Mark My Words

By W. D. Foster

Allan Christopher is a self-made, African-American multimillionaire. Starting out with nothing but family, very high intelligence, ambition and drive, he succeeded against the odds. He dealt with racism, discrimination and the naysayers, Black and white, who were convinced he would never make it as an entrepreneur in the 1960s. Opening a fix-it shop in southside Chicago, through hard work and determination he turns it into a multi-million-dollar corporation.

He's "made his mark." His home is a thirty-room estate. He is among the Who's Who of Black America. His company is listed in the Fortune 500. He is a "mover and shaker" in the community, and all the connections that accompany it. He faithfully attends church on Sundays.

But has he made it?

With the advent of his sixtieth birthday, his character, his past and his beliefs come into focus, honor and question as his story is told through the eyes of his family, and with it his impact on their lives.

The time is 1988; the place, Chicago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 18, 2004
• ISBN: 9781414063737

W. D. Foster

W.D. Foster is a native of Minneapolis, Minnesota. He received a B.A. in psychology from Luther College, and was an original member of the multi-Grammy Award-winning ensemble, Sounds of Blackness. His passion for reading and writing was inspired by his father, who read voraciously. He shamelessly admits to a love of romance novels, whodunits and classic movies. He was also inspired by the late novelist E. Lynn Harris, who believed that an author should write the books he/she wants to read. When not in laptop writer's mode, he loves travel on the open road, nature walks, and time with his husband and son.

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© 2004 by W. D. Foster. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from theauthor.

ISBN: 1-4140-6373-3 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4140-6374-1 (Paperback)

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1:

CHAPTER 2:

CHAPTER 3:

CHAPTER 4:

CHAPTER 5:

CHAPTER 6:

CHAPTER 7:

CHAPTER 8:

CHAPTER 9:

CHAPTER 10:

CHAPTER 11:

CHAPTER 12:

CHAPTER 13:

CHAPTER 14:

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Melvin Burnside, Abaree Rayfield, Don Roman, Darrel and Natasha Polk, Rev. & Mrs. Walter Kimbrough and all the folks at Cascade United Methodist Church, Atlanta; Janice Griggs (my favorite female friend), Roberta Talley, Toni Favors and the crew at Southern Bell MAC (1990-1993); my Uncle Funny’s family; my brothers and sisters at AALGA; the Atlanta Writers’ Resource Center; Pastor E.W. Alvin and my church family at Freedom Christian Tabernacle; Florida 44; Albert Sanders (who helped me find a way around the glitch in my old computer program); Rev. S.L. Williams; my friends at First Church of Deliverance and Travelers Rest Spiritual Church, Chicago; Yvette Hay-Rachal; my brother, Arthur Foster; my extended family; Marci Rubin, Brett Merl, Dora Zayas, Richard Howe and the gang at Legal Club of America; and to Paul Borrmann; thank you for your support, your encouragement, your best wishes and your prayers. And thanks be to God for making what was once a dream a reality.

This book is dedicated

to Dad

my No. 1 fan, for his continued love and support;

to Fabian

who planted the seed;

to Stanley

who wanted the first copy.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

MAY 11,1988

As Allan Christopher flicks on a soft light in his study, it welcomes him like the haven it has always been since he and Maureen bought the estate nearly twenty-five years ago. His inner sanctum offers him time for relaxation, meditation, concentration and thought now, as well as rest for his 6’6" body.

Still no final decision on the new board member, he thinks as he drops his blue double-breasted jacket carefully on one of the cushiony high-backed chairs. With so many qualified candidates, this is taking longer than I planned on. Well, it can hold a few more days.

He loosens his tie and perks up his ears for a moment. What? No Run DMC, no L.L. Cool J., not even Prince or any of those other groups, he thinks to himself. Bernie must be out—I’d never have this kind of blessed quietness around if he were home. How he studies with that crap turned up to hurricane force is beyond me. In my day, you studied quietly or else. I’m sure he’s out somewhere with Sherman—all they’ve been talking about lately is this Holy Union business. I still don’t quite understand all of this—nineteen is a little young to be getting serious about anyone. Maybe it’s because he’s the youngest, maybe because it means he’s getting ready to leave the nest, I don’t know. I told all the kids that, and how many of them listened? Anyway, there’ll be some peace and calm for a while, and I can listen to some decent music.

He takes off his new shoes, and lets out a sigh as his size thirteen feet experience liberation from the soreness brought on from breaking them in.

He walks over to the wet bar to mix himself a tonic water and lime. Dropping a couple of ice cubes in the glass, he looks up momentarily, the two plaques on the wall in front of him catching his eye. Maureen’s masters and doctorate degrees in education; how hard she worked to earn them, how proud she was to receive them. That was one of the things their parents stressed; Once you get that education, it can’t be taken away from you. It sure was a benefit to me, he thinks. Every homework assignment she got she worked out with me. Because of that, my command of language is superb. I’m much more articulate now, on paper and orally.

A principal in a Chicago high school. I wonder how she manages some days. The kids have such different problems these days—drugs, teen pregnancy, street gangs and diseases that make syphilis seem like a common cold. When you add the problems maintaining school policy and budget restraints on top of that, it’s a wonder her hair wasn’t totally gray long before now.

With drink in hand, he meanders by the mahogany desk, allowing his eyes to linger on the framed 5x7 photograph. His lips form a slight smile, enhanced by the laugh lines on his coppery face. The sepia tones and delightful smile of Maureen’s 1947 high school class picture flash back at him. It was the first picture she had given him of herself—her makeup skillfully applied to highlight her mocha brown complexion, her dark brown hair pressed and curled into a long pageboy flip and upswept on the sides in the manner of her idol, Lena Horne. She was strikingly beautiful then. Looking at her now he still sees her beauty after forty years of marriage and eight children.

Facets of his years with her come to mind: their commitment and love for one another, the ups and downs in their lives, the intimate knowledge they have of each other, her encouragement and support (even when he was no prize to live with), raising their lively brood of children, being young and in love and… .

Hold it, he says to himself, remembering that he was only nineteen when he married Maureen. How was I any different from Bernie? Was I any more mature? Were my feelings any more of less intense then his? Maybe not, but I was working and putting myself through trade school before I did marry.

His focus shifts from his wife’s picture to the blue and orange brochure lying on top of the desk pad. On it, in bold eye-catching lettering are the words, Christopher Electronics-Prospectus 1988-89 and at the bottom is written, Victoria L. Christopher, Chief Executive Officer, Allan B. Christopher, Chairman of the Board of Directors. Vickie has done an incredible job these past two years as president, more than I ever gave her credit for when she first started with the company. I wish my sons had wanted to take over the business, even one of them—this is what I built it for. Still, how can I argue with success? This has been our best year yet, and that’s no easy feat these days. Looks like Vickie and I share a lot more in common that I thought, even as wild as she was when….A cloud comes across his brow for a second, then passes as quickly as his train of thought. She’s a great CEO, and it’s also time she found a man just as successful as she is and got married. George Collins’ son Brian might be a possibility……

The gentle tinkling of the ice cubes in his drink enhances the stillness that now captivates him. The house seems so empty, what with all the children gone save for Bernie. It doesn’t seem so long ago when I looked forward to the day when the kids would be grown and out on their own, and now…. where did all the years go? I didn’t just work them all away, and yet tomorrow I’ll be sixty years old. Sixty….what a long way from Kansas City to Evanston, including the stops in New York and Chicago. Sixty….a wife, eight children and now seventeen grandchildren. Sixty….I could retire now and be financially secure forthe rest of my life, but I’m not ready to step down yet. No, not for a long, long time. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his tonic water and lime, almost emphasizing this last declaration to himself.

He steps over to the record cabinet, basking in the comfort of the lush beige carpeting. This was his private domain in the estate, the fortress of solitude, as his oldest son Martin named it. He chuckles to himself as the memory of that event unfolds.

It was the summer of 1964, shortly after they moved into the estate. Although he was sixteen, Marty still loved comic books, and the stringent rules Allan had set down about entering the study and one’s conduct in it led Marty to jokingly compare it to the fortress of solitude he read about in his Superman comic books. If Allan couldn’t be found anywhere in or around the house and the car was there, everyone knew he had to be in the fortress of solitude.

Browsing through the albums, he locates one of his favorites by Dinah Washington. His fortress—very masculine in the essence of the deep browns and beiges of the walls, carpeting and furniture. All the major pieces—such as the desk, bookshelves, entertainment center and the easy chairs—successfully combined the functional with the elegant, their strength and durability in no way detracting from his comfort and convenience.

Checking the songs on the back of the album cover, he pauses to read the autograph in the lower left-hand corner: Happy Father’s Day. Love, Marty. Maybe Marty didn’t go into business with him, but this gift—a fruit of his labors from his first record store—spoke well of his capabilities as a businessman. Those early days when he would help out as a child at the fix-it shop weren’t wasted. Marty was virtually his shadow in those days, at least until he started college and took up with that…..her.

A frown appears on his brow. His fingers involuntarily go to his mustache, tugging and twisting it at the mere thought of his former daughter-in-law. I knew that woman was no good; knew it from the start. With the way she left him and the kids, I rest my case. She didn’t even have the decency to explain anything until the divorce papers were served—just deserted them without hide nor hair from her for almost two years. That conniving, golddigging little….why couldn’t he have married Suzette Chandler when he had the opportunity? She would have been perfect for him—she had the background, the class, the right social circles, the connections. But no! He had to go off and marry that…..that…..that….

He takes another swallow of his drink in an effort to fight off an oncoming headache. At least his current choice for a spouse is nothing like Ellie was. It certainly wasn’t what I expected of him, but after thirteen years there must be something to it.

Setting his drink on one of the wooden coasters near the record cabinet, Allan removes the record from its cover and jacket, painstakingly placing it on the turntable, thoroughly removing all traces of dust from it and the needle with his special pad and brush. As the radiant voice of Dinah Washington flows from the speakers, the contented smile returns to his face. Now this is music; they don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Of course, my Allison can give Dinah a run for her money. She is definitely making a name for herself—six albums, write-ups in every top magazine in the world and tours that rival Janet Jackson’s. That reggae music is too political for me, but she sure does jazz and blues justice. I hope she sings in church Sunday, just like she did when she was a little girl. Amazing—against the odds, she made it in the entertainment field.

I can’t wait to see her family when they arrive, especially my new grandsons. Judging from the pictures she sent, they have the Christopher eyes and face, plus those eyebrows and that nose of Michael’s. What was that she wrote about putting them to sleep? Oh yes—they sleep to Bob Marley records. What ever happened to lullaby and good night or rockabye baby? My children, my children—what will they think of next? I thought mothers stayed home like my mama did, or hired a nurse full-time. Not Allison. She takes those babies everywhere she goes when they’re on tour. Sleeping to Bob Marley records. By the time they’re three years old those twins will be carrying signs in a protest, just like their Aunt Tanya did.

Distress from the past and pride from the present ebb and flow through the currents of his mind as he thinks of his activist daughter. Tanya sure is a fighter—it’s not often these days that she loses a case. Maybe I will go ahead and get that bumper sticker that says, Go ahead, hit me—my daughter is a lawyer. That would get a laugh out of her. Sometimes she gets so wrapped up in her cases that she pushes herself to the limits. Perhaps that’s one of the results of her struggle to survive by being born so early. Sitting back and waiting for things to get better was never her style. It was always fight, challenge, perservere.

Sixty…..sixty…..sixty…..The number pulses with the rhythm of a slow heartbeat in his mind as he eases into the inviting arms of his recliner, positioned like a command post in the far corner of his fortress. Slight tinges of soreness in his stomach and calf muscles reassert themselves from yesterday’s workout with his oldest daughter Katie, accompanied by low rumblings from the paunch at his waistline. He never considered his 250 pounds to be a problem before, even when his physical activity had slacked off some in favor of hours behind his desk at the office, meetings with Vickie and other personnel, rich meals, couch time and the like. Not so, according to Katie. Given his age and medical history (including his prior problems with high blood pressure), he needed to lose fifteen pounds and get back into a physical fitness program, and she was going to see to it that he did. She could be a real drill sergeant when it came to fitness, and when the family doctor gave the OK there was no stopping her. The idea of exercise and workouts didn’t hold the appeal it did years ago. His concept of workouts had geared itself more toward the boardroom vs. a gym or basketball court, allowing for the occasional basketball games with his children and grandchildren. However reluctant he had been, when Katie asked him the question, Would you like to enroll in our aerobic dance class? he got out his sweatsuit and hurried to the gym to begin work on the weights and the track.

She did it again, he thought as he ran a hand through his alt-and-pepper hair, stretching in an effort to find a more comfortable position in his recliner. My firstborn daughter—she always finds some way to get what she wants. Just when I think I’ve got her, she pulls out her wiles or her psychology. For that talent alone she could be pulling down eighty dollars an hour. However, even with a husband and three children she’s still 80% tomboy-whatever the boys did, she did. No wonder they call her Champ, ever since the days when we lived on the South Side.

Allan takes another drink of his tonic water and lime, its tartness refreshing his throat. His eyes rest upon the children’s wall of school pictures, acheivements and school projects, plus momentos from their respective professions as adults. At the end of the wall, in order of birth, eight pairs of bronzed baby shoes were mounted. Maureen had insisted upon it as a matter of tradition. Neither her grandparents nor her father had had any; survival from day to day in New York took a far greater priority than such a luxury in those days gone by. However, her mother’s shoes had been bronzed, hers had been, and she in turn did the same with her children’s shoes as a tangible remembrance of their infancy. His eyes stop at the second pair of shoes from the top. They are also the biggest pair, belonging to his second son, Joshua Mitchell.

Josh was the biggest of their children at birth—nine pounds and fifteen ounces of robust baby boy. He looks like he’s right at home on a construction site now, Allan mused, remembering all the starts and stops Josh experienced to get his contracting business off the ground. He should have had a son to help him with this kind of business. Sure, he’s training Ruby and she’s a fast learner, but what can a daughter do in the long run in construction? I just don’t understand. I’ve tried to tell him that time and time again, and now he just acts like I haven’t said a word. His wife must have had something to do with this. All those years of working in the front office and out on the job sites must have gone to her head at some point. If Penny wanted a career, fine, but a wife working in her husband’s business…! just hope Josh knows what he’s doing down the road. Down the road…..seems like only yesterday he could find the only pebble in the road and trip over it, and now his company’s built skyscrapers, office complexes, apartment buildings, stores. How his daughters will fill those size fourteens of his or his hardhat, I’ll never know.

His hands folded in his lap, the empty glass sitting on an end table, Allan relaxes more and more in the easy, familiar surroundings. Dinah serenades him in song with We’ll Take Manhattan; pure music to his ears. Manhattan…..Manhattan…..Marshall was born in Manhattan. No, wait—not Manhattan. It was……it was……it was Brooklyn. He gazes at the children’s wall again, taking special note of the drawing near the center. The house designed on it was for one of the first clients Marshall had during his early days with the firm, when the idea of his own architectural firm and clientele was yet a dream. According to Katie, Josh and Tanya, Marshall had drawn and redrawn those plans, given to scrapping them at the most minute flaw or error, causing full wastebaskets and driving everyone around him up the walls until the project was completed.

Allan regretted getting that information secondhand, given that he and his son were not communicating well then; stubbornness and pride were just two of the problems they had to work out during that time. As it turned out, the work he did on that set of drawings and the enthusiastic reception by his client provided just the push to get Marshall’s career going. He’s smart, all right; talented, too, Allan thought, with traces of mist forming around his eyes. He graduated from high school at sixteen like I did, and graduated from college summa cum laude. Truly he excelled and applied his education, but I sure didn’t think so when I saw him in that parade……

His fingers slowly rub the mist from his eyes, again focusing on the drawing. He and Josh have collaborated on a lot of projects, but Marshall needs to know when to quit telling Josh how to run his business. He can be such a busybody sometimes, at least until Leroy puts a few words in.

Leaning back and closing his eyes, the first traces of sleep begin to weave their soothing effect upon Allan. Dinah Washington is fading into the background, yet that number—that milestone—pulses rhythmically in his head as drowsiness takes over, the laugh lines and the few wrinkles in the copper of his complexion seeming to soften. Sixty……sixty….sixty……sixty……

CHAPTER 1:

Allan Beckley Christopher, Then and Now

The youngest of five sons, Allan Beckley Christopher was born on May 12, 1928 in Kansas City, Missouri, to Joshua and Lorraine Christopher. From a very early age, Allan proved to be a gifted child. His reading skills and comprehension developed by the age of three, and as a child, his knack with electrical appliances and systems resulted in the nickname Little Mr. Fixit. He loved music and was an avid sports fan, which he carried into his adult life. His parents couldn’t afford to send him to a special school, and even if they were able, there were none in the area that would accept a young Black child. As a result, his brightness engendered boredom in class, which in turn created mischief on several occasions in school. Encouraged by his brothers (Dennis, Franklin, Samuel and Amos) and his father, he played on the football and basketball teams—something he would later encourage in his own children and grandchildren. Being one of the few high school graduates in his family, his mother Lorraine motivated him to push for excellence academically as well as athletically, and he graduated from Lincoln High School in 1944 at the age of sixteen.

Allan went on to trade school to become an electrician, working whatever odd jobs he could get to support himself and contribute to the family and church. The striving for achievement instilled in him by his parents also created a stubbornness in him, a trait that frequently manifested itself when racism reared its head. His mind would constantly look for ways around or over that obstacle and refuse to give up.

In the summer of 1946, between finishing trade school and the beginning of his apprenticeship, he met Maureen Moore at St. Mark’s AME, his family’s church. She and her family were visiting relatives in Kansas City for summer vacation, and he was taken by her demeanor, her sophistication and her gracefulness. She seemed older than her seventeen years, so different from the girls he grew up around. She shared his interest in a better life, and rekindled interests in the performing arts during the leisure time they spent together as well as other fun elements of life. They were married on June 7, 1947. Allan completed his apprenticeship and moonlighted when he could to support his new family. Maureen also worked as a seamstress, leaving their son Martin in the care of his mother Lorraine. In 1950 Allan and his family (which now included infant son Josh) moved to Maureen’s native Brooklyn, in search of better opportunities.

New York gave Allan exposure to life in the big city, the outside world. It also gave him time to spend with Maureen’s family. The glitter and fast pace of the city was exciting, as he discovered from escapades with his brother-in-law Mitchell Jr. As a result, he took a detour into the sporting life. Arguments arose between Maureen and Allan when his preoccupation with the night life got out of hand, and his stubbornness created more problems. His father-in-law, Mitchell Moore Sr., eventually intervened, and he snapped Allan back to reality with very strong language about his priorities and responsibilities to his wife. Allan listened, Maureen forgave him, and things got back on track. During this time a son, Marshall, and a daughter, Norma Catherine, were born, and Allan became more concerned about better opportunities for his growing family. His brothers Franklin and Dennis had lived in Chicago for some time, and mentioned a job opportunity with the local power company. With family in tow, Allan moved to Chicago in early 1953.

He worked at the power company for the next six years, keeping abreast of innovations, creating systems on his own, saving money whenever possible, and watching his family grow to seven children (daughters Tanya, Victoria and Allison had been born by the end of 1955). In late 1957 the family moved into their first home on 74th and South St. Lawrence Avenue. Being a family man, Allan stayed close to his brothers and their families, taking time out to enjoy picnics, the beach or other informal gatherings at their respective homes. Though firm when it came to discipline, he was also fun-loving regarding his children-reading them stories, teaching them to shoot baskets and the art of self-defense (to the older children), and occasionally taking some of them to visit his job. Like his father Joshua he asserted his position as head of the household, but was supportive of his wife and together they dealt with joys and trials of raising seven children. When possible, he would take his family down to Kansas City or on the train to New York, to the delight of his parents and in-laws.

Although he was a licensed electrician with exceptional, proven expertise, he found his career going nowhere. The money he made afforded a comfortable (if not extravagant) life style for him and his family, yet discriminatory practices frequently left him passed over for promotions. Having no recourse to affirmative action programs or the like at that time, he looked for alternatives. In 1959 he quit his job and took over a small electrical supply and repair shop in the neighborhood. His outgoing personality and his expertise with electrical components held him in good stead. His tenacity, hard work and determination to succeed turned the initial lean years into profitable ones and soon he had a full-time staff. To make up for the additional time he spent away from home, Allan encouraged his family to see him at the shop. His commitment to excellence and quality in business was often carried over into his home life, particularly where his children’s education was concerned, and he and Maureen set high standards there.

In 1964 the business had grown and expanded to the point where larger quarters were needed, hence Christopher Electronics was moved into a larger building, while Allan and his family moved to a new home in Evanston. He continued to be involved in the community and in their church. However, his innate curiosity and well-intentioned motives often turned to meddling in the affairs of his friends, relatives and neighbors, which was usually stopped by Maureen before his ways made things even worse.

The issues of the turbulent ‘60s fell upon everyone’s ears, Allan’s family being no exception. Civil rights was big in his household, and he was engaged in endless discussions with his wife and kids over the issues—voting, housing, schools, Black history, protest, politics, etc. Thanks to the nest egg he and Maureen had established in their early years of marriage and the success of the business, Allan was able to send his oldest child Martin to college in the fall of 1966. Seeing his firstborn graduate from high school and go on to college was a source of great pride to him, and the Christophers and Moores were there in force for the commencement exercises.

With Maureen’s return to work as a teacher and a house full of teenage children, life became a round of classes, rehearsals, part-time and summer jobs, sports, car pools, meetings, dates and busy telephone lines around the estate. When it came to Sundays, Allan put his foot down—everyone was in attendance for church and Sunday dinner. Periodically family meetings were held to work out problems or celebrate achievements. The strong sense of family ties Allan grew up with was in turn instilled in his own family, and they stuck together regardless of any internal problems they had.

1968-69 would see many family meetings pertaining to the joys, celebrations, trials and tribulations that affected his family: the marriages of sons Martin to a golddigger/opportunist and Josh to a white woman, son Marshall’s coming out as a gay man, daughter Katie’s elopement at age sixteen, the birth of his first grandchildren, the birth of his youngest son Bernard six months later, and the attack upon his daughter Tanya by police at the National Democratic Convention. Some situations were very difficult for him to handle, and at times his stubbornness turned to intractibility, worsening an already bad situation. In addition, Allan experienced problems with high blood pressure. Time, however, proved to be on his side. He quit the smoking habit he started in recent years and made changes in his life style to keep his blood pressure under control, and lines of communication were kept open—not always harmonious, but open.

The following years saw a mellowing in Allan. He’s not quite as stubborn, and he takes more in stride. His attitude is more relaxed in raising Bernard, yet he still offers advice regarding the raising of his grandchildren. His love of football and basketball are as strong as ever, and he can be seen in the bleachers at the football field or basketball court where his grandchildren are playing. He appreciates the performing arts, and daughter Allison’s singing career is something he speaks of with pride. Even with careers and commitments, Allan remains a family man, and devotes more time to Maureen as well as interest in her work in education. He loves his grandchildren and enjoys listening to their dreams and ideas, telling them in turn about his own experiences as a young Black man. Though his children are grown and leading their own lives, the family unity he and Maureen taught them remains intact, and the closeness is evident.

As part of his commitment to excellence in education, Allan established the Lorraine Beckley Christopher Scholarship Fund for minority students through Christopher Electronics. His provisions for his children saw them through college and trade school (plus personal efforts on their part), hence the fund was established in 1974, at a time when grants and scholarships began drying up. He was disappointed when none of his sons showed an interest in the business, but was pleasantly surprised when his daughter Victoria went to work for Christopher Electronics, displaying a talent and dedication that proved to be a major asset to Christopher Electronics. But so much for public consumption……

CHAPTER 2:

Maureen (Mrs. Allan Christopher)

The faculty meeting had ended, and teachers gradually filed out of the room, talking among themselves about the ever-present issue of the budget. It had been a serious brainstorming session. The school had been holding its own in its efforts to give its students quality education, but ways and means had to be formulated to counter the effect of encroaching cutbacks in order to maintain an edge.

Mary McLeod Bethune High School had benefitted greatly from Maureen Christopher’s leadership when she assumed the position of principal there. Student morale and spirit were high as a result of her hard work, commitment and her encouragement of innovation from her staff and faculty. Scholastic Aptitude Test scores were among the highest in the city. With special programs approved by her, the goal of a drug-free school was being achieved, and the growing problem of teen pregnancy, though not eliminated, was markedly reduced there. Still, to maintain a well-rounded curriculum and provide for the students with special needs funding was required, and the means to generate it. Books, materials and equipment had to be updated or added on a periodic basis to stay abreast of the changes in educational tools, to better equip the students when they graduated.

Several teachers brought up the age-old complaint about the imbalance between the city and the suburbs—the city schools having the greater need and the suburban schools the greater resources. Maureen had listened patiently to their grievances and needs, all the time steering the discussion toward constructive ideas and solutions. Community projects, private sources and networking were proposed along with fund-raisers. Each department was requested to carefully review its financial needs for the following and submit them either to her or Solomon Evans, her vice-principal. After a brief conference with Solomon, Maureen gathered her notes and neatly placed them in her briefcase. Grabbing her handbag, she proceeded to make her exit.

She encountered several of her students, most of whom were involved in baseball, track or other after-school meetings, on her way to the faculty parking lot. They greeted the stately, smartly-dressed woman with usual Hey, Mrs. C, and she returned their greetings, calling them all by name. Solomon often kidded her about her phenomenal memory, but behind the kidding he held a certain respect and awe of it—if she could remember some 2,000 students, staff and faculty, one would have to be an absolute fool to try and put something over on her. At fifty-nine, Maureen carried her 6’0 and 165 pounds with quiet grace and dignity. An aura of sophistication and confidence followed her, a presence akin to the gentle, persuasive glow of the sun. Observing her progression to her given destination, one could sense a no nonsense" air amongst the gracefulness and poise in her walk, but rather than clash, these qualities blended into a peaceful co-existence with her day-to-day being.

A few more students called out to her as she approached her car. Way to go, Mrs. C., they cheered as they admired the brand new burgundy Lincoln Continental sitting in the parking space marked Reserved for Principal. As she turned off the security alarm and got in, one of the guys asked, "We thought you’d be in that other ride forever. How’d you ever pull it off? The question was immediately answered in unison with We know, ‘you got it the old-fashioned way—you earned it.’ She responded with a Very good" as she waved goodbye to them, driving out of the parking lot and on to her appointed errands.

Trips to the nearby dry cleaners and bakery were taken care of in short order, and soon Maureen was sipping iced tea with her sister-in-law, Bessie Mae, back in their old neighborhood on St. Lawrence Avenue. Unlike Maureen, Bessie Mae opted to be a homemaker until the youngest of her six daughters had graduated from college. She dealt with the empty nest syndrome by utilizing her gardening skills at a plant nursery a few days a week. Maureen always admired Bessie Mae’s way with plants and flowers. She loved to be the first to sample her annual harvest of mustard and collard greens from her garden. Despite the eleven-year age difference between the two women, mutual respect, regard and friendship had built many bridges over their long history as members, by marriage, of the Christopher family.

How’s Dennis doing on his part? Maureen asked the older, heavy-set woman as she took another cookie from the plate in front of her.

Sister, Dennis has all but worn out those records practicin’—I haven’t seen him to so tickled about a project in ages. You know how he always complains about the crick in his back……

Is there anyone in the family who doesn’t know about it?

Lord, I know that’s right! Bessie Mae said in hearty agreement. Ever since your kids approached him with this idea, I haven’t heard one peep about it. He’s been struttin’ around here like that young stuff you see on Soul Train, goin’ through his routines. And Sister, you should have seen him and his brothers rehearsin’ over at Franklin’s the other night. They wouldn’t quit ‘til every word, note and step was down pat. Dennis was tryin’ to tell them what they weren’t doin’ and what they should do—he figured since he’s the oldest and the idea was brought to him first that he had that ‘right.’

And how did that go over?

Well, Amos told him, Fine—I always believed in age before beauty.’ We fell out laughin’, and even Dennis had to admit he had that one comin’. But they’re ready and rarin’ to go with their numbers. Amos can’t wait to get pictures so he and Evelyn can take them back to Kansas City and show the folks.

Fantastic. This is going to be one birthday Allan will never forget, Maureen beamed. But tell me, Bessie Mae—how have you managed to keep Brenda and Bertha from finding out about this? I don’t worry about Bertha so much because she lives out in Markham, but Brenda lives in the next block.

The cocoa-brown woman leaned in closer to Maureen in a conspiratorial fashion upon mention of her oldest daughter. Sister, that has been a job—hidin’ daybreak from a sleepin’ rooster is much easier. She’s been pretty occupied with her grandbabies, so that helps, but if she’s over here with the latest gossip we worked up a code about the lottery, like those secret agents do. There were a few times when she was here that Franklin came by to say somethin’ about their numbers and she almost got suspicious, but Franklin told her they were playin’ the lottery, so she went on gossipin’ about her neighbor’s children, and braggin’ about the new Cadillac Jonathan gave her for her birthday.

I don’t know how he does it, Bessie Mae, being married to Brenda for all these years.

"I’ve wondered about that many times, Sister. I don’t know where Brenda and Bertha got that from—tell them anythin’ and you might just as well tell Chicago. And don’t swear them to secrecy… "

Heavens, no, Maureen groaned.

Anyway, my daughters ain’t gonna ruin this surprise. We’ve come too far to let that happen now. Bessie Mae stopped to take a bite of one her chewy macaroons before she went on. It’ll all be worth it, but I’ll be glad when all this is over. By the way, how’s it goin’ with the guest of honor, Mr. Allan Beckley Christopher?

Incredible as it seems, Allan has no inkling of what’s happening. Knowing him, he’s probably talked Vickie’s ears off at the office and is on his way home to hole up in the fortress with a tonic water and lime. I was really worried he’d find out when the kids took off on that trip back in March, but they covered themselves well.

Good. Is everythin’ set up for tomorrow?

Yes, thanks to Bernie and Sherman. If all the boys had come in and out over the last few days, Allan would suspect something. So, we worked out a system to get the fixtures into the basement. Josh was a big help by lending them a couple of his pickup trucks so they could transport the sets. Bernie would have had a stroke if anything had to be put in his car that would scratch it.

What is it with these men and their cars? Anyway, Sister, you know if you need anythin’ else done on this side o’ town, just call. Have Allison and Michael got here yet?

Their flight arrives from Nassau at five. Thanks for reminding me, Bessie Mae—I have to pick them up and get them over to Katie’s house, said Maureen after she took a quick swallow of iced tea.

He doesn’t know they’re gettin’ here today?

No. I told him their flight would arrive around noon tomorrow. That way they can make the dress rehearsal tonight.

Then you’d better get a move on, Sister, before that traffic catches you. As Maureen got her purse and prepared to leave, Bessie Mae went to the front door. She looked through the doorpane and down the street, then suddenly froze.

What is it? Maureen inquired, puzzled.

Bessie Mae motioned for Maureen to come to the door, and pointed to the two figures coming up the street. As Dennis used to say when he was in the Navy, ‘Battle stations.’"

Be cool. No matter what, be cool, Maureen told herself as she observed the sepia brown, middle-aged woman walking as quickly as her high heels would carry her stout body, followed by a three-year-old boy doing his best to keep up with her pace. Judging from her walk and the new yellow spring outfit, Brenda not only had gathered a truckload of gossip, but had spent the afternoon shopping at Marshall Field’s again with grandson Glynn in tow. She was partial to yellow and green during warm weather, and today the notion struck her to coordinate Glynn in the same fashion while she was shopping. I wonder how big a fuse Annette’s going to blow when she sees him, Maureen thought as she saw the matching yellow outfit Glynn wore. Apparently Bessie Mae had the same thought, for she said, I wouldn’t wanna be around when my granddaughter sees them. I swear Brenda’s tryin’ to spoil that boy to death.

Sure makes it hard for Annette to undo it when he goes home, doesn’t it?

I know that’s right. I know we’ve done a little spoilin’ ourselves with our grandbabies, but she takes it too far. If the child just looks like he wants somethin’ on TV or in a store while she has him she’ll buy it, and always with that same excuse about him bein’ one of her only grandsons. I don’t blame Annette and Tommy one bit for movin’ up to Evanston. Uh oh—she’s seen the car.

And she’ll want to know everything about it. Well, Bessie Mae, looks like it’s ‘full speed ahead.’

I know that’s right, Sister.

The two women came out of the house and softly down the steps as Brenda scrutinized Maureen’s car. Glynn spotted them and called out Big Grandma as he ran to Bessie Mae, his dark chocolate face lit up with anticipation of a hug and a cookie. As Bessie Mae gave him a smile and a big hug, Brenda turned around. Why, Auntie Mo! she exclaimed. How are you? I saw this beautiful car sitting in front of Mama’s house, and I couldn’t figure out for the life of me who it could possibly belong to. It’s just exquisite! Where did you get it from? This must have set Uncle Allan back a pretty penny. When Jonathan bought me my Cadillac I was the happiest woman in the world—I couldn’t wait to drive it over to Rose Ramsey’s house to show it off. I tell you, she turned six shades of green! Did I tell you we had lunch at the Sheraton today?

Hello, Brenda. I’m very well, thank you. Though Maureen was outwardly cordial, inwardly she shook her head in dismay. I see you still insist on dyeing your hair that fiery auburn color, Brenda, and it doesn’t do a thing for you. I thought I’d grown immune to your voice over the years, but it still sounds like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.

"Well, I’d just done some shopping for Glynn and myself—doesn’t he look cute?—when I saw Rose Ramsey and Doris Jenkins coming out of Marshall Field’s. We went to lunch at the Sheraton; I tell you, those prices over there are getting ridiculous for a decent meal. Anyway, Doris never was a dresser, but today she’s decked out like she’s Diahann Carroll or something. Rose and I are just dying to know what’s going on, and finally she tells us-she’s been dating this man for the last month. She pulled a picture of him out of her purse. Auntie Mo, he has to be all of fifteen years younger than she is, but he was so fine I thought I’d have a hot flash! She swears he’s made a new woman of her; she never looked that good when she was married."

Really? Well, I’m sure…

Doris Jenkins……imagine Doris Jenkins pulling down a hunk like that! She’s probablykissing the ground because her son’s off to college and her daughter’s moved out, and she can entertain this man. I took a little peek at her shopping bags, and I swear she bought out the Fashion Fair counter. If they’re not out on the town, I bet she pulls him into her place on Friday, locks the doors, and won’t let him out until Monday. If Rose would get her teeth fixed and take off four or five layers of that makeup she wears, she could probably do better than that dull-witted creature she’s married to now. Not that she could land anyone like Smokey Robinson, but still…

Brenda, I’m sure you have lots to talk about, but I must go. I’m already late for an appointment, Maureen said firmly as she got into her car.

Sorry you have to rush off, Auntie Mo, Brenda said as she looked at the clothing bags in the back seat. "Do you still have to pick up your own dry cleaning? I thought Mrs. Morris did all that. That’s what you pay a housekeeper for, right? You’ve just been too lenient with that woman. If I were you, I’d set her straight about her duties or she’d find herself back in the unemployment line. With that big place you’ve got and with you and Uncle Allan working all day, it’s just so hard…"

I’ll handle it, Brenda. Talk to you soon, Bessie Mae. As she pulled away from the curb and down the street, Maureen fought to shake the irritation of Brenda’s voice from her ears. It’s a good thing she didn’t look too closely at the clothes, or there really would have been a problem. There must be a statute in the state of Illinois that sets a speed limit on tongues. If there isn’t there should be.

She drove down 75th Street to the Dan Ryan Expressway, feeling a sense of amusement over the cloak-and-dagger elements of Allan’s birthday plans. The sheer elaborateness of them was nerve-wracking at times; coordinating everyone’s schedule and at the same time keeping things a secret from the honoree. It had been fortunate that Allan kept a very meticulous time management book, in which he faithfully noted all of his appointments and errands every night after the ten p.m. news for the following day. Many times he even put in a week’s agenda on Sunday night, and he always left it next to the nightstand in their bedroom. She thanked God he was a sound sleeper, for that book had been crucial during the final planning stages over the last two months. The payoff for all their hard work would come tomorrow, with the look on his face.

The northbound traffic was moving at a brisk pace as she entered the expressway. If I can beat the traffic from the Loop onto the Kennedy, I’ll make it to O’Hare right around the time their plane lands. It’ll be wonderful to see Allison and Michael again, and those adorable little babies. Allan, you’ve worried me and Allison to death over those grandsons of yours and when you’d see them. If you’d known that she was here back in March without them, you would have had a coronary. You and this thing about male heirs. Josh just had twin daughters nine months ago, and you didn’t raise half the fuss you have over these twins. Still, you’ve changed some of your attitudes over the years—you did make Vickie your CEO. She earned it, and you had to if you wanted to keep the company in the family.

Sometimes you can be so insufferable I want to lock you in your fortress and throw away the computer card key, and other times you’re so incredible I could fall in love with you all over again; like the day Marty’s kids got married, she thought. We’ve had our times, Allan-forty years’ worth. We’ve weathered a lot of storms, enjoyed many blessings and successes, and we’re still together. You’re still that handsome, dashing guy I saw back in Kansas City, even with grey hair and a paunch, and I can still get you over to the fireplace when I play For Sentimental Reasons.

Maureen glanced in the rear view mirror at the traffic and patted her dark brown hair, which was now liberally streaked with grey. Looking back at the dashboard, she set the cruise control for sixty—fast enough to keep up with the traffic, but not so fast that she’d get a ticket. Sixty—when I turn sixty next February I think I’d prefer something simple, like a nice, restful vacation at Hilton Head. Of course, there’s no telling what the kids will plan for me after being involved in this—they’ll probably get together and give me an Academy Award presentation. If they do, they should also give one to Vickie for Best Supporting Actress, since she’s had to face you every day at the office and act like nothing’s happening, Allan. You must be getting on her nerves with your little matchmaking schemes; I can tell it in her voice when she calls me during the day. I have to hand it to her for keeping cool and not letting anything slip; for that matter, all of them plus your grandchildren. Face it Allan, we all love you. All things considered, I wonder sometimes if you realize just how much we do. Please, please let this traffic keep moving….

Sometimes it’s almost like yesterday, when we met for the first time. I remember that day so well—Sunday, July 21, 1946. It was one of those hot summer days in Kansas City, one in a string of many. Our family was down there visiting Papa’s sister Shirley and her family for summer vacation—whenever Mama and Papa got their summer break from the New York City public school system we’d visit our relatives in Detroit, Memphis or Kansas City. It had been four years since we’d been there last, and Aunt Shirley and Uncle Ralph went on and on about how much Mitch and I had grown up; we looked so much older than seventeen to them. Small wonder—I was 5’11 then, and I was determined to look and act sophisticated. Lena Horne was my idol. I must have seen Stormy Weather" at least twenty-five times when it first came out. I studied her diction, her poise, the way she carried herself, even her beauty secrets when Mama finally let me wear makeup.

I really didn’t want to dress up that day because it was so hot, but Aunt Shirley wanted to show off her relatives from Brooklyn at church. Mama had pressed and curled my hair the night before, and I wore it in my usual pageboy flip. I put on my coolest short-sleeved black-and-white cotton dress, some black pumps and white gloves. To keep the sun off me, I got Mama to let me wear her wide-brimmed white hat with the black ribbon. As a finishing touch, I put on the pearl earrings Papa gave me for my birthday. I was proud of that dress because it was one I had made myself, and it had passed Mama’s strict standards as a seamstress. Mama had chosen to wear all white that day, right down to her pillbox hat and handbag, and Aunt Shirley wore pink. Papa, Uncle Ralph, Mitch and Cousin Darryl were waiting for us ladies when we came out. Papa looked sharp in his navy blue suit, Uncle Ralph comfortable in grey. My twin brother Mitch was acting like he was God’s gift to womankind, with his conked hair and white zoot suit. Cousin Darryl was just fifteen then, and he looked at Mitch like he was some kind of celebrity. Mitch must have said something to him about his clothes, because he kept trying to straighten the brown suit he was wearing.

It was a little cooler in St. Mark’s AME Church than being outside, but only because every window was open and all the ceiling fans were going. It had something like four hundred members back then, and at least three hundred were there that Sunday, all waving fans courtesy of Mrs. Meeks’ Funeral Parlor. We were sitting somewhere in the middle on the right-hand side. The choir had just finished singing Precious Lord. I remember Mitch sitting next to me, looking bored to tears. Then it came time to welcome the visitors. We stood up, and the congregation was looking at us. I happened to look over on the left side of the sanctuary and ahead to the front, and there you were.

You were sitting next to your parents and your brother Amos when the welcome was given. Your eyes—that was the first thing that struck me about you, Allan. I’d never seen such unusual eyes before—they were mysterious and captivating. Then there was your smile, with those pearly-white teeth flashing in my face. You hair was tight and wavy, and you’d obviously slicked it down with some kind of grease to look your Sunday best, even in ninety-degree heat. That black suit you wore that day was probably one of only two or three you owned, but it was well taken care of. I gave you a polite smile while we were being welcomed, but inside I wondered, Who is he?

The pastor, Rev. Wills, preached a sermon that dealt with the book of Matthew—the parable about the sower of seeds. To illustrate his point, he made present-day references to knowing a tree by the fruit it bears. He struck me as a very deep man, someone who’d seen a lot of the ups and downs in life. I was trying to sneak discreet looks at you, but in between I studied Rev. Wills, the man who would eventually marry us. He was in early thirties then, a very dark, short, stocky, congenial man, but with a very powerful essence and presence about him. His preaching was more teaching, like we were students in a spiritual classroom of life. During that sermon he made a statement that stuck in my memory. I didn’t understand it at the time, but it did: What’s in the seed at the time of planting will manifest itself in the fruit.

You came over to introduce yourself after service, while Mama and Papa were talking with Aunt Shirley’s friends. I had dated some of the guys on our basketball team out of necessity—even though they were somewhat awkward off the court, they didn’t have the same hangups other guys did because I’m tall. You were impressive—6’6, well-proportioned, and you had a look of determination about you, poised as you were trying to be. I heard this baritone voice say, Good afternoon, my name is Allan Christopher. I hope you enjoyed our services today." It would have been perfect if your voice hadn’t cracked at the end; you may not want to remember that, but at the time I thought it was cute.

Allan, you must have asked me at least a hundred questions that day. You were so curious about me, my family and New York, and you kept complimenting me on how I looked and how smart I was. You had me pegged for at least twenty-one, so it came as quite a surprise to you when I told you I was just seventeen. As far as you were concerned, I was nothing like the seventeen-year-old girls you grew up around, like the one Mitch had selected and was doing his level best to impress with his worldliness. You respected my intelligence the way you wanted yours to be, and that made a lot of points with me. You also talked about what you were going to be doing as an electrician’s apprentice. When I came back from church, I knew you would be someone I’d see again—and soon.

From the very next day until the end of summer vacation you came courting, as Mama called it. If you didn’t show your face around Aunt Shirley’s house, I’d hear your voice over the telephone—sometimes Mama and Aunt Shirley would say Fifteen minutes! when the phone rang. When you could borrow your father’s car, you’d take me out to the country, show me around Kansas City, take me dancing and things like that. Sometimes we’d go to that park up the street from your house and talk about our dreams and ideas. When you’d talk about having your own business someday, you had a gleam in your eye as though you already had it. You were very bright and ambitious—a man with a plan already in progress. You could get very deep with your ideas for success, and I admired and respected that. You also knew that I had ideas of my own, and would not hesitate to speak out on them. By the age of seventeen I had traveled at every opportunity, been exposed to culture and a variety of people, and had a flair and appreciation for the performing arts. Thanks to my parents, I kept myself informed on current events in the U.S. and the world. When I look back on that summer, Allan, I knew you wouldn’t have been happy with a wife that wasn’t a challenge to you mentally, even with your old school attitudes.

I found out, too, that you were not above being a rebel yourself—at least, by 1946 standards. In the midst of the patriotism following World War II and the racist attitudes in the military, you had declared yourself a conscientious objector, based on your religious beliefs. You were too young to be drafted when you graduated from high school, but your convictions were set well before that. That didn’t go over well with your father, but you went ahead and secured the necessary character references from Rev. Wills and others to support your case. The officers involved with you threw every question they could to shake you. But you stood firm—maybe it was that Taurus stubbornness in you. The case was still pending while I was there but after I went back to Brooklyn you wrote me a letter telling me that you’d won. Obviously your actions rubbed off on our sons, since none of them went into military service either.

We were fast becoming an item in the family. We sat together in Sunday school and during service, getting into discussions about the lesson or sermon of the day. We were on very good terms with each other’s families. I remember one night when you took me home from your parents’ house, and you confided that your mother pulled you aside and said, Son, if you don’t grab her, you’re an educated fool. Mama and Papa didn’t quite put it in those terms, but they thought you were a fine, ambitious young man. Mitch was trying to see so many girls there he paid little attention to us, aside from an offhanded, So when’s the wedding? I usually told him, Lay off, Mitch, but my heart was far more serious than I let on.

The very first time you kissed me sent me walking on air. We’d driven out to a quiet spot on the Missouri River. You promised to have me home by dinnertime, but we stopped and got a light snack anyway. We found a nice, shady spot and talked about the movie we saw last night, your latest progress report as an apprentice, what was in store for me during my senior year in high school, and had a friendly disagreement over whose mother could make the best sweet potato pie, while we ate chicken sandwiches with root beer. We got quiet for a while and sat looking at the river without a care in the world. You had your arm around me, like you often did. I was relaxing with the sights and sounds when I felt your nose against my ear. I turned my head, caught a glimpse of your eyes, and then you kissed me. I’d been kissed by guys before. This wasn’t one of those timid pecks. It didn’t cut off my air supply, either. It was so……smooth it took me away. When we broke, you looked deeply at me with those eyes of yours. I was breathing a little heavier, but I gave you my most sensuous smile, slowly wrapped my arms around your neck and kissed you back. You weren’t ready for that, but your response could hardly be called complaining. I didn’t even hear the sound of my shoes going up the steps after you took me home, and the expression on my face caught Mama’s eye when I came in the door. She didn’t say anything about it, though. She just gave me this knowing look and said, "Dinner’s almost ready—and make sure you have room for some potato