Project Boy

By Roney E. Boyd Jr.

This book is an autobiography of the places, people, and incidents that Roney can recall during his journey from adolescent to early adulthood. He will take you back to some of his earliest memories of growing up just down the street from Arthur Ashe to his traumatic moments in Vietnam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 15, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462835591

Roney E. Boyd Jr.

Roney E. Boyd, Jr., was born in Richmond, Virginia, in 1947 to the late Edward and Bernice Boyd. Roney is the only boy of the four children born to Edward and Bernice. When Roney’s parents separated, the children went to live with various relatives living in Richmond until the parents could find living quarters where they could work and support the young children. This separation between parents and children lasted for a number of years, and when it came time for Roney to return to live with one of his parents, he begged to continue to live with his father’s aunt and uncle that had been keeping him during the separation. In fact, Roney had started to affectionately refer to them as Mommy Willard and Daddy Miles. Roney would go on to live with his beloved mommy Willard and daddy Miles until their dying days. While living with them, he would have the opportunity to live in the various sections of Richmond, Virginia; North Side; New Town; West End; and Church Hill, spending a number of those years in the East End Whitcomb Court Projects before joining the United States Marines. Roney is one of the few people that grew up with Arthur Ashe and his brother Johnny during his adolescent years as he started to develop his love for the game of tennis at the Brookfield playground on Sledd Street on the north side of town. Johnny and Roney would both join the Marine Corps at their earliest opportunity and would serve at lest one tour of duty during the same time in Vietnam.

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Prelude

Byline

How many times have you heard it said, Everyone has a story to tell? I asked myself where mine began. Although the title says Project Boy, my formative years were not spent in the projects. Only after I was about ten years of age did I move into the projects and left a little after my eighteenth birthday. Just less than nine years of my life were spent in the projects, but I have always used that period of my life as a point of reference to the things that I have experienced in adulthood.

I want to remind the readers that the events being told are not in chronological order as to the time of their occurrences, but was more about what happened during the time I lived in certain places. Therefore, as I tell one incident or event in my life, I may mention someone who may seem totally unrelated to that incident or event, but be assured that an incident or event involving that person will eventually be told.

Background

My name is Roney Edward Boyd, Jr. I was born on December 3, 1947. I am the only male of four siblings and the second from the eldest. I have the nicknames of Dick, Ronnie Boy, and Bo. There have been other nicknames people have tried to thrust upon me, which I refused to answer to when called. At one time, I could tell by the nickname that a person called me as to when and where we knew each other. I can no longer do that today.

My parents were Roney Edward Boyd, Sr., and Elise Bernice (Spivey). My father detested the name Roney and preferred to be known by his middle name: Edward. Most of his friends called him Eddie or Ed; some even called him by the nickname Big Head, which he always answered to with a laugh. My mother also preferred to use her middle name, Bernice, when introducing herself to people.

As a child, I spent more time visiting my father’s relatives than those of my mother, with the exception of my mother’s mother (Viola Jackson), one of her brothers (Manross Spivey), and several of her first cousins. There were a couple of reasons for this. First, my father’s aunt and uncle whom I called Momma Willard and Daddy Miles raised me, and second, the majority of my mother’s relatives lived out of state.

Disclaimer

Before I start on this journey, I must confess that I have met some famous and infamous people in my lifetime. I have been in the midst of many things that I had no control over and things that I had total control over. It is my memories of those incidents that happened in my life that I want to record. Those memories, at times, do not seem to coincide with those of my relatives, closest friends, and others that I met along the way. Yet they all agree that an incident did happen; but the who, what, and why sometimes differ. So based on the who, what, and why, I have altered the names to protect the innocent, but be assured none of the incidents are fictional. With enough said, let our journey begin.

Sledd Street

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My oldest sister Nannie

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Top picture is my father, Edward, on Sledd Street, with Brookfield Garden Playground in the background. Bottom picture is Edward a few years

before his death in Portsmouth, Virginia.

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Jackie and Aunt Elise in front of the house on Sledd Street

1501 Sledd Street

My earliest memory as a child is seeing my oldest sister standing in the middle of the room, throwing up pork and beans. To tell you the truth, I do not know if I was old enough to walk or even talk, but I do know that it happened at my father’s aunt and uncle’s house on Sledd Street.

I have vivid memories of those early days on Sledd Street of playing with Arthur (Junior) and Johnnie Ashe, swimming at Brookfield Garden Pool and Playground, riding in the black-owned Manhattan taxicabs, and visiting the black-owned stores in the Jackson Ward area.

It seemed, during those times, no matter where you went, there was always someone that knew you or knew your parents or other relative of yours. It was a time when the black communities were truly just one big village.

During those formative years between infancy and the age of nine, I was raised on Sledd Street, North Twenty-first Street (Church Hill)—the Thirteen Hundred block of West Clay Street, Moore Street (behind Walker School, i.e., New Town), and North Thirty-second Street (Church Hill).

I often wonder how folks can be so definitive when they say this or that happened to me when I was three or four. For me, it is hard to reference anything that happened in my early years by a chronological age, except to repeat what someone said happened at that age. However, I can say with some assurances that certain events or crises occurred before or after I started school. I say that because for me, time did not start to have any real meaning until I was around the age of seven. After the age of seven, I can remember things more accurately as to the time and place of its occurrence.

Okay, let us start with the formative years on Sledd Street. As I said, the earliest scene I remember is with my older sister, Nannie, throwing up the pork and beans. As I recall that scene, I do not know if my second sister, Glenda (Jackie) Boyd, was born. Nannie, the oldest, is three years and several months older than I am, and Jackie is one year and several months younger than I am. Therefore, it is highly possible that Jackie may have been born, but I just do not remember. It just seemed like one day she was not there, and the next day she was. I do know that it is hard for me to remember all of us living together for any long period, but I will get to that later.

The Ashes

One of the first playmates that I can remember, besides my oldest sister, is Johnnie Ashe, the younger brother of tennis’s great Arthur Ashe. I was told that Johnnie’s mother, Ms. Mattie, and my mother, Bernice, were good friends. I have also heard several different versions as to how Ms. Mattie died. One was that she died during childbirth, and the other was that she died from a stroke. I do not know which is true, if either. I was told that Mr. Ashe’s family came from Kenbridge, Virginia near South Hill, Virginia, which is not far from where the majority of my father’s relatives, on his mother’s side, came from. Since Mr. Ashe and Daddy Miles seem to be such close friends and often talked about other people that lived in the country, I assumed that they had ties that went back farther than Sledd Street. Daddy Miles was old enough to be Mr. Ashe’s father, yet they maintained that close relationship until Daddy Miles died. Mr. Ashe even made sure that Arthur, Jr., would visit Daddy Miles when he came home from the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA); this occurred around the midsixties after the death of Mommy Willard.

I lived up the street and a little across from Brookfield Garden swimming pool, and Johnnie lived down the street just below the tennis court. They lived in a one-story white house, near an open field with a baseball diamond on the other side. It seemed like our two homes, of the few houses on Sledd Street, were the only ones that had young kids living in them. I recall other kids living on Brook Road but not playing with them very often. Either I was at Johnnie’s house playing, or he was at my house playing.

A Whipping I Won’t Forget

I remember an elderly woman by the name of Ms. Berry that Mr. Ashe had hired to keep house and watch the kids after Ms. Mattie died. Ms. Berry was a kindly lady who would often fix soup and sandwiches for Johnnie and me whenever I was at his house playing during lunchtime. An incident happened while I was playing at Johnnie’s house; we both got a spanking from Mr. Ashe. Johnnie and I got this bright idea to use a car that Mr. Ashe had parked in the backyard as our sliding board. Ms. Berry caught us playing on the car and made us stop, but she also said she was going to tell Johnnie’s father when he returned home. When Mr. Ashe got home and learned what had happened, he went outside to look at the car. After a minute or two, he called for us to come outside with him. He pointed out our footprints going up the rear of the trunk, then over the top of the car. He then showed us where we had slid down the front window and then trampled across the hood. Mr. Ashe had picked up a Ping-Pong paddle from somewhere, and as he spanked us with the paddle, he said, This hurts me more than it does you, but I have got to teach you guys a lesson to respect property, and it is a lesson emphasized with a whipping that I have always remembered.

The Baseball Diamond

Johnnie and I played on the Pee Wee Baseball Team that practiced and played at the baseball diamond near his house. I played catcher and right fielder, and Johnnie played first base and pitcher. I remember playing other teams around the city but not how many games we played. Honestly, I could not tell you how many games we won or lost. I do remember misjudging a pop-up fly ball that came down on my nose instead of into the catcher’s mitt during one game. Everyone thought I had broken my nose, but I was more embarrassed at missing the ball than having a bloody nose. It was one of many embarrassing moments I would have in life.

Brookfield Swimming Pool

I often helped Mr. Ashe and his sons clean up the swimming-pool area on Saturday mornings before the pool opened; therefore, I never had to pay a cover charge to get into the swimming pool. Each year they had beginners’ swimming classes for children and adults who wanted to learn how to swim. They were shown the basics such as how to kick their feet, how to move their arms, and the art of treading water and floating. Graduation day consisted of jumping off the high diving board and swimming to one of the instructors who was standing at the shallow end of the pool. As I reflect back, it is amazing how the fear of jumping off that diving board caused many not to graduate. I am sure they were thinking to themselves, I know I can swim, but I do not plan to jump off any high places to prove it.

I looked forward to Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, and Labor Day because there was always a pool party at Brookfield Garden Swimming Pool. There were clowns, diving and swimming contests, free hot dogs, hamburgers, and a fireworks show. People came from all over the city to enjoy the festivities.

My Sister Nannie

During early fall or late spring of one of my preschool years, when the weather was still warm, my sister and her classmates walked passed the house on their way to a field trip. When I saw Nannie walking by, I wanted to go with her, but Momma Willard said no. The trip was just for Nannie and her class and that she could not be bothered with me while she was in school. I cried because I wanted to be in school and play with all those kids. When my sister came home from school, I told her I could not wait to go to school, take field trips like her, and have all those kids to play with. She laughed and said it was not all fun; they had to look for certain types of plants and bugs, and give a report on what they had seen and learned on the field trip. Looking for bugs and plants sounded like fun to me, but I had no idea what a report was.

I recall sitting and listening as Momma Willard, Bernice, or someone else helped Nannie with her math and spelling homework. If Nannie could not remember the answer to a question, I would interject what I had heard someone say when they were going over the questions and answers with her. This listening and remembering would become my three Rs for improving memorization skills: Read it, Repeat it, and wRite it.

Nannie and Arthur, Jr., were around the same age but went to different elementary schools. Since they were about the same age, they spent a lot of time together. Johnnie and I used to call them boyfriend and girlfriend because they were always in each other’s face, laughing and giggling. When we said Arthur liked Nannie or vice versa, they would get upset and chase us around, trying to make us shut up. Arthur, Jr., did mention Nannie in his autobiography, but he got the last name wrong. He thought our last name was Marks instead of Boyd. We called our great-uncle Daddy, and he called him Mr. Marks. I guess he assumed our great-uncle was our father and our last name Marks.

Johnnie and I would also attend different elementary schools even though we lived in shouting distance of each other. Johnnie went to Baker Elementary, and I went to Carver Elementary. Our paths would cross often as we grew into adulthood, but the friendship that we shared in those formative years would fade as we met and made new friends along the path of life.

My Father’s Relatives

I remember one Christmas when we went to visit my great-grandmother Laura Lashley. She lived in a small town called LaCross near South Hill, Virginia. I did not want to go because I was sure that Santa Claus would not know where to bring the Christmas toys and presents if I was not at home. Despite the assurances that Santa knew everything and would know exactly where everyone would be on Christmas Eve, I was still not convinced that he would. We went to LaCross, and to my delight, Santa did drop off some gifts and toys. To this day, I do not know how they got everything there unless they had carried them to LaCross at some earlier time, knowing we would be there for Christmas.

My father’s cousin James Marks, who would later come to live with us on Sledd Street while attending Virginia Union University, was living with my great-grandparents during that Christmas visit. James taught me how to milk a cow, draw water from a well, and to kill and pluck a chicken. You will hear more about James later.

My father’s mother, Nannie Boyd, who was one of ten siblings, maiden name was Baskerville. There were six sisters and three brothers: Martha Boyd, Gina Thomas, Willard Marks, Elise Wallace, Wesley Marks, Alberta Valentine, Ernest Marks, Ann Berry, and Thomas Marks. My great-grandmother was married three times and had three sets of children. She never allowed any of her children to refer to themselves as half sisters and brothers; she would always say, No halves came from me.

Several of my great-aunts had fifteen or more children, and at least one of my second cousins had fifteen or more children. John W. Boyd, Jr., one of my cousins, is active within the state of Virginia’s political arena. Ebony magazine named him one of the one hundred-plus organization leaders in the United States. When I used to have to go to the country during the summer and stay at my aunt Martha’s house, the only two children still at home were John, Sr., and Bernard (we called him DoDee). However, I am getting ahead of the journey.

My First Crush

There were always a great number of relatives staying at our house on Sledd Street. They would stay just long enough to get a job and work a few weeks to collect enough money to move on to DC, Baltimore, New York, or somewhere else north. An incident occurred in the early fifties when BoBo (one of James’s sisters) was staying with us before traveling onto New York. One of BoBo’s friends stopped by the house to visit on one of her days off from work. I assumed the man was in the military since he had on a soldier’s uniform. I think at that time Momma Willard was doing housework at some white person’s house, and BoBo was watching me this particular day while she worked. As a young kid, I always had crushes on older women, and BoBo was no exception. I thought she was pretty, and she spent a lot of time playing with me. Well, in my young eyes, I thought the man was hurting BoBo when all they were doing was affectionately playing with each other—kissing, hugging, laughing, and giggling. I wanted this man to stop and leave BoBo alone. When he would not stop, I bit him on the butt while he was hugging BoBo. For many years after that incident, I would hear repeatedly how I bit the man on his butt to make him leave BoBo alone.

Opossum in the House

We had a lot of chickens, cats, and a few dogs in the backyard on Sledd Street. In the early morning, we used to go looking for eggs that the chickens had laid in scattered places around the yard. We would find the eggs and cook them for breakfast. One day Daddy Miles noticed that we were not collecting the number of eggs we normally would get and that a few chickens were missing. As he looked in different nooks and crooks around the yard, he found several chickens partially eaten. At first, he thought one of the dogs had killed the chickens and ate the eggs. He said, Once a dog starts eating eggs, you had to get rid of him. Later that day, he sent the dogs away to where I do not know. A few days later, he found another dead chicken. Now he was thinking could it be an opossum killing the chickens. That weekend Daddy Miles and some of his friends put a fifty-gallon drum with a dead chicken in it next to the backyard fence. They then placed a plank, as a walkway, leading from the ground to the top of the fifty-gallon drum for the opossum. When we got up that morning and looked in the drum, we saw this rodent baring his teeth and hissing up at us with chicken feathers sticking out of the side of his mouth. One of the men said, Now what are you going to do with that big old rat? Then I heard someone else say (I think it was a preacher), I will take him home, skin him, and eat it; and as far as I know, that is just what he did.

More about James

James Marks, my father’s cousin who I spoke about earlier, came to live with us while attending college. James was always joking or playing around with Nannie or me when he was not doing schoolwork. He would play hide-and-seek with us or attempt to scare us when we came out of a room in the house. One day, when James and I were going to the store, he was joking around as if he had hurt his leg and was leaning on my shoulder for support. I pulled away from under his arm. At the same time, he tripped over something on the ground. As he started to fall, he put out both his hands to brace himself before hitting the ground. Neither one of us saw the broken pieces of jagged glass as he hit the ground. It would take over fifty stitches to sew up his hand from the broken pieces of glass. A few years later, when I smashed my hand, I too would require a great number of stitches to sew up my hand.

Here is another incident that I recall that involved James and me. This time, it was boiling water. I mentioned earlier that James showed me how to kill and pluck chickens. I also told you we had chickens while living on Sledd Street. We had one of those old woodstoves in the kitchen that required a handle to lift the round lid off the top of the stove so the pots could sit over the fire. Since this was required for all cooking, you can imagine how hot it got in the summertime (we did not have air-conditioning). Well, one Sunday during the summer, I had killed a chicken. Sometimes I would use an ax to cut the head off and watch it flap all over the yard before it dies, or I would grab the chicken by the neck and give it a quick wring. The chicken would still flap around the yard when you let it go, but you did not have all that blood spurting everywhere. James had put some water on the stove to boil before pouring it over the chicken. I had put the dead chicken in a big pan near the back stoop and was just standing there waiting for James to bring the water out. Well, as he was bringing the water out, he made a misstep, and some of the boiling-hot water hit the side of my head and burned all the hair off a small round section where the boiling water had hit. After I finished running around like a chicken with his head cut off, Momma Willard put some lotion on the burned spot. I cannot remember the name of the lotion they put on the burn, but they made me wear a stocking cap while the lotion was on my scalp. It looked like someone had shaved a small circle in the side of my head since the area was as smooth as a baby’s behind. It took a whole year for the hair to grow back.

My Sister Jackie

An incident