Night Truck to Birmingham: an autobiography

By Kenneth Van Bevan

Ken Bevan’s memoirs are a series of anecdotes and observations through the lens of a man raised in the chaos and corruption of the mid century south. The stories ooze with first hand retelling of an infamous interracial sex murder, the ubiquitous Klan, and a fire destroying his family home on the night his dad was killed. The events are extraordinary for sure. Even more extraordinary is how this pre-adolescent used life planning skills and goals (who even knew what that WAS? ) to plan a worthy life. He earned the rank of Eagle Scout in a record two years. Then, somehow, mentors and community members appeared as though from nowhere to help Ken on his path. That includes me, his wife. Ken visualized me when he was 11 years old. (I was 4). Thirteen years later he saw that girl (me). And he knew.

His Christian values and humor emerge in the retelling of his law cases, his memories and in the relationships he reveals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642378863

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Enter, Stage Left: A War Baby

Following the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7th 1941, my parents moved to Jacksonville, Florida where my Aunt Edna and Uncle Joab lived. Dad engaged in a variety of jobs including professional photography, sales and co-owning a dry cleaner with his brother. Mom also went to work to support the War Effort. She worked in the kitchen at Camp Blanding.

The ‘20’s, 30’s and early ‘40’s were tough times for everyone and each person did what s/he could to keep body and soul together. When I arrived on December 20th, 1941, they already had my older brother Norman who was seven. The old St Luke Hospital in downtown Jacksonville was my place of birth.

Mom told me that initially the nurse had brought her the wrong baby for feeding, a boy named Greene. The error was soon discovered and corrected. Siblings still tease me that I might actually be the Greene baby. I don’t think so.

My first crib was a dresser drawer which served quite well. When I was six months old, we moved back to Live Oak, Florida and Dad resumed his business as a timberman. The family moved into the home at 106 North Houston Street near downtown. It was a large, rambling, wooden house with high ceilings and a large front porch for cooling. Part of it was rented as a small apartment to a cab driver named Golden.

It was cooled by nature and heated by a large kerosene heater. This heater had a drawer storage. One day I decided to hide my crayons there. When I went back to get them, I discovered that it was a poor idea as they had melted. Funny how you remember silly little things from so long ago.

When I was a toddler, Mom told me that a black man who knew the family picked me up while I was walking down the main street in Live Oak. He asked where I was going and I said I was going to Pehokee (misspelling intended) to see my daddy. He was there on a timber deal. The elder gentleman was kind enough to return me home, and the story endures.

When I was just learning to talk, Mom told me that I answered the phone and told one of her girlfriends she could not come to the phone because she was in the bathroom hocking. Too much information. As I grew older, Mom insisted that I wear short pants because of the summer heat. I remember climbing into a bedroom window to change into long pants as only sissies wore shorts. Today at 77 years I wear mostly shorts and would gladly climb through that same window for them.

World War II brought more jobs and more opportunities. But by that time, Norman and Elma had two more mouths to feed. Dad’s job required him to travel extensively looking for timber, usually pine, which he could buy the right to harvest and sell. You still see these long timber poles on trucks in North Florida today. I suppose they were mostly for telephone poles.

On one occasion, Dad had Nook (Norman) and I with him in the woods. Nook had a .22 rifle. Nook was suddenly bitten by a rattlesnake. Because he was a trained Boy Scout he immediately used his belt as a tourniquet. He handed me the gun and said, if the snake comes out of his hole, shoot him. The snake did not reappear but I was ready to blast away. Dad quickly took him to Dr. Adams who put Nook on his shoulder and rushed to the hospital. All ended well.

Dear reader, remember Doc Adams as we will meet him again soon.

The only grandparent I remember is my maternal grandmother, Ella Boyette Holcomb. My others passed before or shortly after my birth. Granny Holcomb was one quarter Creek Indian and never quite right mentally. Any subsequent mental problems, our family traces to her. She lived in a small, two-bedroom home on the outskirts of Live Oak on Mayo Road. It had no electricity. It had an outdoor pump for water and a two-seater outhouse for necessities with a spare Sears catalogue for…you know. As a youth, I used them all. Her only luxury was a tall, windup Victrola with a few horrible records.

Many times, I heard the story that one day she threw a knife at Nook. Luckily, she missed. She became more unstable and lived with us in town for a while. Dad used to take her riding with him while looking for timber. She had to be watched as she was prone to wander the streets of Live Oak. She died in a Tampa nursing home in l966. Mother often said I took care of my mother for seven long years. I don’t doubt it as Granny’s sons were not always dependable and her sister Edna lived in Jacksonville.

A Memorable First Grade

My first exposure to education was a failure. I was in kindergarten in Live Oak Elementary School, starting early in my development because I was a December baby. At Halloween, each child was required to make a Halloween lantern. I became very upset and unglued when I could not do so to my satisfaction. The result was my removal from the class. With my parents’ permission, I was allowed to start again the following year. Today as I write this, I can attest that I now know how to make that troublesome lantern.

My remaining childhood years were successful, normal and happy. Once re-enrolled, I had no other academic hiccups until law school. I remember I was in the third grade when under God was added to the pledge of allegiance and when ballpoint pens replaced ink pens. My first thought was, is ballpoint legal? What about things signed in red ink? Would that be legal? If so, would the ink have to be blue or black? My teacher Mrs. Bass taught us Roman numerals. I got several Alimar theater monthly calendars and wrote to 3000 to impress her.

Radio, Early TV, Cowboy Movies, Swimming and Family Trips

One of the most enjoyable experiences was the family radio. On Saturday night we all heard Amos ‘N Andy, the Shadow, and Inner Sanctum. My brother, Nookie as he was called, used to delight in scaring me with a program introduction of a haunted squeaking door.

My opinion is that the radio was better than today’s television. Television limits you to a single image whereas radio lets your imagination run wild. You must remember that at that time (mid to late 40’s) there was no television, internet or cell phones.

My first exposure to television came when I saw a small crowd standing in front of Kirby’s Appliance store on Howard Street. Everyone was looking inside a large window at this new thing called television. A few months later a widow lady across the street from my house bought a large television with a small round screen. She invited the neighbors over each Sunday evening to view programs. She would convert her living room into a theater with folding chairs in rows. Sometimes our host would even provide snacks. Nice lady, friendly times. Guests usually stayed until the test pattern came on at 11:00 p.m. There was only one channel and that came out of Jacksonville for only a few hours daily.

The first show that I saw was Your Texaco Hour with Milton Berle, a.k.a. Mr. Television. He was followed by Red Skelton who laughed so hard at his own jokes that he could hardly finish them. Reception was poor and static, but we thought it a miracle. I quietly wished that we could afford one.

In my childhood, children entertained themselves. I shot many a bad guy with Jimmie Musgrove and Bob Kent in our backyards! Sometimes an argument would ensue over who shot first and why didn’t you fall. Additionally, Jimmie and I dug several caves in his backyard which we could crawl through and stand in the main chamber. The entrance was lit with candles, the top covered with plywood and dirt for secrecy. Jimmie and I made slingshots out of tree branches and discarded inner tubes. I shot at a lot of birds but never hit anything.

At school the favorite game for cool boys was marbles. Each kid had his own supply. Boys would play in a dirt circle for funsies or keepsies. No steel or oversized balls allowed. If you knocked the marble out of the circle, you won and could shoot again. Girls were not allowed. They played jacks or jump rope and were generally regarded as a silly nuisance.

I was not allowed to have a bicycle or BB gun. Too dangerous, said Mom. So, I would shoot Jimmie’s gun and ride borrowed bikes. My first experience was with a small bike with no brakes. I would ride it to Loy Perry’s Texaco station and stop it by jumping off. At the filling station, my Dad saw that I was riding a bike without brakes and persuaded my Mom that I needed a new bike for Christmas. Mom was stricter than Dad.

Dad would almost daily meet friends at the Texaco station to flip coins to see who buys the Coke. Five cents and the odd man loses. Or, whoever had the closest bottle loses and had to pay for the others. Coke was in a glass bottle as God intended and came from a red, Vendo 39 Coke machine. I have that exact model in my man-cave. After getting his crew started, we’d go to Kay’s restaurant nearby for a hearty breakfast, just the two of us. Breakfast remains my favorite meal of the day.

Much of my time was spent at the public, Live Oak swimming pool. It was for whites only. When the Civil Rights movement began, the city fathers declared two days for blacks and the rest for whites. I had trouble remembering which was which, I got Tuesday and Thursday confused. Why do they both have to start with t? Ultimately, black people complained they were not getting equal time. So, the city fathers did the next best thing: they closed the pool so no one could use