A Journey Worth Taking: An Unpredictable Adventure

By John F. Merchant

The journey through life of a man born Black and poor in Greenwich, CT in 1933 is reflected upon in detail. Circumstances exposed him to opportunities to build bridges between the races, make history and change the what is to what ought to be during almost eight decades.
His insights, opinions and anecdotes are readable, entertaining and offer nourishing food for thought.
An important journey in America and well worth taking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469164854

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by John F. Merchant.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012902498

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-6484-7

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-6483-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-6485-4

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Contents

Introduction

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Appendix

ENDNOTES

Photographs

1.   Family and friends

2.   Four graduations

3.   Grew up like brothers

4.   Virginia Union Basketball

5.   UVA Law Weekly article

6.   Our family

7.   SusB and Ol Tab

8.   More of SusB, Ol Tab, et al

9.   Karen’s wedding

10.   The Lawrence family

11.   Arizona glimpses

12.   Bisbee, Arizona, and Idaho

13.   United States Golf Association (USGA)

14.   Remarks to USGA

15.   Hall of Fame induction

16.   NBGHOF (continued)

17.   HOF (continued)

18.   Golf Symposium, 1994

19.   Folks important to me through the years

20.   Some special folks

In Memory of

my

Dad—Garrett McKinley Merchant

and

Mom—Essie Louise Merchant

Two wonderful parents without whom I would have lost my way.

They cared with a love that had no boundaries.

and

Barbara Ella Mitchell and Mary Elizabeth Neal

Two beautiful sisters, whom I love and cherish.

Introduction

Writing this autobiography was not my idea, and it has been a chore.

Stephen A. Isaacs, Esq., a Richmond, Virginia, lawyer I met on the golf course at the El Conquistador in Puerto Rico in 1975, was the first to suggest it be done. Subsequently, others encouraged me to do so. He and I have been close friends since we met, a friendship fueled by golf that remains strong in 2011.

Steve is a scratch golfer; I was never that good.

Amused by his suggestion, I chuckled silently and put the thought aside. However, Steve kept urging me to write, and finally, my reluctance eased, and I began trying to put my life and thoughts during it on paper.

Why do folks even consider writing an autobiography? Why should I?

Persons of historical significance, real or imagined, are often inclined to write such. Those who imagine their own significance easily convince themselves that it must be done. Egos often inspire the effort. Public figures, athletes, entertainers, and others may see the writing as a source of income, spurred on by publishing houses in the business of producing a variety of volumes to satisfy a multitude of readers with remarkable appetites for information and insights on various issues.

None of the above inspired me or caused me to write; so be it.

Today, it is clear to me that my journey has been unique, different from most, and, in some ways, historically significant. Yet I do not consider myself historical in any true or compelling sense. I did what I did when I did it, simple as that.

I will admit that reflecting upon some of my experiences has been cathartic; I think I enjoyed it. The struggle was to accurately recapture my thoughts during parts of the journey and recite only the truth as best I could. I believe that was done. What has been interesting to me is that I have finally accepted the underlying loneliness that was my constant companion. I realize now that I needed to make peace with the reality of being alone a lot as I was. Deep down inside it bothered me, but not now.

I also came to realize how important it was for me to be a parent, to be a friend, and to have friends like John Lawrence, Harry Van Dyke, John Whitney, Worthy Patterson, Steve Isaacs, and several others. Without them, I’d be empty.

Susan, my daughter, arrived on earth two months early, weighing 3 pounds 5½ ounces and is the best thing that has ever happened to me. She has made me proud over and over again and is an achiever. We are friends, not just father and daughter.

Tabitha Carter, the daughter of my ex-wife’s sister, has added enormous value to my life. I am the only father she has known. Her son, Tyler, thus becomes my grandson, and what a joy that has been. He’s my buddy.

I am thankful for the opportunities I’ve had to do some things that hadn’t been done until I did them. During the journey, I met and related to good people of all races, creeds, national origins, and backgrounds. In doing so, I gained a perspective not necessarily shared by others, though I wish it were.

Thank you for taking the time to share the journey. Enjoy.

Acknowledgments

I owe a debt of gratitude to a host of people who encouraged me throughout the process of writing about my journey. The risk in naming some is that I will omit one or more who should be individually listed. I feel compelled to risk offending those omitted and hereby apologize for the omissions.

Some of those omitted will find themselves in the photographs included herein. Or, perhaps, they can forgive the omission because they have been mentioned in the writing. I hope so.

Gigi Van Dyke and Queen Patterson supported the idea during lunch at Jimmie’s in West Haven one summer day. Each has known me for more than fifty years.

Frank Frankie J Johnson, Bridgeport, Connecticut, read several chapter drafts as they were written and kept pushing me to finish when I was tired and wanted to stop. His comments helped me believe it should be done.

Dr. Maurice Apprey, PhD, FIPA, dean of the Office of African American Affairs at the University of Virginia, offered written critical insight on the effort. I found his comments insightful, meaningful, and helpful.

Roland Lynch read some drafts of chapters and critiqued them, in writing, in words that were constructive, helpful, and adhered to.

John Forbes, Christine Mack, Doc and Lois Lawrence, Betty Hollander, Victor Riccio, Steve Isaacs, Billy Plotkin, and Hildegarde Ayers, among others, also read drafts of one or more chapters and commented objectively and honestly.

Individually and collectively, their input convinced me to keep writing. All felt the effort to be an interesting, readable, and valuable story. I sincerely thank all of them, named and unnamed, for their help.

Blame them; they made me do it!

Chapter 1

Growing Up In Greenwich, Connecticut

My life, covering more than three quarters of a century, has been a very interesting journey. In some respects, I consider it a remarkable journey during which several meaningful and notable experiences were had. None were preplanned. Rather, they were the result of the times and my being in the right place at that time.

My life included living through a time of wars, notably WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Racial unrest was a constant. It still exists in America, and around the world, and dominates. Arguably, it has worsened in 2011.

Amazing discoveries were made as the stockpiling of weapons of destruction partnered up with startling economic growth and depressing economic setbacks. Serious population growth throughout the world continues unabated; hunger has reached crisis proportions worldwide, including in America; and new vistas in technology are attained without bringing people closer. Incurring debt, worldwide, became the rule.

Tragically, what I view as the growth and acceptance of greed as a preferred way to live threatens America and the world. It appears to be out of control, or, more to the point, to be in control. Historically, greed has always been a growth business. Today, fully encouraged by debt, it is crippling America and the world.

A constant in my mind is that there was always a time when America was challenged to lead by defining itself on racial and other issues, and be better, but usually, not always, failed to do so.

My journey commenced on February 2, 1933, Groundhog Day, at 10:27 a.m. in Greenwich Hospital, Greenwich, Connecticut. Mom and Dad—natives of Virginia—were both employed by wealthy people residing in the back country of the town. They were part of the menial job brigade that arrived in the North from the South to provide services to folks who could easily afford to pay the low wages and for whom cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and raising children were unwanted, or, more likely, desirable, but inconvenient, chores and responsibilities.

My lasting impression is that without the Emancipation Proclamation, too many wealthy Greenwich residents, not all by any means, would have enjoyed being slave owners living on plantations just as much as they enjoyed living on their estates in the back country of Greenwich.

Some of my earliest recollections of Greenwich include the apparent attitudes of those who ran and controlled the town, including folks in the school system. It is important to remember that here I speak about the years 1933-1960 primarily, a different world I believe.

In many respects, their attitudes were praiseworthy. They determined and met their needs themselves by paying for them without governmental assistance (spelled interference), federal or state. The results were generally very positive, including the creation of an environment where residents and their families enjoyed the best municipal facilities and services available anywhere in America, or, at that time, the world, for that matter.

It was a really fine town to grow up in. It could afford the things it deemed necessary and accepted nothing but the best.

I recall my high school history teacher telling the class that Greenwich was the wealthiest town of its size in the world. I believed him.

However, like every town or city, it needed a workforce to provide essential services such as police and firemen, garbage collection, and landscape maintenance. Folks doing those chores needed to reside in close proximity to their workplaces so as to be at work reliably and on time. That was accomplished, and the neighborhood divisions reflected the economic differences.

The town has several sections or divisions, including Byram, Cos Cob, Pemberwick, Glenville, Old Greenwich, Belle Haven, The Fourth Ward, and Chickahominy. Five main post offices served the town, meaning five postmasters appointed through the political process.

Some Greenwich residents were important parts of the Wall Street hierarchy in New York City. Powerful politicians, state and national, resided in Greenwich, such as US Senator Prescott Bush, father of George and grandfather of Dubya. I delivered mail to Senator Prescott Bush during Christmas breaks from college. I have watched Joe DiMaggio walk into shops on Greenwich Avenue with Marilyn Monroe, his wife, on his arm. I was and am a Yankee, NFL Giants, Rangers, and Knicks fan. Loudly, then, very quietly, early on, I rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers (Jackie Robinson, et al.) and New York Giants (Willie Mays, et al.).

I grew up in the section known as Chickahominy, an area populated by Italians with a few black families. Racial harmony seemingly existed, although prejudices and racist attitudes resided at or near the surface. Those attitudes were not blatant as they affected me personally. Rather they were subdued, not visible, unspoken, and involved being ignored more than being chastised or victimized.

My childhood friends and playmates were first-

generation children whose parents had migrated here from Italy. Clearly, that was the situation on Charles Street, where I lived during most of my growing-up years. Many of my Charles Street friends, and many from Harold Avenue, Alexander Street, Victoria Street, Hamilton Avenue, and other streets, have remained friends down through the years.

In fact, Chickahominy has had an annual neighborhood outing for at least the past fifteen years. Many of us old-timers attend and keep in touch that way.

St. Roch’s Catholic Church, with its priests and nuns, enjoyed a leadership role in the area, although, as I learned over time, that role lacked adherence to certain basic Christian concepts related to how they viewed the neighborhood’s black population. Concepts such as Do unto others… , Am I my brother’s keeper… , and similar tenets were honored more in their breach than otherwise.

Fortunately, they could not prevent Hamilton Avenue Elementary School from being integrated, and with just one high school, integration existed there. However, they could, and did, work hard at supporting racial division in many areas, especially as concerned social activities. In truth, some of the priests had, and preached, attitudes toward blacks that were similar to, or the same as, those that slave masters had when slavery was permitted by law.

Conversely, no town in the country provided a better school system or better recreational facilities, especially for young people, than did Greenwich.

The predominately Italian neighborhood where I grew up was, for me, a really good place to be a kid. As stated earlier, Greenwich committed to doing everything first class and preferred to do it their way. Governmental help was viewed as something to be avoided because it came with unwanted controls and restrictions. We’ll pay for it and run it our way, was the prevailing philosophy, and leaders of the town were experts in implementing that philosophy.

The problem for lower-income residents, as I see it, was that the town fathers focused their efforts on improving the quality of life more for its wealthy residents than for policemen, firemen, and garbage collectors. People of color were tolerated as needed, but not important beyond the services they performed. The town’s black population was small.

Still, all residents could and did enjoy most of the positives of education, recreation, and other available municipal services, especially education. However, even the educational system only tolerated its black students and families. They were not important enough to receive the critical help and support needed to dream the American dream.

In town, the YMCA wouldn’t allow blacks to join or even use its facilities. The school system neither assisted nor encouraged black students to prepare to attend college. I never met with a guidance counselor or anyone else in the administration to discuss college or academics generally, despite the fact that I was a twelve-year-old high school freshman who somehow enrolled in the college curriculum and who had spent less than seven years, instead of nine, in elementary school.

As best I can recall, I spent less than a month in kindergarten before they put me in first grade. I skipped seventh grade entirely and entered high school in September 1945 as a 4′ 11″, 88-pound freshman, at age twelve.

As a result of my birth date, I entered kindergarten in September 1938 at age five plus seven months. I was six years old by insurance standards and graduated from Greenwich High School in June 1949 at the age of sixteen.

My oldest sister, Barbara, was born in June 1931. She started kindergarten in September 1936, two years before me.

Long before anyone ever heard of a head start program, Bobbie served as my head-start teacher. She would go over everything she learned in school each day with me and my younger sister, Elizabeth. Thus, I was ahead of many when I started. I think that was the reason I only lasted a short time in kindergarten; I knew too much.

The short kindergarten stay, and what followed, represented the start of an educational experience highlighted by little interaction with my peers, causing a somewhat stunted social development. Through high school and the first couple of years at college, I struggled looking for my peers and trying to relate to older non-peers I sat with in class. I struggled to figure out where I belonged, but never did. It was a chore; I don’t recommend it.

Bobbie and I graduated Greenwich High School in the same year 1949. Her early teachings allowed me to catch up with her.

In my senior year, while sitting in English class, I overheard Howard Guptil telling a classmate that he had been accepted at the University of Connecticut. I asked how he did that and he told me, so I told my parents.

My parents had always talked about the values inherent in being educated and getting a college degree, even though they had no recognizable capacity to afford college for their children.

Yet, we wrote to UCONN, received an application, filled it out, sent it in, and, I was accepted. At school, I asked for help with the process, but no school official helped for reasons I cannot fathom or explain. Years later, I had an occasion to seek a transcript of my high school record. The principal spoke with me and provided the transcript. I cannot forget his comments to the effect that he was surprised that I didn’t do even better in high school.

I offered no rebuttal as I thanked him for the transcript. He was the principal when I came through the system and should know the answer regarding my doing better.

Extremely low wages were paid to the menial job brigade, without social security benefits, despite requiring long workdays and six or more days a week for many. Many of the black employees lived in the homes of their employers. There they were required to rise early, prepare and serve breakfast, prepare the children for school, and then finish their day sometime after serving dinner and cleaning up the kitchen and house. They were given a half day off on Thursdays and often, not always, allowed to attend one of the two black churches in town on Sundays.

Employers were condescending, controlling, and opposed any efforts made by the brigade to educate themselves, or learn, or dream, beyond certain limits. Also, free time, after cleaning up after dinner, could not be spent watching television: there was none. Actually, they needed to rest, not watch TV.

Live-in servants had no children and devoted their full time to catering to the dictates of their employers, offering little or no resistance to the low wages or the oppressive nature of their circumstances. Many were from the South, as were my parents, and low-paying servitude in Greenwich was a big step up from what they might encounter back home. At least they had a job.

Mom and Dad had three children so they could not live in.

Among other bad habits practiced by the back country folk was a way of encouraging their employees to register and vote… as Republicans. My parents complied, or so they told me, but they also exposed me to my first experience with civil disobedience when they named me John Franklin Merchant.

I was named after two Democrats: Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his first vice president John Nance Garner, both of whom had recently been elected to run the country. The name John was placed first as a way of not disclosing their political preferences to their employers.

John was not only a common name, but it lacked obvious political significance that could have resulted in being terminated. Historically, few care about the name of the vice president, especially after the election. Franklin as a first name might have been a dead giveaway. The last three sentences are not a joke.

If I had been asked, I would have been named Garrett McKinley Merchant II, after my father, but I wasn’t asked. Often, as I grew older, I seriously considered legally changing my name to that of my dad but never did. I don’t know why my younger sister was named Mary Elizabeth, nor do I know why my older sister was named Barbara Ella. I really like both their names, though I never called them anything but Bobbie and Liz. We were born an average of approximately eighteen months apart: Liz on July 4, 1934, and Bobbie on June 23, 1931.

Bobbie was born in Spring Lake, New Jersey, en route to Connecticut; Liz and I were born in Greenwich Hospital. My parents had come to Greenwich from Lexington, Virginia, to look for work, escape the South and its blatant racism, and to obtain a better education for their children. In truth, when compared with Lexington, Virginia, things were much better in Connecticut.

Neither of my parents went beyond the sixth grade; however, they firmly believed that an education was needed to enjoy anything resembling a good life. With apologies to President Obama, each of my parents had the audacity to hope, dream, and work for a better life for their children.

Both Liz and I graduated from Virginia Union University. Bobbie, who I believe was the smartest of the three of us, never attended college but became one of the best secretaries you ever saw or heard mentioned. She was also a wonderful mother to her four children.

Both of my sisters were cute children and grew into beautiful women. They provided my parents with grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren. I now enjoy the privilege of having nieces and nephews who are greats, great greats, and great, great, greats.

This entire extended family came together in Virginia in 2006 to attend Bobbie’s surprise seventy-fifth birthday. What a delightful mob!

They also came together, almost all of them, when they visited Mom in Greenwich Hospital where she was recovering from a massive heart attack at age eighty-four. Five generations crammed into her hospital room, and she was happy as a pig in slop. She recovered from the massive and lived another two years.

Our extended family includes: college graduates’ galore, CPAs, preachers, business people, lawyers, and just plain folks who work every day and support their families. Frankly, I can’t keep track of them all, but am in regular touch with many. They live all over the place, including a great niece who lives in Norway. She married a Norwegian, is now a citizen of Norway, has two children, and once held (maybe still holds) the Norwegian national record for women in the four hundred meter run. She ran track at the University of Missouri.

Mom and dad were great parents, and they picked the right town to settle in and raise their children. I don’t know what prompted them to choose Greenwich over any other place, but I’m glad they did.

As stated, Greenwich was a great place to be a kid growing up. Despite the attitudes that existed, the advantages Greenwich provided were many, starting with the school system and continuing with the programs and facilities organized and run by the town’s recreation department.

Greenwich has three beautiful beaches artfully placed, by nature, in three different sections of the town. Todd’s Point served the area closest to Stamford in the East; Byram Shore served the West close to the Port Chester, New York line; and, Island Beach was reached by a thirty-minute boat ride commencing at the foot of Greenwich Avenue, the town’s main street.

Incredibly, Greenwich also had a black community center, Crispus Attucks Community Center. It is interesting, to me, how that came about. As told to me, the center’s origin arises out of the aforementioned attitude toward blacks.

The Greenwich Boys Club was located across from the railroad station, a long block west of the foot of Greenwich Avenue. It was a very old structure. Its age and condition had made it inadequate for its original purposes.

Accordingly, a new boys’ club building was constructed near one end of Chickahominy. It was state of the art, with a swimming pool and other facilities such as a properly sized indoor basketball court. Young black males like me who lived a mile or more away in the Chickahominy section of town, could join and use the boys club, and we did. One feature was movies every Saturday night where Lash LaRue, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, and their ilk became part of my early days.

The old boys club was abandoned, but not destroyed. It soon became Crispus Attucks Community Center, a haven for the black population, which was small but important. The center happened like this.

Many black domestics were given part of a day off on Thursday and often spent time window shopping on Greenwich Avenue, the main commercial district. When they tired of walking around shopping, they would often rest on the benches at the numerous bus stops on the Avenue. A white man of influence who grew tired of seeing these black women adorning his cherished Avenue, suggested, then lobbied for, converting the old boys club into a center for its black population. It was a place for the domestics to hang out and get out of sight on their day off. Yup, segregated bus stop benches were sought. What?

The separate facility was by no means equal but few towns in New England, or Westchester County, New York, had such, thus it was noteworthy and, frankly, a great place for young black children, as well as adult men and women to have available.

The center’s leadership, specifically Mr. and Mrs. Alver W. Napper followed by Mr. and Mrs. George E. Twine, was exceptional.

Yes, a black community center sprung up in this enormously wealthy town of Greenwich because of negatives, and the availability of a rundown building that had fundamentally outlived its usefulness. Surely, the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Quickly, the center became a facility that served black populations, young and old, from Norwalk, Stamford, and towns in Westchester (New York), including adults and children, as well as those who sought a comfortable chair on Thursdays. Its proximity to the railroad station located directly across the street from it made it easy to serve that large area.

Black children in Chickahominy and other parts of Greenwich, including my sisters and I, grew up in that center and fully enjoyed the recreational and educational activities it offered, primarily under the leadership of its director Alver W. Napper and his wife Berenice. The white folks used the YMCA as well as the new boys club, whichever suited their convenience. I don’t recall any of them ever joining Crispus Attucks, or trying to.

The board of directors was clearly and overwhelmingly white. It’s a control thing. Basic funding was provided by the Community Chest.

Looking back, being a black adult in Greenwich must have been very difficult. It would have been very difficult for me. However, being a child, and having the center, made things better for young people and for me.

We lived in three different places before I was four years old, all three in the part of Greenwich called Chickahominy, the predominately Italian neighborhood. A number of blacks lived in Chickahominy and a few owned their own homes, an amazing fact to me. I have little information about how their home ownership came to be.

The town dump was also located in Chickahominy, down near the state line at Port Chester, New York. The dump provided odors and rats for the menials living far from the landed gentry. The rats were both large and plentiful, often migrating to the house and attic we lived in.

Other blacks lived in the Fourth Ward and the Davis Avenue areas. I don’t recall any living in Riverside, Old Greenwich, Glenville, Byram, Cos Cob, Mianus, the back country, or Pemberwick, all areas of Greenwich as stated.

Most of my growing-up years were spent living in an attic on the third floor at 41 Charles Street, the street directly behind Hamilton Avenue School, the K-8 elementary school we attended. Because we were so close, we were rarely late for school, except me, when I refused to eat my oatmeal. Mom’s attitude was that I would sit there until I ate it all. I threw it out when she left for work and left me alone. Then I went to school, late but there.

Cream of Wheat I could handle, but I still don’t eat oatmeal; never have and never will. Strangely, I like oatmeal cookies.

Our landlord lived in the house; he owned the house. He was a black man named Peter O. Thompson, called PO by his friends. His first wife and son lived there as well. His son was a dentist who practiced from one of the bedrooms in the house. No one in Greenwich would rent office space to him.

I believe the son died young, or moved away from Greenwich, because I don’t have many memories of him.

Looking back, I wonder just how the son became a dentist. What inspired him? Where did he get his training? How did he find the resources needed?

I believe now that he was a product of a great man I admired, P. O. Thompson, his father and our landlord.

A roomer, Mr. Miller, also lived there, in a small room at the top of the stairs leading to the attic where Mom, my two sisters, and I lived in three small rooms.

Only one bathroom was available for the eight or more who lived in the house. It had a bathtub but no shower and was on the second floor. Somehow, we all managed.

Our attic home consisted of three very small rooms; a kitchen, one bedroom, and a living room. It was clearly an inconvenient situation, but a warm and loving home provided by a wonderful woman, our mother; we called her Mom. My parents separated when I was two years old.

I have early memories of Saturday-night baths in a washtub set in the middle of the kitchen floor. Water was boiled on the oil stove situated between the kitchen table and the icebox. The ice box required regular visits from Mr. Jones, the ice man. Oil for the stove was retrieved in a two-gallon jug from an oil barrel located outside the building. Filling the jug in a timely fashion was one of the chores assigned to me. Bobbie and Liz washed and dried the dishes and, when old enough, did the cooking. They and Mom were good cooks. Mom’s fried chicken is still the best I ever had, and Liz and Bobbie could make a mean Spanish rice. Hot dogs and beans were our regular Saturday-night meal. Spaghetti and meat balls once a week were delicious but never reached the level of that provided by the mothers of my neighborhood friends.

Seemingly, every neighbor raised tomatoes and made their own gravy, often called spaghetti sauce by the uninitiated. At one point, I had eaten pasta every day of my life between the ages of twenty-five and seventy-five. I also made my own gravy. It was good but not like what I experienced on Charles Street.

The apartment contained only one small closet in the bedroom for hanging clothes, but it had a cupboard in the kitchen, which was a good thing.

That stove was the only source of heat in our attic, so it made sense for me to keep the oil jug filled. Failure to do so often resulted in Mom telling me to bring back a switch from the hedges out front when you bring back the jug.

Yup, a whupping came with the failure to fill the jug in a timely manner, thereby letting the stove die out. I learned that I should not try to be slick and bring back a little switch; something I did only once.

That whupping was not child abuse, although today some might consider it as such. I knew it was discipline and learned from it. Incidentally, my sisters and I never had a reason to think that Mom didn’t love us, purely and unqualifiedly, despite occasional punishment.

In fact, just how my mother managed remains a mystery to me. No refrigerator, very little space, a full-time job, no washing machine or dryer or other modern conveniences that nowadays we take for granted. Mom refused to even consider going on welfare. Mom did have an iron and ironing board, and we were taught how to use both. I also learned to sew.

Remember, if you will, as you think about that last comment, she had two little girls to dress, comb their hair, and look good every day in school. Homework was done on the kitchen table with Bobbie presiding.

In winter, and sometimes during the fall, we would put our pajamas in the oven to warm them, take them out, put on the warm pajamas, run to our beds, and quickly get under the blankets and go to sleep.

Initially, the three kids used the one bedroom; Mom slept on a couch in the living room. Bobbie and Liz shared the one bed, and I slept in a crib until I outgrew it. Mom then made a deal with the landlord that moved Mr. Miller to a small room on the second floor, and I was given the very small room at the top of the attic stairs.

The joy of having my own room, even one as tiny and cramped as mine, cannot be properly explained. If you have had your own room growing up, then you know. If you have not had your own room growing up, then you don’t know, although you can imagine what it might have been like and wished for it.

I loved it and have never forgotten what it means to a child to have his or her own room, his or her own space. I vowed that any children of mine would always have their own room and space, even if I had to work three jobs to provide it.

I now know that we were poor, counted among the working poor, but poor. Most of the neighborhood was in the same shape, so we didn’t realize our economic condition. Most of the Italian families had parents who had come over from the old country. Their children, my neighborhood friends and playmates, were almost all first-generation Americans.

An enviable work ethic dominated the neighborhood. Every father worked; many, maybe most, mothers stayed home and raised the children. Each family had unwritten permission to chastise another family’s children if they were misbehaving or doing something silly or stupid. In other words, every family participated in raising the neighborhood children; it was a real neighborhood. A threat to tell your mother what you did or were doing was generally enough to get you to stop. Occasionally, stopping you required a smack on the butt, but not often.

We played in the streets, in the swamp separating the schoolyard from Charles Street, and also in the schoolyard. Parents could look out their windows, or stand on their porches, and see the children playing and call them home for supper.

In the summertime, fast-pitch softball leagues, organized by the recreation department of the Town, played games almost nightly; the entire neighborhood came out to watch the games which were hotly contested. Two all-black teams participated in the leagues; I played for one of them.

Charles Street had several really good athletes. Joe Piro was a solid third baseman; Chippie Chiappetta was a talented shortstop who in today’s world might be playing in the major leagues; Nonie Belmont could play second base with anyone; and, a skinny little black kid wasn’t a bad shortstop himself.

Larry Evaristo, Rico Magarone, Nino Sechi, Mike and Donald Biagi, Frankie Putrino, Lou Orlando who played basketball for UCONN and many others were really good athletes. I’ve left out some names; please forgive me.

As youngsters we built a ball field in the swamp, complete with a dugout. The swampy area for the field was three to four feet lower than the end of the schoolyard. The outfielders played on the school grounds because there was insufficient space in the swamp for an outfield elevated above the rest of the field as it was. It worked. A lot of arguments, but we learned to settle them without violence. We organized our own team, The Charles Street Aces, and would play teams from other neighborhoods, then pass the hat to get money for balls and bats.

Adults did not run our athletics; the kids did. The two best players, we knew who they were, were the captains, and they would select players for each team, then play. If you weren’t selected, it was because your peers knew you were not very good. When, if, you became good enough, you were picked. The kids seemed to understand and accept this. Many practiced and practiced, improved, and eventually were selected, a source of pride and status among your peers.

No fathers came down to raise hell with the coach because his kid wasn’t playing. We had no adult coach. The kids chose the players and no kid’s parents paid a shrink to deal with the boy’s trauma over not being picked to play. He knew, we knew, and that settled that. Practice and get better, or, spectate, or, find something else to do.

St. Roch’s Catholic Church was an imposing structure situated across the street from the school and visible from Charles Street. My friends went to mass and confession. We went to the Baptist Church located near Greenwich Hospital, about two miles away from where we lived. We generally walked to church. We also walked about a mile to both the boys club and the Crispus Attucks Community Center. Walking saved the ten cents cost of a bus ride. Truth is, we rarely had the ten cents, so walking was the only option.

The Catholic Church’s presence involved an ongoing and effective effort to control the neighborhood people, including on issues related to race. I was told, on unimpeachable authority, that a priest once went so far as to deliver a mass in which he instructed the parishioners not to sell their homes or rent an apartment to black men, women, or families. A tragedy in the neighborhood triggered the mass.

In the late 1940s, the Wiggins family, a black family of seven, including three little girls and two little boys, had a fire. During the fire, Mrs. Wiggins and her three daughters were burned to death. Somehow, Mr. Wiggins and his two sons escaped the fire but were left homeless. The tragedy was so severe that a committee was formed at the Crispus Attucks Center to raise money for funerals and find a place for Mr. Wiggins and his two sons to live.

A white property owner who lived in Chickahominy and worked at the post office came to the committee and offered to sell his three-family house to solve the problem. The priest, who incidentally was a member of the committee, later told the man that if he sold his house to blacks, he’d be excommunicated or something like that, causing the offer to be withdrawn.

Subsequently, on a Sunday morning, the priest delivered his mass to the entire congregation saying, clearly, that no one in the congregation is to sell or rent any property to blacks.

Ultimately, a house was found in Chickahominy for the Wiggins’. Mr. Wiggins was employed at Jenkins Valve in Bridgeport; the sons grew up as friends of mine. Sam became a postman in Greenwich. Richard, who is an extremely talented and skilled musician, eventually worked as a cameraman for the CBS show, Sixty Minutes, traveling all over the world to gather information that was shared with the American public. I lost contact with Richard and Sam years ago, but I remember them as good friends growing up.

Recently, Richard and I reconnected, and we e-mail each other from time to time. He reminded me that he still owed me a million marbles from long ago when we kept doubling the bet until we stopped at the million number. We had a good laugh. Actually, I was a real good marbles player.

My first exposure to Catholicism came when friends invited me to attend a service. It was then that I learned that religions were practiced differently. Their methods of worshipping differed from those of the Baptist church I attended, although their belief in God was as strong as mine.

Growing up, I sensed very little racism or racist attitudes that prevented real friendships from developing among the kids in our neighborhood.

As an adult, looking back, I wish that the Catholic hierarchy had spoken out against the mass that priest delivered, but I reckon that was too much to expect, or to ask for, in the 1940s. However, it is not too much to ask for in the twenty-first century, so I am asking for it. It would erase any, or many, doubts I harbor about organized religion, including Catholicism, its priests and bishops and the hierarchies of other religions as well.

Since my youth, my personal adult experiences with religion include few negatives. However, I do see a serious lack of effective leadership from the religious sector on many moral issues where you would expect it, including its general tolerance of negative racial attitudes. Maybe this is to be expected when the church, in general, becomes, primarily a business, and secondarily a community asset from which leadership and wisdom are needed.

Ironically, this appears to me to have become a major problem with both the institutions of education and religion. Are we still the most highly educated nation in the history of the world? Are we maintaining that position or losing ground almost daily? Idle thoughts for which I have no answers.

P.O. Thompson had the only black owned house on Charles Street. No other blacks lived on the street. My relationship with the kids who grew up there has continued down through the years and has been fundamentally free of the racial strife that, seemingly, still dominates America and grows.

Joe Strazza, one of seven children who lived directly across the street from us, has been a good