Crossing the River Ohio

By Hazel Clayton Harrison

A coming of age story of a young, colored girl growing up during the sixties in Midwestern America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483531519

Book preview

Ohio.

Winter in the Promised Land

Aunt Josephine’s eyes bored holes through Billie and me as we tiptoed past her and knelt in front of the potbellied stove that squatted in the corner of her kitchen. I was only two years old at the time and Billie was a playful mischievous boy of four. He sat on the floor with his arms folded and a sullen look on his pecan face. Minutes earlier, gazing out the living room window, we had jumped for joy because overnight snow had transformed the normally gray, dreary walls of Steubenville into a winter wonderland. Now under Aunt Josephine’s evil eyes we felt like thieves who had stolen money from her purse.

A short while later Mama appeared in the kitchen. Having forbidden us to go outside and play in the snow, she had climbed out of bed, pulled a sweater over her worn housedress, and come into the kitchen to warm the dark corners of the drafty old house. When she bent to add a log to the fire, Aunt Josephine jumped out of her seat.

Dorothy, it’s hot enough in here. You just wastin’ good kindling wood. Her words splintered the air.

Aunt Josephine, Daddy’s father’s sister, was meaner and crustier than an old alligator in a swamp. Since we moved in with her weeks before, all she did was complain. I’d never seen a smile cross her prune face. It was as if laughter was forbidden in her house. Normally quiet in Aunt Josephine’s presence, Mama had avoided her wrath until then. Now she rose to her full five foot frame and looked Aunt Josephine dead in the eye. I don’t care if this is yo’ house, she said, I ain’t lettin’ my chirren freeze to death.

I sucked in my breath. That was the first time I had ever heard anybody talk back to Aunt Josephine. I’d seen grown men cower under her tongue lashings. Now she stood with her mouth hung open, her eyes big as hard boiled eggs. She stood there for what seemed like an eternity then turned and retreated into her room.

After she left, Mama turned around and dropped a log in the stove. As she stoked the fire, I stared at her in wonder. Where did she get the nerve to stand up to that old witch? In that instant I knew that Mama possessed an incredible power. I wondered where it came from and hoped to someday grow up to be like her.

As a young child, I wondered why Daddy had moved us away from the South where generations of our family had worked in cotton and tobacco fields. Later, I learned that he moved us north to escape boll weevils and Jim Crow. He chose Steubenville because he had heard the steel mills were hiring and he had relatives living there who promised to give us a place to stay. Still I questioned why he moved us to such a God awful place.

Located about thirty miles west of Pittsburgh on the banks of the Ohio River, Steubenville was a far cry from the Promised Land I’d heard about. It was a grimy, soot covered steel town run by corrupt union and city officials and a haven for mobsters.

Near the downtown area Wheeling Steel sprawled like a huge fire breathing dragon. In the wee hours of morning white, brown and tanned skin workers wearing overalls, hard hats and steel toed shoes could be seen walking down Seventh Street swinging their lunch pails. After a while, they seemed to disappear into the belly of the beast.

The mills may have been the town’s main source of employment, but they were also a source of despair. Twenty-four hours a day smoke stacks poured black toxic smoke into the air giving the whole town an awful sulfurous smell. And on its serpentine course past the town, the Ohio River reeked of chemicals and waste.

Though the river was omnipresent in our lives, I didn’t know much about it until I went to grade school. There I learned that the Allegheny River to the north and Monongahela from the south merged to form the Ohio River, which ran into the Mississippi. That was about all we were taught about the river that coursed an ominous path through our lives.

Perhaps because it played a major role in American history, our teachers taught us more about the Mississippi River than its tributaries. First, we learned how to spell it. We sang M-I-Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter-I-Hump-Back-Hump Back-I. We read stories about Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn and their adventures along the Mississippi. But there were no romantic stories to read about the Ohio River. And because it was so heavily polluted, no one fished or picnicked on its banks.

In those days my father was a tall, slender, tobacco colored man with hands dark and calloused from working as a sharecropper. His real name was Morris but all his relatives in the South affectionately called him Brother. When we lived in the South, he would pick me up in those strong hands and swing me above his head. Riding on his broad shoulders, I could see cotton fields stretching into the distance like big puffy white clouds in the sky. But for some reason, Daddy stopped carrying me on his shoulders after we moved to Ohio. Perhaps it was because I had grown heavier, and in the North without the support of his parents and siblings, he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

When we first moved to Steubenville, Daddy had no luck finding work at Wheeling Steel. Fortunately he knew how to repair cars, so the owner of Pietro DiNova and Sons auto dealership on Third Street hired him as a part time mechanic. But a part time job didn’t pay enough for him to feed a family of four much less to afford to move us into a place of our own. So for what seemed like an eternity we endured living under Aunt Josephine’s tyranny. When the mill finally offered him a job as a laborer in the spring of 1951, we all danced around Aunt Josephine’s kitchen like newly freed slaves.

My father had learned to manage money from one of his best economics teachers, his mother, lona Robinson Clayton, who had to feed a family of seven on a sharecropper’s wages during the Great Depression. And within six months after starting to work at the mill, he had saved up enough money to put a down payment on a one-bedroom shotgun house on Franklin Avenue. I’ll never forget the day he took us to see the house. It was no bigger than a single car garage, but from the way Billie and I acted, running from room to room, peaking into closets and cupboards, you would have thought we were moving into the Taj Mahal.

Why is the house called a shotgun? I asked Daddy after exploring all of its nooks and crannies.

He chuckled and said, Because if somebody shot a gun through the front door, the bullet would exit through the back door.

Standing on the front porch, I hoped no one would ever shoot a gun through our front door. Sure enough all three rooms lined up like a row of blocks. A living room stood in the front, a bedroom in the middle, and a kitchen in the back. The back door led to a narrow alley where children played kick ball in summer. The house was tiny and cramped but after cleaning from top to bottom, Mama decorated the rooms to make them look cozy. She hung ruffled curtains on the windows and covered bare spots in the linoleum with colorful rag rugs. She furnished the rooms with second hand furniture - bunk beds for Billie and me and a living room sofa that magically turned into a bed at night for her and Daddy. Once we got settled, I felt a sense of place and belonging for the first time since we left Georgia.

A place of their own must have eased the tension between my parents and rekindled the flame in their marriage. One spring morning Mama went into the hospital and returned carrying the cutest twin baby girls I’d ever seen. She named them Faith and Hope. By then I was four and tired of being the baby sister to a bossy older brother. I was thrilled to have two baby sisters to play with. We were a family of six then but somehow we managed to squeeze into that little bungalow.

My father’s parents, Grandpa John and Grandma lona in the 1930s or 40s.

Billie, Billie, Billie

What’s the matter Billie?

A bee stung me.

Where did it sting you?

Right on the knee.

Why didn’t you catch him?

He run too fast.

Where did he run?

Right in the grass.

(Author unknown)

Billie, Billie, Billie

For as long as I can remember Billie possessed a mischievous and devilish spirit. When we lived in the South, he had the freedom to run and play in the fields surrounding our grandparent’s farm. But after we moved up North, he was confined to smaller spaces.

One rainy afternoon he and I played on the bedroom floor. I was four years old and Billie was six at the time. The twins slept soundly in their crib which stood in a corner. The aroma of fried chicken, cornbread, and greens drifted through the house. My mouth watered as I sat on the floor watching Billie play with a toy car.

Vroom, vroom, vroom. Billie made engine noises as he ran the rubber tires of the plastic car over the linoleum. When he released the car, it flew across the floor and crashed with a loud thump against the twins’ crib. The twins stirred and mewed like kittens.

Uh, oh, I said, looking into Billie’s big brown eyes.

Mama appeared in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her eyes fell on the toy car crashed against the legs of the crib. Then they focused on Billie’s contrite face.

Didn’t I tell you to be quiet? she said.

Yes, Ma’am. Billie said, nodding his head.

Don’t make me have to come back in here, she warned.

We both knew what that meant. Mama was a left-handed belt swinger. We had both felt the sting of her lash. Terrified of getting a whipping, we sat quietly on the floor. Mama disappeared into the kitchen. Outside rain beat against the windowpane. Billie’s eyes circled the room and landed on top of the dresser. As they spied some object on the dresser, his face lit up. I was surprised when he walked over to the dresser, picked the object up, and stuck it up his nose.

I got a cold, he said, facing me. See my nose is stopped up, he added and sniffed loudly.

Curious, I went over to him and peered up his nose. I was shocked to see a green button about the size of a marble lodged in his right nostril.

Here, you try it, he said, handing me a small brown button about the size of a dime.

Uh uh, I said, shaking my head.

Then I felt the button being shoved up my nose. My body stiffened. I took a deep breath and realized Billie was right. My nose felt congested like I had a cold. I inhaled again and the button traveled farther up my nostril. We giggled as we played our new make believe game.

After a while Billie grew tired of playing the game. When he blew his nose, the green button fell into his hand. But when I blew mine, nothing happened. I blew harder but the button was stuck deep in my left nostril. I stuck my finger in my nose, but only succeeded in pushing the plastic disk farther up. The thought occurred to me that I might have to go to the hospital, and a doctor would have to surgically remove the button. Terrifíed, I started to cry.

Billie’s eyes widened. What’s wrong? he asked.

Mama’s shadow darkened the room. Do I have to get my belt? she asked.

Still sobbing, I stood there unable to speak.

Hazel’s got a button up her nose, Billie blurted the awful news.

Mama’s eyes widened. She lowered herself on her knees. Oh, my God, she said, looking up my nose.

I stood before her frozen with fear. She snatched a bobby pin off the dresser and used the instrument to probe inside the cavern of my nostril. Her right hand was a vise gripping my head. With her left hand, she dug deep inside the dark nasal passage. Beads of sweat popped on her forehead. Her hands smelled of garlic and onions. I could feel the button stuck in a cavity below my left eye. I winced as the pin scratched the delicate tissues deep inside my nose. I closed my eyes and held my breath.

Lawd Jesus help me, Mama prayed as her fingers guided the probe inside the terrain of my nose.

The delicate operation seemed to last for an eternity. Finally Mama released her grip from my head and held out her hand. Relief flooded my body as I looked down at the harmless looking brown button sitting in the palm of her hand. Mama rose from her knees. Since y’all can’t think of nothin’ better to do than stick buttons up your nose, you can go to bed without supper, she said.

Relieved to be able to breathe again, I climbed into the bottom birth of the bunk bed without a word of complaint, closed my eyes, and went straight to sleep.

After that day, I grew suspicious of Billie’s bright ideas. I blamed him for getting me in trouble and no longer trusted his judgment. We still played together, but I had learned my lesson and would no longer follow him around like a lost puppy.

He’s got the Whole World

Mama didn’t call herself a buckeye like the colored women who had lived in Steubenville for many years. She was a Georgia peach. Her skin was as smooth and creamy as peach ice cream. Gentle curves draped her five foot frame and her face was so beautiful it could have adorned the cover of a magazine.

One night I climbed out of bed to find her standing in front of the bathroom mirror putting on makeup. Standing in the narrow hallway behind the bathroom door, I watched her rub nut brown powder on her face, which made her skin look soft and supple. She lined her eyebrows with a black pencil and painted her lips with bright cherry red lipstick. I wondered if the lipstick tasted like cherries too. How delicious her lips looked as she pressed them together, then pushed them out kissing the air. The only time she wore makeup was when she was going somewhere special, and I wondered where she could be going at that time of night.

Hazel, what you doin’ up? You s’posed to be sleep, Mama said when she noticed me.

I gotta pee, I said, holding my hand between my legs and doing the pee pee dance. I didn’t really have to pee, but I knew she would send me back to bed if I told her I was just standing there watching her.

She motioned for me to come in the bathroom and use the toilet. Sitting on the toilet, I watched her style her hair. There was a knock on the door. Mama went to answer it. I wiped myself from front to back the way Mama taught me and flushed the toilet. I pulled up my flannel pajama bottoms and stood behind the door to the living room.

Mama stood in the living room talking to Aunt Lily, her only blood relative living in Ohio. Heavy set with lemon yellow skin, wide hips and a pillow soft bosom, she was not only my great aunt and surrogate grandmother but the matriarch of our northern clan. I overheard Mama talking to her.

Thanks for watching the chirren tonight. Morris should be home any minute, she said, I sure hope he ain’t been drinking. We goin’ to a party at the Elks Club. We won’t stay out too late.

Their conversation ended when Aunt Lily spotted me. Well, look who’s up, she said and opened her arms.

I flew into them and gave her a big hug. The front door opened and Daddy walked through the doorway, a big grin on his face.

How you doin’ Aunt Lily?

I’m fine, Brother. And you?

Morris, you ain’t been drinkin’ have you? Mama asked, her eyes studying his.

Naw, I ain’t had a drop. See, smell my breath, he said, opening his mouth.

Mama frowned and shook her head. C’mon, let’s go. She took her coat out of the closet, kissed me on the forehead, and hugged Aunt Lily goodbye.

After they left Aunt Lily held me in her lap and sang He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.

Her voice was a river flowing down stream. Comforted, I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke I was in my bed and she was gone. Mama’s and Daddy’s loud voices traveled down the narrow hall.

Morris, if you ever get drunk and act a fool like that again, I swear I’ll leave you and take the kids back home to Georgia, Mama yelled.

But Dorothy, I said I’m sorry. Daddy sounded truly sorry for his mistake but Mama refused to accept his apologies.

Get the hell out of my house! she screamed. There was the sound of glass shattering against the wall. A moment of heavy silence. The door slamming. Daddy’s footsteps on the porch. Mama’s crying. I wanted to go to her but I knew she would order me to go back to bed.

I lay awake in bed wondering if Daddy was gone for good. I closed my eyes. Then I heard Aunt Lily’s faint voice singing He’s got the whole world in his hands. I could see a white Jesus holding all of us in his enormous hands. Behind him, hung a