even free samples.  But when Beverly wouldn't give him special treatment, he became a bit upset.  The situation was bad – very bad because Dickie had a temper, but he was also cunning, and he began plotting to get even with Beverly.

Coincidentally, Dickie saw the key was still in the lock outside door.  The plan was set!  When recess was over, it was time to close the store, and Beverly turned around to stowe the board that formed the doorway counter.  All of a sudden, Dickie slammed the door, and locked it!  The end-of-recess bell rang and the ensuing noise of kids rushing to line up for class drowned out Beverly's irate threats.

Sister Mary Lawrence's class-room was next door to the bookstore, and it took her a while to locate the source of the racket out in the hall - Beverly beating on the door and yelling for help.  Unfortunately, Sister Mary Lawrence happened on the scene as Beverly let out with a few "choice" words - intended only for Dickie's ears.  And, believe it or not, Beverly got two de-merits that afternoon: one, for being late to class, and another for foul language!   I suppose that if the nuns gave de-merits for having a precocious younger brother, Beverly surely would have been expelled that day!  ... And still - they called them Sisters of Mercy?

I smile thinking back of Beverly becoming a nun years later.  I keep having flashbacks of Beverly, Caroline Fournier and other classs-mates piled into Mr Moran's Woodie Wagon, chasing a pink Cadillac along Highway 90. 

Our family was out for its traditional Sunday drive when Dad spotted the Station Wagon approaching in his rear view mirror.  First the Cadillac then the wagon literally flew by us in the left lane as we passed Gus Steven's restaurant.  They were chasing a young singer who had just moved to the Coast.  We first heard about him from Mae Juanico, one of my mother's friends who worked at the local A&P where we shopped once a week.  As it turned out, Mae's daughter, June, was "going out" with the young singer - much to Mae's dismay - after all, the guy did work at Si Simon's - a local night spot whose reputation had gone down hill in recent years.  Who'd ever guess he'd become famous? Yes, I think back and smile. Just imagine!  Beverly Moran, who later entered the convent, chasing Elvis Presley!

I'm digressing.  Where was I..?  Scouting.  Oh, yes, Scouting...

By now, Mom had the list of the new scout candidates.  She phoned all the parents and scheduled an organizing meeting to be held at our house.  Chuck and I got our orders: we were to go upstairs, do our homework, keep quiet, and stay out of sight - no peeking down the stairs.  But, we were so excited and curious that Mom gave us a reprieve - at least until the first guest arrived.

A car appeared on the highway.  It slowed in front of the Bradford's house - obviously checking the address numbers, then it turned into our driveway.  In a few minutes the backdoor bell rang; Mom answered it. We began gathering our school work, preparing to retire upstairs, when we heard a very loud woman's voice.  She was so loud - she sounded like a football cheerleader. Seconds later, she and Mom entered the living room, and what we saw was incredible!

My first impression - she looked like something out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon I saw the week before - a Female Wagnerian Opera singer - less the helmet with the horns.  I mean, she was big - no, make that huge! And, the green Den Mother's uniform she wore did little to flatter her size.  I heard Chuck whisper, "Gosh, she’s big; I don't think I wanna be a Scout anymore...".

Her face was husky; she wore little makeup.  She had a squarish jaw line - uncharacteristic for a woman, with little folds of skin under her chin that sagged and shook while she bellowed.  Her yellowing gray hair was close-cut and tightly waved - sort of like Mr. Drysdale's secretary on The Beverly Hillbillys.  To top it off,  she wore a pair of huge button-shaped earrings that almost covered her ears.  On her, they looked like small pearl colored hub caps.  My mom introduced us.

"Boys, this is Mrs. Leonard.  She's the head Den Mother of Pack 209."

We shook her hand - at a long arms reach - afraid to get too close to her.  She shouted back a polite greeting - I forget what - I was still in shock - trying to guess how much she weighed, and if her waist was bigger than Dad's.  Well, we didn't need any coaxing to leave the room after that encounter!  Off we went as the doorbell rang announcing the next arrivals.

Once upstairs, we eavesdropped hidden safely at the top of the stairwell.  Soon the meeting was underway.  Mrs.  Leonard did most of the talking - make that - shouting.  She recited scouting history, then lists of rules and responsibilities both for the parents and the kids.  In the coming weeks, however, it was obvious that somehow, the kids never read the.  I suspect the parents were a bit overwhelmed, and they probably felt that with Mrs. Leonard around, disciplinary problems were the least of their worries!

Days later, Mom began the final preparations for our first meeting - sweeping out the garage - that was soon to become our Den. Dad brought home several wooden saw horses and plywood sheets from the Bakery.  In no time, the garage was transformed into fully equipped cub scout work room.

That was quite an event for us.  You see, in our neighborhood, there weren't any kids our age to play with.  It was time for the first meeting; kids began arriving at our house!  Strange cars pulled into our driveway.  Mom stationed me out back to flag them into the parking area.  One by one the kids arrived while the parents departed – no doubt happy to be rid of them for a few precious moments of freedom.  Dickie Moran was the last to arrive - his older brother Joey walked him to the meeting, and waited for him outside till the meeting was over.

That first meeting was pretty tame.  Ok, if the truth be known, it was really a bummer!  We did this Scout's honor thing, learned the official handshake, hi-sign, and collected our message slips from Mom - one for each parent, a "welcome" letter - telling the parents more about plans for uniforms, and asking them to send activity money.   There was always one high point to our meetings -REFRESHMENTS -  usually cookies and Kool-Aid.  The kids expected it - after all Dad DID own a bakery. They devoured the plates of oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, and sugar cookies in no time.

We had a few more meetings - each one progressively more boring than the last.  Then the day came when Mom announced we would begin our first official activity project at the NEXT meeting.  It was a secret project, and we would just have to wait to find out more.  It seemed like the next week would never pass.

Now, Mom was never one to begin with the simple stuff and work gradually to the top.  I mean, she could have had us foraging for cancelled stamps, leaves, or any number of common items to make up a "collection" -  which was the typical den's start-up activity.  No way...  Mom decided we would do something more challenging - like basket weaving!  What?  Yes, basket weaving!

Weeks earlier, Mom had ordered basket weaving kits from Brumfield's department store.  It was Saturday, right after lunch when the phone rang.  I took the message: someone at Brumfield's said that "... Mrs. Klein's Scout supplies had arrived."  Mom was out in the garage, loading up the washer - for about the third time that day.  As soon as I saw her coming back to the house, I called out through the back screen door.  "Mommmmmm - Brumfield's called. They said your stuff is in." She was now walking back to the house.  "Ok, get Chuck and we'll pick it up," she answered from behind an immense stack of folded sheets she carried in her arms.

I called out to Chuck, playing on the floor in the living room.  But there was the matter of the keys - the car keys - Mom never put them in the same place twice, and every time we had to drive somewhere, we instinctively separated to look for the keys!  While Mom put the sheets away, I began the search.  Ah! Luck was on my side - I spotted them on the counter - peeking out from behind the toaster.  "I got 'em", I called.

"Ok, you two wash your hands and meet me out in the car", she called out from somewhere in the house.

Now, I don't know why, but whenever we left the house, we had to wash our hands.  There was a time I questioned why we always to "wash our hands" - I thought Mom was just trying to keep the car clean.  But after one too many, "Because-I-said so's"- she finally explained, "Because I won't have you seen in public with hands looking like you've been digging potatoes - That's why!  You never know who we'll meet in town!"  From then on, I stopped asking "Why?" ... she was right, you NEVER did know who you would meet in town - in those days half of Biloxi was downtown on a Saturday afternoon.

Now, with hands washed, and keys found, Chuck and I headed for the garage and climbed into the back seat of the blue Hudson - making sure – as always - the doors were locked.  Then Mom climbed in, and we were off!

Brumfield's was one of Biloxi's leading family-owned department stores. And, although the name was a bit unusual (Chuck had a habit of calling it BUM-field's!), it was easy to remember - because it was THE only major store in town WITHOUT two initials (unlike J. C. Penny's, W.  V. Joyce, S. H. Kress, F. W. Woolworth, ...).  Brumfield's was practically next door to the First National Bank. A small Jewelry Store built in the alley-way separated the two buildings.  Now, Brumfields was THE official scouting supply store in Biloxi.  They had the corner on the market for the smaller items -especially the uniforms.  Just two doors down across the street, however, Bel Bru's had the concession on camping equipment - after all, Bel Bru's handled sporting goods and Brumfield's handled mostly clothing – somehow it all made sense.

A trip to town, and especially Brumfield's was always a mini-adventure - to see the ever-changing displays and seasonal decorations.  Come to think of it, every store lining Howard Avenue - except for a few of the military outlet stores, were very big on window displays.  There were decorations for Fall, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter, Graduation, June Weddings, Summer vacation, Fourth of July, Back-to-School, Fireman's Day, and other displays worked in between to celebrate the stores' founding anniversaries, or the birthdays of its owners and children.  You didn't need a calendar - you could always tell the time of year within two weeks by looking in one or two windows along Howard Avenue.  So, off we went to Brumfields.

Recently remodeled, Brumfield's front was continuous sidewalk showcase bordered by large panels of beige and black glass tiles.  Above the windows, modern embossed aluminum panels climbed upwards hiding the old 1920's brick facade.  Just above the entrance, a two story tall red neon sign with "BRUMFIELD's" in fancy script burned brightly whenever the store was open for business which was usually 10 to 6, Monday through Saturday.  (Like all the stores in Biloxi, it never opened on Sunday.)

Mom found a parking spot just across the street from Brumfield's - in front of Woolworth's.  As soon as Chuck and I hit the sidewalk we made a bee line for the white brick store next to Woolworth's.  This was the home of Pockie's - a small newsstand type variety store that also sold TOYS! Pockie's had the best - AND the most expensive toys in Biloxi.  I was the first child in the Klein family to discover Pockie's - when I was barely five years old. My grandmother would send me over to Pockie's - escorted by one of the bakery workers -to pick out toys.

Mr. Pockie was a short little gray haired main - barely five feet tall. He always wore a freshly pressed white shirt with a real bow tie.  He looked like a miniature version of Bud Abbot - but he wore large black - rimmed glasses.  He was a man of few words - and with good reason. Grandma had set up a secret charge account with Mr. Pockie, and told him to let me buy anything I wanted - just keep it quiet!  Well, don't you know, it was like Christmas on demand -every day or so...  Until, Mom got wise to my growing toy collection and put an end to the extravagance - much to the dismay of Mr. Pockie.  Knowing that Mom was responsible for closing down his prized account, it was years before Mr. Pockie ever spoke to Mom again.

Back to our trip to Brumfields…

Chuck and I browsed Pockie's front window intensely -cupping our hands about our eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the play treasures inside. Mom waited patiently at the curb - cautioning "You can look ... just look, and hurry it up!"

"Just a few seconds more... ", I called back.

We shuffled along scanning the entire length of Pockie’s two display windows - at last stopping as we reached the mysterious dark stairwell next door to Pockie's. ...  Rumor had it that the unmarked flight, led to an upstairs gambling parlor where you could bet on the horses, or play poker.  Thinking back - with the number of public bars and "back-room card games" in Biloxi at that time, I'm sure it was no rumor!

Tired of waiting, Mom called out, "Let’s go! … I said NOW!", and we dashed to the curb.  She checked again for traffic and tightly clutching our hands, we crossed the street together.

The entrance to Brumfield's lay at the end of a small sidewalk vestibule bordered by window showcases.  Within the museum-sized showcases lay all sorts of displays anchored on carpets of the most fake looking grass you'd find anywhere.  Brumfield's had an army of mannequins - men, women, boys, and girls - even a dog for the Buster Brown display.  That afternoon, the models displayed the latest in Fall fashions - each one frozen in some grotesque un-natural pose.

One window had a left-over Summer display - a man and woman wearing matching tennis outfits.   Being a bit tight on space in the window, both players faced each other barely two feet apart - racquets in position to serve.  It looked as if they were about to have an awful accident - each taking aim at the ball that hung motionless in between them.  I was amazed by the illusion of that ball magically suspended in mid air. Magic - until looking closer I discovered the threads.

Off to the couple's right was a river of colorful fabric.  The stream flowed and twisted all about, covering the entire floor of the window display.  In the foreground, islands of shoes in every imaginable color, shape, and style hovered above the cascading cloth that fanned out into overlapping layers.  The Florsheim Shoe sign - an advertising icon always to be found somewhere in Brumfield's displays - hung above the men's shoes - cocked at a jaunty angle proudly proclaiming "...for the best in men's footwear!"  Small white placards peeped out everywhere from within the display noting brands, styles, and - something you don't see much any more - prices.  Each card was custom made with red and blue tempera lettering that appeared surreally three dimensional.

Mom called out to us one last time as she held the door open for us. We backed away - hesitantly - still absorbed and fascinated by the fantasy land of goods on display.  Entering the store we headed for the Scouting Corner - to the left after making a big U-turn past the first display case.  There it was - the Scouting Corner - tucked away in a small nook.  A single waist-high showcase stretched across the opening. The showcase was flawlessly crafted from blonde hardwood - highly polished.  The fine lines of the wood grain were the only visible markings on the new display case.  The front and top were made of plate glass - perfectly clean, save for a few oily finger prints from some careless kid.  The only way into the case was by the row of sliding doors along the rear.  The interior was jammed full.  There, inside lay the stuff that Scouting dreams were made of - neatly arranged on three glass shelves.  There was everything from badges, books, compasses, and snake-bite kits to scarfs and hobby supplies.  Behind the counter, a matching wall unit proudly displayed the larger items -the American flag, the Boy Scout flag, the merit badge banners, and, of course, the current scouting display of the month.  Off to the side, blue and green uniforms hung neatly in a row on coat hangers in clear plastic bags, anxiously awaiting their new owners.

The Scouting Corner was, I'm sure, intentionally set apart from the store's other mundane displays - little boxy islands crammed with shirts, socks, pants, and underwear.  Yes, the Scouting Corner was Brumfield's oasis of patriotism -"Dedicated to good citizenship ... and the leaders of tomorrow" - as the sign above it all proclaimed.  It was a place that every kid viewed with awe and envy.  Awe - because of its unique treasures - things you just couldn't find any where else in town...  And envy ...  because if you weren't a scout, you could only look.  But now ... I was a scout, and I was endowed with right to browse, handle, and buy just about all the shrine had to offer - well, in principle, at least!

Mom followed close behind us - to pick up the kits.  Within seconds, Mr. Brumfield himself, came over to offer assistance.  Mr. Brumfield was a tall, neat, distinguished looking man with a firm athletic build. Everything about him said style and class.  He wore a crisp gray pinstripe suit with a neatly folded handkerchief tucked in his top breast pocket.  Peeking out, the handkerchief looked like the top of a picket fence.  (Later he gave me one - it turned out to be a pleated linen fake sewed to a piece of cardboard printed with BRUMFIELD'S DEPARTMENT STORES -BILOXI - MOSS POINT -PASCAGOULA.  I kept it for years, until the cloth yellowed, and mom insisted on throwing it away.)  Yes, Mr. Brumfield was classy - from top of his wavy gray hair down to the tip of his shiny black wingtips!

He wore a pair of gold metal rimmed glasses, and he was always smiling - proudly displaying the largest set of white teeth you ever saw.  He greeted us, then took his position behind the counter.  He disappeared below the counter, and pulled out a large flat box - two feet square on the side.  Then he pulled out several brown paper bundles tied with twine -each about four inches round and three feet long!  "What WAS all this stuff?" I wondered.

At last when the counter top was near full. Mr. Brumfield motioned for someone to help us while he wrote up the sales ticket.  I knew what was coming next, and I knew Chuck would get a kick out of seeing it for the first time.

With cash and ticket in hand, Mr. Brumfield reached beside the counter and picked up a short piece of brass tubing; it had black felt rings around both ends.  I watched Chuck's eyes grow wider as Mr. Brumfield twisted the tube open and slipped in the money and sales ticket. "What's he gonna do with that?", Chuck asked.

"Just watch...", I answered.

Mr. Brumfield walked over to two oversized metal pipes on the side wall.  He opened up a door on one -it made a whistling sound, and he slipped the brass tube into it.  WOOOOSSSHH!  It was gone.  Chuck let out a big grin, and looked at me.  "It's magic, huh?  Magic!"

"If you think that's great, just watch some more..", I explained.  By this time Chuck's big black eyes were about to pop out - he wasn't going to take them off the pipe where the tube had disappeared.  In a minute or two, there was a CLUNK! sound, and Mr. Brumfield reached into the other pipe, and took out the container that had disappeared earlier.  He walked back over to the counter, opened it up, and lo and behold, the paper money was gone - in its place was some loose change that he handed back to Mom.  Chuck couldn't quit smiling.  And I too was smiling  - at his innocent amazement.

The delivery boy had arrived, and Mom showed him to the car where he loaded the bundles into the back seat.  Chuck and I sat in the front.  "What was that rocket thing?" Chuck kept asking me.  I tried to explain it as best I could, but to be honest, I myself really couldn't figure it all out.

"You know, Bubbie?" Chuck answered back in amazement at my flawed explanation ... "You're a genius!  And, I'm a dumb genius..."

I don’t think so ... but I still had the most loving, admiring brother in all the world!

We could hardly wait to get home and explore those wrapped packages. Reading our thoughts, Mom was one ahead: "We'll leave this stuff in the garage.  Now make sure you guys don't get into it.  I have to read the instruction sheets."

That night Mom dug out the instructions.  I detected a bit of stress in Mom's voice as she studied the "Easy-Requires-No-Skill", but not-so-clear instruction sheets.  I tried to help her - pouring over the diagrams step by step, until, at last, we decided, enough was enough. After all we had several days to get ready for the scout meeting.

The next day, I arrived home from school to a surprise on the dining room table. It was, well ... this straw thing - that vaguely resembled a basket, but it was all warped and cracked.  The reeds were splintered, and the huge gaps in the sides certainly limited its usefulness.  There on display, for all the world to see was Mom's first attempt at basket weaving!   But she knew it was crummy, and her frustration was evident. You could almost read her thoughts ... If she couldn't do it, how was she ever going to teach the kids?  She was just about ready to return the unused supplies to Brumfields when she decided to give it one more go.  Later, after supper, she sat on the sofa, studying the instructions - very carefully.  Suddenly I heard her, say "Well, I'll be..." And then she rushed outside to the garage.

I followed her, wanting to know what she was all excited about. In the garage laundry room, he plugged up the two oversized tubs and began filling them both with water.  She was grinning a bizarre smile; I was getting a bit scared.  "Mom, Mom… what are you doing?"

"Just what the instructions said: “ - soak 'em", she answered while testing the warm water.

"What?"

"Soak em!  I found a missing instruction sheet, and that's what it said to do!  When you soak the reeds overnight, they soften, so you can bend and weave them!  I don't know what I was thinking - I should have known better!", she went on...

Well.  That did the trick!   Next day I came home from school to an unexpected surprise:  the ugly duckling basket was gone, and in its place was a tall, really neat basket - still damp - but perfectly made!

Two days later the kids arrived, and amidst reeds flipping and flopping everywhere, we began our big project under Mom's newly acquired skill!  It took a couple of meetings to finish the baskets, and some turned out better than the others, but we DID learn how to weave.  And Mom learned a valuable lesson about reading ALL the instructions.

The projects for the rest of the year weren't quite as ambitious.  Mom taught us to how to braid with plastic - round, flat, square...  We probably used up a couple of miles of mile colored plastic lacing from Brumfield's.  Braiding plastic was THE hot cub scout activity - Scouts everywhere were learning to braid.  I don't believe there was a father in Biloxi that year who didn't get a plastic braided key chain for Christmas!

As could be expected, our meetings had their chaotic moments - like the time Billy Miles' mother was late to pick him up.  And Mom asked him to wait in our living room while we cleaned up the garage - I mean, cub den. Everything was fine, until Mom returned unannounced and found Billy using the couch as a trampoline.  This, of course, was a big NO-NO!

Billy also had a tendency to wander off and away - even though Mom had made it clear - we were to not to leave the den during meetings.  I'm sure, there were times Mom had hoped Billy wouldn't return, but - true to her sense of duty as a den mother, she would put me in charge of the pack while she wandered about the neighborhood looking for the young escapee.

Eventually, Billy was un-invited to the meetings, and Mom made him an example she was not going to put up with any nonsense - and she didn't!

November... 

Dad had just planted the Winter grass.  Now, Winter grass, is nothing more than rye seed - it sprouts into a delicate baby fine green cover that mixes with the brown St. Augustine grass giving the illusion of a green lawn through the Winter months.  It's pretty fragile stuff - you can't walk on it.  Well, unknown to us, Dickie's brother Joey, brought a friend along to keep him company while waiting for Dickie.  They were both supposed to sit on our front porch, but apparently they got into a scuffle, and began rolling on the lawn - pulling up fistfuls of Winter grass in the process.  Mom was the first to discover them and gazed in horror at the damage they had done.  Her horror turned to anger, and without really thinking, she told Joey that he would have to go home, and that he was not welcome back.

Now this was not good... You see, Dickie wasn't allowed to make the trip from home by himself, so without Joey, Dickie would have to drop out of the Scouts.  Sadly, they departed, and walked home for the last time.

Later that night, as Mom was cleaning up after supper, the doorbell rang.  She walked to the window, and turned on the porch light.  There stood Joey all alone.  His eyes were red and swollen from crying. "Miss Klein," he stuttered "I came back to say I'm sorry for what I did.  I'll fix your grass - I'll do anything, just don't kick Dickie out of the Scouts for what I did.  Please." And he began sobbing again.

Well, realizing the situation, Mom was heartbroken for the poor kid, and almost began crying herself!  She opened the door, and asked Joey to come in.  She told him not to worry, and that he and Dickie could come back, but that he would just have to behave better.

Joey promised.

Mom telephoned Dickie’s parents, and told them she would drive Joey home because it was dark out.

That was November.

April – Spring time.

The State was restoring the beaches – replacing the sand lost to tides and storms.  All along the coast sand dredges lay anchored out in the channel, pumping silt from the shallow Mississippi sound.  Like homeless vipers giant pipes were strewn on the shore – reaching out to the dredges at the channel marker.  Each pipe spewed out fine, black silt, loaded with sea life, and it stunk for weeks on end - until the sun bleached it out.  There were piles of the stuff all along the twelve miles of beach between Biloxi’s Point and Gulfport.  At the foot of Porter Avenue just beyond the old Lighthouse, was the largest pile - a mountain of black flecked sand - twenty, maybe thirty feet high.  At that time, it was probably the highest point in Biloxi!  I remember passing it on the way to school everyday ... watching it get higher and higher - wondering just where it would stop. "Dad, do you think they'll make it taller than the Lighthouse?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so." he answered with a smile.

But I really hoped they wouldn't stop it.  I WANTED to see it taller than the Lighthouse.  We already had a name for it ... "Biloxi Mountain"!

Wednesday, Cub Scout day. 

The meeting was over, and Joey headed back home with Dickie in tow.  Two hours later, the phone rang.  It was Mr. Moran.  He asked if the kids were there - Mom told him no.

Minutes later.

The phone rang again.  This time Dad answered it. "Yes.  Yes.  Oh, Lord, no..." I heard him say.  Mom asked him what was wrong.  He left without explaining, and said he would be back shortly. We watched from the front window as he left the driveway in the old Chevy truck, and turning down Carter Avenue back towards the lighthouse - the same route he took everyday to work.  We just knew the bakery boiler had exploded, or maybe Grandpa was hurt - or maybe it was Grandma - maybe she had another one of her fainting spells.  We didn't really know what had happened.

Mom picked up the phone.  I don't know who she called, but all of a sudden she got real quiet.  She bit her lips; her face turned white, and she began crying -quietly - trying to hold back the tears.  Then she hung up the phone gently - without even saying good-bye.

"What the matter, Mama?" - Chuck and I begged her to answer.  "What's wrong..?"  She just shook her head, and tried not to cry.  But it was no use.  Then she heaved a sigh, and sat down on the bottom step of the stairway with her hands folded across her aproned lap.

"Remember me telling you kids about not going near that sand pile by the light house?"

"You mean Biloxi Mountain ?" I asked.

"Yes.  THAT sand pile.  Well, Dickie finally came home a little while ago and told his parents that he and Joey were digging a tunnel in it - and Joey was lost..."

"What do you mean, Mom?  Lost..." - Chuck asked.

"Gone..."  was all she could say. She teared up again.

Even though we were in our pajamas, the three of us walked out to the end of our sidewalk, and looked towards the Lighthouse.  A faint fog had rolled in from the Gulf, and the misty air pulsed with flashing red lights around the lighthouse.  Distant sounds of sirens and shouting crept in with the breeze.  More flashing lights arrived – then silence. It was scary.

I didn’t understand.  Joey was here -just a little while ago.

The familiar old gray Chevy appeared through the mist, and Dad turned up the driveway.  It was as if time had stopped.  The silence, the lights, and no carss passing by on the normally busy highway. We turned back towards the house - meeting Dad just as he came in the back door.  You could tell he had been crying too.

"The kid's gone..."   Again, it took some explaining to get it across to Chuck, but, I knew.  I knew what they meant.

I remember that night praying for Joey.  But, I wondered "What am I really praying for..?"   If Joey was with God, like Mom and Dad explained, and being with God was "perfect happiness" - like the nun's explained.. then what else was there to pray for?   "Oh, I know..."  - I finally figured it out... "I guess this means that Dickie will have to drop out of scouts!"   Yes, that's what I decided to pray for that night ... that Dickie would be able to come back to Scouts.

Two days later at school, there was a funeral mass for Joey.  The whole school attended.  I remember him lying in the small white coffin at the front of the church.  He was all dressed in white - it was his confirmation suit, Dickie told me later.  All the kids marched by the coffin silently staring at Joey.  I remember thinking that he looked asleep.  I tiptoed by - scared of waking him, but then I realized I was just nervous or being silly or something.  I was confused – not knowing or understanding my emotions. I had never seen a dead kid before - especially one I knew.

I'll never forget passing the pew where Joey’s family sat.  I spotted Dickie first - he looked so tired - like he hadn't slept over the last two days. And Beverly - her lips were moving in prayer, but her face was blank. Dickie's Mom was leaning against his Dad's shoulder - both grief-stricken and lost in memories.  But I especially remember Joey's grandmother.  She sat huddled at the end of the pew – staring into space; she was past whatever’s beyond heartbroken.  Joey was her first grandson – her favorite.

Yes, Joey was gone.  And later that week, Biloxi Mountain was gone too.

There were only a few more scout meetings – things were never quite the same. My interests were changing - I spent more time on the piano.  Besides, the idea of graduating from activities in our garage to sleeping out in unfamiliar mosquito infested woods, eating under-cooked eggs, and risking snakebite (with or without that deluxe kit from Brumfield's) - somehow, the whole idea became less appealing with each Scout meeting.  I think it was a mutual decision between all of us kids and Mom to disband the den.  We had our fill of reciting pledges, memorizing lists of Indian names, and braiding colored plastic.

The bottle cap boot scraper door mat was our final project – a square board with bottle caps nailed to it – teeth facing up.   And, for those who didn't finish, Mom doled out the remaining bottle caps, and nails - from Chuck's bottomless nail bag. She scooped handfuls of caps and nails into small brown paper bags for each scout to take home with their little hammers.  Imagine, young boys sent home with nails and a hammer.  Unwittingly, Mom had found the perfect way to “share the joys of Scouting” each cub’s parents - the parents whotook it easy while Mom supervised their "cute little cub scouts" - hacking, sawing, hammering, fighting, crying, and poking each other.

Ah, such are the joys of Scouting ...

- - -

© 2014 – Fred J. Klein  - Revision 3/7/2014

Memories, Chapter 20 - The House On Carter Avenue

CHAPTER 20

THE HOUSE ON CARTER AVENUE

 Every bus in Biloxi looked alike–tan, green, and dusty–except after a good rain when they sported dark oily stripes that lasted for a few days. The only way to tell them apart was the outside routing sign. In Biloxi, it read either "POINT CADET", or "GULFPORT", or "CAILLAIVET" or "KEESLER"–depending on whether you wanted to go East, West, North/South or onto the Air Force Base. "GULFPORT" was my bus. The driver was a young man whose hair was thick but prematurely gray. He looked a lot like Paul Drake—Perry Mason's assistant on the TV show, and I was fascinated by the resemblance. One afternoon while dropping my money into the coin collector, I asked him if he was related to Paul Drake.

"Sure, kid. Now, move to the back, sit down and be quiet." –was all I got in return. So much for meeting famous people on a Biloxi city bus.  

The bus ride was boring. Everything was always the same—the same people carrying the same brown paper shopping bags–getting on and off at the same places–usually sitting in the same seats. And the inside of the bus was always the same. Dirty! Soiled foot worn black rubber mats lined the aisles. Small piles of litter were scattered everywhere–cigarette butts, empty match books, scraps of paper, and bits of smashed popcorn from the Kresses' 5 and 10. Winter afternoons were the worst for riding the bus–its captive air reeking with stale cigarette smoke and sweaty day workers headed home for the evening. But today the weather was perfect and several windows were ajar. It was nice to smell the fresh clean air–though it whistled loudly through the half-open windows making conversation impossible. What difference did it make? The talk was always the same.  

I daydreamed a bit until I felt the bus slowing on its decent down Porter Avenue—bouncing and rocking all the way down. It was time to get ready—home was less than a mile away. The traffic light was still green when the bus reached the beach intersection. It slowed, turned, and began the gentle incline up West Beach Boulevard.  

The bus's engine droned and vibrated while the driver frantically shifted gears; the bus lurched unevenly—testing everyone's patience. Sometimes the vibration was so bad, the sliding windows began rattling like they were going to fall out. Then someone would pound the frame with their fist—or slam the offensive window shut.  

Mary Helen sat in front of me. I peeked over the edge of the high backed seat. She stared at her "music"(which was “Greek” to me)—her tiny fingers tapping out patterns on an invisible keyboard. She was in another world—totally unaware of my staring, the noise, and the grime that surrounded her. I felt a little bit envious.  

I sensed the bus nearing the old Biloxi Cemetery, and reflexively reached up and yanked the cord—signaling the driver for my stop. “DING!” The bus slowed, coasted, and finally crawled into the parking bay before the old Father Ryan house. The bus halted with a jolt causing the passengers to recoil in unison. Re-gathering my books, I stood as soon as the doors flapped open. But instead of careening down the aisle, carelessly bumping the other riders as usual, I held back and let Mary Helen lead the way.  

At the front of the bus, she descended the metal stairway slowly, gracefully. She stepped out like a dainty princess leaving her carriage taking care to modestly hold her dark blue pleated skirt below her knees. Still clutching her "music" tightly to her chest she smiled ever so faintly as if to let me know that she was leading, and I was following—for a change.  

We paused on the sidewalk to shift our books as the bus doors wheezed and flapped shut. The diesel engine whined briefly, and let out a bellowing roar as the bus lurched forward like a sprinter into the passing traffic. In seconds, it had vanished—leaving a dark exhaust billow suspended in its place. A sudden Gulf breeze enveloped the hazy cloud and nudged it up Carter Avenue.
 
"There. That's where we're going." Mary Helen pointed towards the top of the hill.  

Almost hidden from view, the old house lay among centuries old oaks. Their gnarled and twisted gray limbs reached towards the house caressing the weathered dark green siding – the drab colors blending into a single green-gray patch-work quilt. A single magnolia tree—twice my height—grew beside the house—its base strewn with a thick tan carpet of dead leaves—undisturbed for years. As if trying to compete for attention with the massive oaks, the dwarf magnolia flaunted dozens of white blossoms—sprawled wide revealing a brilliant center splashed with yellow and red. The delightfully sweet magnolia fragrance filled the air.  

A double wide porch clung precariously to the front of the house. Spaced evenly along the porch's edge, plain square gray columns supported a canopy of rusty corrugated tin. At one end of the porch a drab rough-hewn glider hung from the ceiling rafters. It rocked lazily—moved by invisible hands—gusts from the white-capped Gulf waters beyond the beach highway. A broad stairway dangled from the porch's edge; its steps, rotted and crumbling, descended into an enormous front yard that sloped gently towards the roadway.  

The yard was unkempt, and the brutal spring rains hadn’t helped its looks. Everywhere there were run-off ruts gouged deeply into the scrub grass—exposing patches of gray sandy soil. Even the weeds fought to grow in the barren soil. Small mounds of leaves and bits of branches lay strewn about from some past storm. On one side of the yard, lay a bed of discarded rotting leaves. Randomly spaced, neglected camellia bushes huddled together, cowering beneath the intimidating oaks.  

Above, the dark gray Spanish moss spilled from the heights of the giant oak trees. Thick garlands cascaded and draped from branch to branch and branch to ground. Small bundles of the stuff had fallen onto the house—now growing on its own—creating a delicate fringe-work along the tin roof's edges. The moss ends played with each passing eddy—waving and twisting, like tiny living creatures dancing to some inaudible tune.  

Along the perimeter of the roof, decaying wooden rain gutters hung loosely—in places separated—from the roof's edges. The clogged and broken gutters, now housed miniature forests of ferns and tiny oak seedlings that peered out from within soil laden troughs.  

For years—too many years to remember—the tree and the house had grown old together – almost becoming one entity—inseparable survivors of the ravages of time. 

As we walked, Mary Helen turned to ask, "Shouldn't you tell your mom where you're going?"  

"No, it's OK, I won't be too long. I'll explain when I get home."  

“Well, if I were you, I would tell MY mom first." 

"It's OK”, I said sharply.  

We trudged up the hill. A short concrete walkway lay half hidden beside the house and led to a three stairs. Reaching the top, the porch groaned and creaked underfoot. I followed Mary Helen closely – avoiding the patches of tin that had been nailed over the dangerously rotten spots. Mary Helen paused at the front screen door. The chalky white frame supported a few chards of brittle screening—hardly any protection from Biloxi's notorious mosquitoes! Suddenly, I felt a bit wary. Where was I going? What kind of person lived in a place like this? Menacing scenes from Hansel and Gretel popped into my head  

"Now, you have to let ME do the introductions. Mrs. Howe is MY music teacher." Mary Helen demanded.  

I thought: "Geeeeee, girls can be sooo bossy… but I have to be on my best behavior—after all I am the guest.”  

She tugged at the door. Its rusty hinges cackled. Mary Helen turned to warn me, "Don't let the door slam. Mrs. Howe doesn't like doors slamming—especially when she's teaching."  

We stepped into a long hallway littered with bits of cracked aging linoleum. I spotted another screen door at the far end leading to a yard. Overhead a single light bulb hung suspended—within arm's reach. In the bulb’s harsh glare, the dirty cracked plaster walls looked like ancient ruins—bits and pieces of paint, plaster, and leaves littered the floor.  

The light bulb caught my attention—the tarnished brass socket with its twisted wires covered in spotted yellow cloth – the wires disappearing upwards to a mildewed ceiling – stretching to the side walls and trailing down the hallway. Stubby white glass insulators held the wires in place along the walls—evidence that the house predated electricity. The light bulb jerked erratically – hit by a sudden draft rushing through the breezeway.  

Mary Helen turned to the right, and opened another screen door. This one was freshly painted—its screening perfectly intact. Inside, a dark paneled door with a bulbous porcelain doorknob guarded the entrance. Mary Helen gave two polite knocks, twisted the knob, and opened the door for us both. I was careful not to let the screen door slam.  

The room was dim – almost dark. I found myself facing a wall of dusty windows—tightly shut, and cloaked by a thick hedge outside. I was briefly blinded by the pinpoints of light that managed to pierce the dense growth. By degrees, as my eyes adjusted, the darkness lifted, and I strained to make out the room's contents. Old furniture lay about—meticulously arranged in the small room: a couch, two chairs, a desk, and a black upright piano that commanded the largest share of space. A cut linoleum rug lay in the room's center—its surface scarred and pocked with wear. Nearest the couch was a door frame draped with a flimsy remnant of faded chintz cloth modestly concealing the room within. The cloth stirred, then parted, and a bent shape appeared and shuffled into the room.  

"Oh, Mary Helen, I've been waiting for you. I see you brought a friend." A faceless form spoke from the shadows, obviously the voice of a very old lady.  

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Howe, the bus was late. This is Fred Klein. He's from my school, and he wants to know more about piano lessons," Mary Helen said.  

The old lady answered kindly but with an air of firmness in her voice, "Well, it was very nice of you to bring him today. I'm glad to meet you, Freddie. We'll get started now. Please take a seat on the couch over there, and you must promise not to interrupt our lesson or make any disturbances. If you get bored, you may leave at any time."  

"Freddie?" I thought. "Freddie! I hate being called that." I sulked over to the couch settling at the end nearest the piano. The heavy knitted throw cover puckered and sagged from the arm rest. I replaced it as best I could. Below, I felt the sharp edges of springs protruding from the worn cushions. While Mrs. Howe and Mary Helen flipped through the books reviewing the last lesson, I scanned the dark room. They say you can tell a lot about people—by the way they furnish their houses, and I was really curious to learn more about this old lady—the first piano teacher I had ever met.  

My eyes strained—adapting to the darkness that seemed to suck up the every detail within the room. There were no colors, only gray shapes. I felt the room growing uncomfortably stuffy. Why was it so warm? I leaned over the couch's side, and found the source. Heat waves billowed from a gas space heater. Its honeycombed porcelain plates glowed cherry red—immersed in flickering blue flames. Although it was April, and the weather was perfect, the room began to feel more like mid-summer. I quietly removed my light sweater, and sat on it—attempting in vain to cover a pesky spring that had broken through the seat cushion. I noticed the wall beside the entrance doorway.  

Half embedded in the wall, a neat column of reddish gray bricks formed a chimney. At the base, a small tile hearth jutted out into the room, and near the chimney's top a round metal disk covered a flue—telltale traces of an old wood-burning stove. In the room's opposite corner a short black wooden cabinet proudly displayed stacks upon stacks of sheet music. The shelves were full to the point of almost spilling over.  

Outside a passing cloud eclipsed the feeble sunlight. The room grew darker. The lamp at the piano's top edge spotlighted its host—the room's principal character—the piano. Looking like some alien's toothless grin, the short black keys receded among the longer dull yellow ivory keys. The key heights were slightly uneven—signs of wear and age. The dull yellow glare from the keyboard radiated into the room but was quickly consumed by the darkness. On the wall behind the piano, the reading lamp threw tall shadows creating a surreal audience—hovering about, waiting for the mighty one to speak.  

Mrs. Howe curled forward from the straight-backed chair at Mary Helen's side. She spoke softly, her head cast down while carefully turning the pages with the strange runes... Outside, the cloud moved on, and brilliant sunlight streamed into the room for a few moments. I strained to get a glimpse of the old lady. She wore a light cotton print dress and house-slippers. Her hair was tied up in a red bandanna, firmly knotted at the back. Wisps of yellowish white hair peeked out the top and bottom of the bandanna—puffing out above the sides of her black framed glasses. Her face was so incredibly wrinkled it seemed to be melting. The loose skin draped along her jaw line—the soft folds shaking whenever she spoke or moved. Her voice was gentle. Clear. Calm.  

Something brushed against my leg. I felt a cold wet sensation against the back of my hand. I jumped and let out a gasp—more embarrassed than frightened for making a sound. The old lady turned and smiled.  

"It's all right. That's Poochie. She just wants to make friends. Now, Poochie, you go lie down!" she commanded gently. A small, pudgy, black, long-haired cur with a white bib stared up at me from the darkness. You could tell she was an old dog by the way she moved. I scratched her head—it was soft and silky. She stood there, perfectly still for a few seconds while I stroked her back. The faint scents of dog odor and lilac dusting powder arose from her thick fur. Having enough attention, she looked up, smiled, gave me another lick, then turned and hobbled away. Moving slowly across the linoleum, her long claws tapped out faint clicks that echoed through the room. At last, she snuggled onto the pillow beside her mistress.  

Mrs. Howe returned to the book. She paused, and stopped at one page. Taking a deep breath she began to tell the story of the boy composer—how he wrote it, night after night on the roof by the moonlight.  

"You must think of these things, Mary Helen, as you play, and you will feel what young Beethoven felt those nights under the stars," she explained.  

At last, looking up at Mary Helen, she smiled and handed her the open book. As she leaned towards the light, I saw the old lady clearly. Her teeth were clean and shiny but slightly yellowed, uneven and widely spaced. Deep blue watery eyes gazed from beyond her thick glasses. Something told you she was totally dedicated to music and to teaching. Maybe it was the way she spoke—the way she reverently handled the music book. Every movement betrayed her intense love of the composition and its composer.  

Skeptically, I watched Mary Helen carefully positioning her fingers over the keys. Once in place, she leaned to the side looking towards the floor, straining to reach the foot pedals below. Then she sat upright—frozen in perfect form. She began.  

The music came forth—irregular at first. Then it flowed from the tips of Mary Helen's slender fingers. It filled the room with melancholy sounds that drifted then swirled about summoning images from the darkness. I felt the house reverberating and awakening. The doleful sounds escaped from the room and seeped into the old house's darkest recesses—awakening spirits' memories and feelings lost and long forgotten. I was entranced, mystified, amazed, and a bit frightened. How was it possible for these beautiful sounds to be captured in writing—a mass of jumbled lines, spots, and squiggles on a sheet of paper?  

I listened and watched in disbelief. The tiny girl I thought I had known—was now possessed. The room's darkness intensified as the silhouette at the keyboard took full command of the giant instrument. Her delicate form swayed imperceptibly—her finger tips caressing the immense keyboard—reflexively landing on each key with precision and grace. The music poured forth—then soared out in song—a song without words created centuries ago.  

Soon, too soon—the music began to die—slowly at first. A faint chord sounded—followed by an almost imperceptible echo. Mary Helen remained motionless—her tiny fingers frozen to the keys. The house resonated, sighed, and then there was peace. Poochie raised her head, looked about, then returned to her slumber.  

Mrs. Howe spoke with a slight tremble in her voice.  

“Beautiful...  

Always... Always, Mary Helen—Always remember what you felt today whenever you play this. That was perfect. Just perfect. I think this needs TWO gold stars."  

Smiling with delight, the old lady turned to the desk nearby. She reached for a small cardboard box, opened it and removed two gold foil stars. Moistening each star, she pressed them firmly—almost with religious devotion onto the music's title page. I saw a tear escape from her eye. It began to roll—then dissipated among the deep wrinkles.  

I sensed it was time to go. All of a sudden the spell was broken—that darn spring had worked its way through my wadded up sweater; and the room was growing unbearably hot. It was the right moment. I stood, and walked forward as quietly as I could—the linoleum crackled underfoot.  

"Mrs. Howe? Excuse me, but if you don't mind, I really have to go home now."  

She turned slightly towards me and asked, "Well, what do you think? Would you like to take piano lessons?"  

"Me?" Startled at this unexpected invitation I found myself speechless – feeling frightened and anxious. After a moment, I found myself blurting out, "Yes! Oh, yes!"  

She turned back to the desk, searching briefly for a pencil. Finding one, she held it up to the light to check the point. Satisfied, she moistened the tip, and carefully printed something on a slip of paper. Folding the paper once, she handed it to me. It was then I noticed her aging hands—bony, wrinkled, but ever so soft and delicate. A dull gold wedding band dangled loosely on her left hand. On her right hand she wore a single gold ring with a deep green emerald. I wondered if she could still play.  

"Well here's my phone number. Tell your mom or dad to call me, and I'll discuss the matter with them," she kindly replied.  

I thanked her once again. Leaving, I was very careful not to slam the screen doors. I paused to look up again at the light bulb. It was still dancing in the wind. Outside as I passed the window on the porch, I heard Mary Helen beginning another piece, and although I wanted to stay, something told me I would soon return.

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Mrs. Anna Howe - at my first recital

Memories, Chapter 7 - Oh No, Not Santa!

Christmas, 1947

We lived above my family's bakery - I was just four years old, and my cousin, Danny was turning three in February. Here's a picture taken that fall - (only in Biloxi, Mississippi, would you have a winter picture with a palm tree backdrop...)


I can't explain the palm tree backdrop.


Danny was quite a character - always hyper, and easily upset (as you'll soon see).

He had flaming red curly hair. Here's a shot of him behind the bakery.



The family living room had large overstuffed furniture - finished in pre-WW2 synthetic velvet that felt more like sandpaper! Here's a shot of my grandfather, Uncle Junie, grandmother and me on the "big sofa" when I turned one!


Do you remember your first encounter with Santa?

Well, my first meeting was quite different than most...

THE SANTA CLAUS AFFAIR

To a four year-old, Christmas is one of those strange words invented by adults trying to keep control - as in "...Be good. Christmas is coming...” Even so, as children we sensed that something wonderful was about to happen. Then suddenly, on one cold December day, the old console radio that took up the entire corner of the living room disappeared. In its place was a decorated tree. Strangers dropped by for visits. Magically, decorations bloomed everywhere. The shop windows lining Howard Avenue shimmered in frosty silver with giant floating snowflakes and curled red ribbons cascading through boughs of greenery and holly.

In the bakery, all the display cases overflowed with pies, and cookies. Cakes lined the shelves— packed shoulder to shoulder - decorated with leaves of dark green icing and tiny red beads. There were coconut cakes, plain white cakes, chocolate cakes, and my favorite - devil's food with chocolate icing topped with a small candied cherry half on the top. (The cherry marked “devil's food inside!”)

The showcase windows sparkled with silver and green foil garlands while red cellophane wreaths hung magically with bubbling lights in the center. A life-sized cardboard display of someone called Santa Claus - holding a bottle of Coca Cola stood next to the delicatessen case. Yes, something big was about to happen - maybe even bigger than the day Annabelle, one of our waitresses, dropped a tray of glasses behind the lunch counter.

It was early evening - on Christmas Eve. Danny and I were playing on the floor in the living room. The room was crowded - our grandparents and parents nearby, speaking in low voices. Danny and I were allowed to unwrap "just one..." of the many presents stuffed under the tree - dropped off by friends and neighbors during the day.

I can see the scene so clearly - the enormous overstuffed sofa and arm chairs - covered in a dark green material - a simulated velvet that only vaguely resembled the real thing - the nap was so short and stiff that it felt like Dad's whisker stubble. The massive furniture with giant arm chairs that could hold THREE people — one seated and one on each of the broad arm rests. And when you snuggled onto one of the foot thick cushions, it sort of swallowed you up. The sofa was in the corner and stretched past the window - leaving a large space behind it.

Between the two chintz curtained windows a red brick mantel gas fireplace wafted heat waves into the crowded room. Inside the fireplace three remarkable grayish brown logs glowed brilliantly as blue-white hot flames danced and darted about their edges — remarkable because they never burned away! A squatty Douglas Fir tree cowered in the corner of the room -modestly decorated with blown glass ornaments - most from Dad's childhood - odd shapes of silver-frosted and colored glass that we "...could look at but not touch..." Sometimes - without warning, an ornament slid off the branches did a defiant half-bounce on the hardwood floor and disintegrated into a thousand pieces.

THUD ... Bounce... PING ... SHATTER! "Well, that's the end of that one!"- my Aunt would say.

Mom called out: "Yes, you two, stop running around - you're going to wreck the tree..." Then, for about 45 seconds we quietened down. We had to work the excitement out of our system.

"Just like a bunch of wild Indians...” my Grandpa muttered under his breath -all the time smiling at our antics -never really expecting to calm us down.

Globs of old fashioned lead foil tinsel covered the short quaking tree. Once beautifully decorated days before -each strand had been meticulously and thoughtfully placed -creating the illusion of real icicles. But with all the commotion and shaking in the room for the past week, strands rained steadily onto the floor. When no one was looking, Danny and I retrieved the stray icicles -sweeping them up into our tiny hands, wadding them into a tight bunch, and THROWING them as high as we could back onto the tree. After a few days of "redecorating", the icicles became tinsel clusters.

Oh, yes, there were the BIG electric lights - you know the ones the size of a bird's egg - but more pointed on the end. The translucent paint had chipped off some of the bulbs -and you could see the white hot filament inside -it cast a sharp rays of light through the branches making the grayish tinsel sparkle. Some of the speckled bulbs nearest the wall created shadows and shapes that looked like small animals and people that moved and danced when the tree shuddered.

Across the room was an old upright player piano that had seen its better days - now fallen victim to our relentless poundings - strings broken, keys frozen in up and down positions. A small manger scene was laid out on top of the piano on a white cloth. It was ALMOST out of our reach - that is unless you climbed on the piano bench and stood on the piano keyboard -something we weren't supposed to do -at least NOT while anyone was watching...

Even though we were only three years old we sensed that "Riss-mus" -- as Danny called it - was more than just a strange word, indeed it was something very special.

Suddenly, the room was quiet. We heard a knocking sound from the next room -Someone (or SOMETHING) was at the stairway door. Danny and I looked at each other - WHAT COULD IT BE?

Dad got up from his armchair - "I wonder WHO that is...?" He crossed through the small dining room and opened the door leading down the dark foreboding stairway to the silent bakery below. Danny and I moved cautiously towards the doorway - just far enough to sneak a glimpse at the mysterious visitor.

As the door creaked open, we heard a loud "Merry Christmas - Ho Ho HO!" I thought, "Who's Mary?"

By now Danny was more frightened than curious - his eyes bulged out – looking like a cartoon character. The stranger moved from the shadows into the room past my Dad. What a sight! It was a small creature dressed in a dull red suit, a wide black belt, a droopy pointed cap. It was wearing rain boots. It carried a bulging bag that looked just like a bakery flour sack. The suit, the hat, and the face were all trimmed with the same white fluff stuff Danny and I sometimes pulled from a secret hole in one of the sofa cushions - when no one was around.

"And who do I see here...?" the creature spoke, drawing toward the two of us. We stood - frozen to the spot. The red thing leaned down and moved closer. I saw Danny beginning to quiver - his face "scrooching- up" with that look of terror that preceded one of his famous "screams that would wake the dead..." -I knew what was coming next, and instinctively I shoved my finger into my ears.

"AhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" he yelled - his white pallor blooming into a crimson red.

He pivoted around -flailing his arms in the air -bolting back into the living room. He made a couple of passes through the crowded living room - nearly slipping on the throw rugs. He was trying to get out - but both bedroom doors were closed! He knew he was trapped! He circled around again -now back to the sofa, and with one super-boy-style leap, he sprang from the floor to the seat of the sofa, and without pausing, he DOVE head-first over the back -landing on the floor behind with a dull thud.

"Oh my God, now he's broken his neck," I heard Aunt Ellie say. Everyone crowded around the sofa - pulling it away from the corner. The room was quiet - except for the low sobbing coming from behind the sofa. Uncle Ralph reached for Danny - but just touching him intensified the screams. Finally, Uncle Ralph convinced him to leave his hiding place, but Danny would have no part of the HO-HO creature - each attempt to re-introduce the two ended in more screaming fits. After a few minutes of this, everyone agreed it was probably best if Santa went on his way - and he left quietly the same way he arrived.

The stair door was shut and bolted. It took a while, but eventually Danny calmed down. The scene slowly returned normal as we began tearing into the wrapped boxes left behind by the unwelcomed visitor.

Years later, I found out that the part of the unwelcome Santa was played by my Aunt Leona - who lived down the street -actually she was my Grandmother's cousin. Needless to say, there was never another visit from Mr. -er, MRS. Santa again!

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