Square Squire and the Journey to Dreamstate

By Duane Lance Filer

Square Squire and the Journey to Dream State, my 394-page, 96,729-word novel is a semiautobiographical story of growing up geeky in the last innocent time when all the basketball players had hopes and none of the gangs had guns.
Squire Brooks is a precocious nerd whose only awareness of the transitions in his neighborhood of Compton, California, in the 60s is the opportunity to chuck stones at the increasing number of For Sale signs in the yards of his white neighbors. His fathers deepening involvement in civil rights creates increasing chaos in his home where Squire writes his short stories and daydreams. Adolescence brings peer-driven lessons about girls, puberty, girls, bullies, and girls as he navigates the temptations during his elementary, junior high, and high school years.
Squires daydreaming has developed into an imaginative mechanism that frees his mind from all the chaos and allows him to escape to a dream state whenever he writes. After graduating from high school and on a road trip with his dog, Julius, Squire meets Octavia Steves, who teaches him that his dream state is actually a form of meditation that could help him become the writer of his dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469177557

Duane Lance Filer

Duane Filer is a writer now residing in Carson, California, who has written four books, three of them after retiring from the California Public Utilities Commission after twenty-eight years of state service. Duane and his six siblings were raised in Compton, California, by mom, Blondell, and dad, Maxcy (now deceased), and were always told to follow their dreams and achieve but also to contribute to society and give back to the community. Duane loves music (especially jazz and funk), diddles on the bass guitar, and loves all sports and animals. Squirrels are welcome in his backyard. Jay DeVance III is an up-and-coming illustrator residing in Compton, California. Jay just published his first two books, “The Story of Decapolis –Book of Heroes Vol. 1” and “The Story of Decapolis – Coloring Book 1.” Jay can be contacted at [e-mail] or [e-mail].

Book preview

Square Squire AND THE

JOURNEY TO

Dreamstate

Duane Lance Filer

Copyright © 2012 by Duane Lance Filer.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2012903906

ISBN:                    Hardcover                          978-1-4691-7754-0

ISBN:                    Softcover                            978-1-4691-7753-3

ISBN:                    Ebook                                  978-1-4691-7755-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

111049

Contents

The Birth

Elementary Elements

What’s Watts?

Junior High

Picture 1

Square Squire

Square Squire Ain’t So Square (Ninth Grade Prom)

High School

Picture 2

The Room

Senior Year

Picture 3

Brief Elixir from a Wayward Writer (and Squire Makes a New Friend)

The Panic and the Reprieve

Lessons to Please—Octavia Steves

Picture 4

DREAM STATE (The Rebirth)

About the Author

This book is dedicated to all kids; not only to my two wonderful kids Arinn and Lance(now adults)—but also to kids all over the world who may not have come into this world under the best circumstances, i.e., the best parents, the best neighborhood, the best school system, etc. Yet these same kids can continue to dream of a better life and—with hard work and support along the way—can achieve their dreams. Dream on, my young brothers and sisters, my friends, lads and ladies—and never let your dreams die!

Dream on!

Notes on the Book/Acknowledgements

This book is part fact/part fiction—I’ll just call it faction. The first part of the book is pretty much fact, with Squire reliving the author’s (mine) recollections of growing up in the great city of Compton, California. The book then weaves in and out of fact and fiction as Squire’s imagination begins to take over.

Although the main character in the book is an only child (writer’s prerogative to enhance the idea that Squire was a loner and thus the reason for his daydreaming), I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my real parents and my six siblings, who I love dearly, and contributed to the author’s sense of wild imagination that led him to write this book.

My dad was Maxcy Filer, a civil rights activist and an early black leader in the city of Compton as it changed from white to black. My mom, Blondell, still lives in the same house we were raised in in Compton. Thank you Maxcy for your teachings of perseverance and fight, and thank you Blondell for instilling in me that it was OK to be creative and be your own person. God bless both of you!

Thank you to my sisters Maxine, Stephanie, and Tracy; and to my brothers Kelvin, Anthony, and Dennis. We had a ball growing up in Compton!

I must also acknowledge others who helped with the completion of this book.

Ernie Ernesto Hamilton—Ernie was my roommate in college at Cal Lutheran College from 1970-1974. Although a tragic accident after college left him a quadriplegic, Ernie was my compadre-in-arms who had more courage than any person I’ve ever met. Ernie died a couple of years ago, but he always encouraged me to the end to get off my ass and follow my dreams—and I know he is smiling down from heaven as I write this!

Initial Editor—Big props to Pamela Sheppard. Pam was Square Squire’s first editor and helped me through the initial process/trials of editing my book. Pam can be reached at [e-mail]

Book Cover—Daniel Stone. Daniel is a very talented artist whose work appears on the book cover and at the beginning of Chapters 5, 8, and 10. Daniel’s art can be viewed at: http://itcamefromspace.blogspot.com

Other Art—Paul Branton—Paul is my cousin from Chicago, Illinois. Paul is a talented artist, whose art work graces the beginning of Chapter 13. Paul’s art can be viewed at www.brantonart.com

Poem—Squires’ poem A Walk in Chapter 13 was written by my little brother Kelvin Filer. Bro Kelvin—thanks for letting Squire use your poem!

To my kids, Arinn and Lance, thanks for being the light of my life. I am so fortunate to have such bright, outstanding kids who continue to give back and help others in their community… great kids!

Last, and certainly not least (if I want peace in my life—just joking sweetheart)—I must acknowledge my wonderful wife, Dr. Janice Filer. Janice, it’s been quite an adventure these last 35 years of marriage. Life has been anything but dull, and I have been supremely lucky and blessed to have met my soul mate in college and we’ve made it through these years. Thanks for your continued love, and for putting up with me through thick and thin!

Duane can be contacted at [e-mail] or at Facebook and LinkedIn.

"Push a little harder

Think a little deeper

Don’t let the plastic bring you down

You can make it if you try!"

You Can Make It if You Try

—Sly & the Family Stone

Chapter 1

The Birth

Dare say, what if one could

remember the events of his birth.

Imagine . . .

If my life were a book, it would begin something like this:

Daddy: Push, baby. You can do it!

Mommy: Oooooooooooooooooooh!

daddy: That’s it, baby, you’re working out now. Do it. Roxy, baby… baby, I can see it coming!

mommy: Oh, Carney, I’m trying… I really am, but I don’t know.

Daddy: Just a little bit harder, Roxanne!

Mommy: But it hurts.

Daddy: I know, baby, but it’s worth it. It’s worth the pain. So come on, Roxanne Brooks, give both of us everything you’ve got!

Mommy: He… he… he… he… he… he… haw!

Daddy: That’s it!

Mommy: He… he… he… he… HOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOO!

Daddy: Beautiful!

Mommy: Hawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

Daddy: Good!

Mommy: oh shit… he… he… heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!

Daddy: Great!

Mommy: He… he… hoooo… hoooo… hoooooooooooo!

Daddy: The breathing is working just fine… you sound like a choo-choo train, baby!

Mommy: "Oh, Carney, baby, I’m really trying… but I just don’t know… I do know I’m gonna kill you after this!

Doctor: You’re doing just fine, Mrs. Brooks.

Daddy: Try the breathing again, baby. Come on… HE… HE…

Mommy: He… he… ain’t nothing funny!

Doctor: The head is crowning, Mrs. Brooks.

Daddy: Hear that, Roxy… the head is crowning. I can see the head crowning. I can see the hair!

Mommy: Carney… is it brown or black? The hair, Carney.

Daddy: A beautiful black.

Doctor: He’s got a full head of black hair, Mrs. Brooks.

Mommy: Did you say he, Doctor?

Doctor: I meant the baby, Mrs. Brooks… I can’t say for sure if it’s a boy or a girl… We will all know in a very short time… You just keep working.

Mommy: Oooooooh… oooh.

Doctor: Keep pushing, Mrs. Brooks.

Mommy: I’m pushing, Doctor… Damn! Is the baby here yet?

Doctor: Another couple of minutes and you will have your child.

Daddy: Soon, baby.

Doctor: Tell me, Mr. Brooks, what do you want? A boy or a girl?

Daddy: As long as he’s healthy, Doctor. It doesn’t really matter as long as he’s healthy!

Mommy: Ooooooohhhhh, Carney! You know well and good you want a son.

Daddy: Roxanne, you’re beautiful! I’ll take a healthy boy or a healthy girl… preferably one at a time and hopefully in that order. I don’t know if this idea of letting fathers-to-be in the operating room is such a good idea though… I’m working as hard as you. Come on, Roxanne, I can’t wait! Push that baby out!

Mommy: HEEEE… HEEEE… HEEEE… HEEEE.

Daddy: It’s coming! Push!

Doctor: OK… the head’s out. Good girl, Mrs. Brooks. Let me turn the head and see if I can get a good grip on a shoulder. Nurse.

Mommy: Oh, Carney, the head is out.

Daddy: Beautiful… He’s got my head too.

Doctor: "OK, Mrs. Brooks… this is it… Let’s push again. This is it! Mommy: HummmrnmmirnrrmuranppPPPPPPPPP.

me: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

me: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Doctor: Well, Mr. Brooks, you’ve got your Little Leaguer.

Daddy: It’s a boy, Roxy… a little baby boy!

Mommy: Is he all there… Count his fingers and his toes… Make sure he’s all there.

Doctor: He’s fine, Mrs. Brooks. A fine healthy son.

Daddy: Looks just like you, Roxanne.

Mommy: Can I see my baby?

Doctor: Sure. Nurse?

me: WAAAAAAAAAA . . . WAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Mommy: Oooooooh… Look, Carney. Our first child… our first baby… he’s so little… a little man with those fat cheeks… and look at the size of his feet!

Daddy: Forget his feet… look at the size of his wee-wee! He definitely takes after his father!

Mommy: And a strong-looking boy too! Hey? . . . Look on his bottom? What’s that mark on his bottom, Doctor?

Doctor: Don’t be alarmed. That’s his birthmark.

Daddy: Kind of looks like an S.

Mommy: That’s it! That’s the sign my momma always told me to look for in naming your first child. A sign of some kind! . . . Hmmmm… an S . . . We’ll name him Squire, after your father!

Daddy: And he can have my middle name, Chandler!

Mommy: Oh, Carney, I love you.

Daddy: Squire Chandler Brooks… welcome to your world!

CHAPTER 2

Elementary Elements

Elkhart, Indiana

I must have heard the story of my birth a thousand times. A special twinkle comes to my mother’s eyes every time she’s about to tell the story. A very, very special twinkle comes to my father’s eyes whenever he mentions my birth, because it was rare for a father to be allowed in the delivery room during those days—but Daddy was a strong-willed man who did some research and found there wasn’t a law against it; so he was allowed into the delivery room.

It’s like my parents can transport themselves back in time and relive the moments like it was yesterday, even though it happened in 1952. My old man is particularly bad; he’ll throw his head back and brag about how brave he was to be one of the few dads present, right in the delivery room, when their first child was born. Yeah, I’ve heard the story a million times, but it’s worth it just to see that glow come to their faces.

It seems strange, but I can remember those first few months of life myself. I know it may be hard to believe, but even then I had a strong capacity to remember things. I can remember lying in that crib on the first day Mommy and Daddy brought me home from the hospital. Lying on my back, I could see the ceiling was way, way up there! It was warm in all those clothes my mom used to keep me wrapped in.

I’d lie in that bed—supposed to be sleeping. But I lay in that bed in a dreamy kind of state, trying to remember everything that happened that day, filing it into my memory. Why? I dunno, but I could do it, so I did it. Strange?

And then the faces started coming… way, way up there! Strange black faces would pop over the side of the crib; only the black faces wouldn’t actually be black at all. Some were light brown, some dark brown, some wrinkled, and some smooth and creamy. And the faces were big! They’d hang over that long piece of wood and put their big face right in the way, smiling big grins and showing all those white things caught in the upper and lower part of their smiles. Wide eyes! Some eyeballs brown and some eyeballs black, some with clear white around the outside, and some with red streaks going to the sides—eyes and mouths examining me!

I remember Uncle Percy best because he used to have a gold tooth on the side of his mouth. He’d smile that wide open smile, and the reflection would block out the rest of his fat wrinkled face, like looking directly up into the sun. He used to have this dirty brown rolled-up piece of paper hanging out the other side of his mouth. Now I could tell if Uncle Percy was in the room without even looking up because for some reason that stub hanging out of his mouth had this one red tip—with a trail of mist flowing out of it—and smelled worse than all the times my daddy would say, Oh, oh, Roxanne, here you go. Little Squire needs his diaper changed. Diaper changing was a definite smell, but if you ask me, that hot thing hanging from Uncle Percy’s lip smelled worse than five diaper changings.

Daddy never seemed to be the one to take care of my diaper or to fumble with those shiny things that Mama was always sticking herself with and going OH SHIT. I remember thinking shit must be a terrible thing. Then one day she stuck me with one of those shiny things, and I almost said my very first words: OH SHIT.

Time flew by those first early years. Learning how to walk, then learning how to run, learning how to throw a ball, learning how to ride a bike, learning how to skate, finding out how it felt to skin a knee. It was a blur. I do remember church though.

Church in Elkhart, Indiana

Momma always went to church, and most of the time I was right alongside her, usually me and sometimes Daddy. See, Mommy’s daddy was a preacher in Elkhart, and he and Big Momma (Grandma) had eleven children. They made everybody go to church every Sunday; service started at 8:00 a.m., and you got out around 3:00 p.m. Then, of course, there was choir rehearsal at 4:00 p.m. and night church later on that evening. Sunday was church, and church was Sunday.

I remember Grandpa at the front pulpit, hair slicked back, and all my aunts and uncles (his kids) behind him in the choir—Mommy at the piano. I sat in the first row on one of those long seats they called a pew (no dozing off in the front row). Church jumped! The long black choir robes swayed as the voices sang, members tilting their heads back and opening wide their mouths. The service worked itself up and up with a song here, a prayer and an amen there. I’d always get sleepy around sermon time, but then Preacher Burson, my momma’s daddy, would get that feeling and start sweating, and I swear something took over his body, and he would twitch, smile, laugh, cry, and bring the word to the members. He’d throw out all those names—Jesus’s friends with the common names Paul and Peter and John and Mark. HE’D SHOUT OUT AND SAY, CAN YOU SAY AMEN. Soon he would start rhyming and shift to Paul and Saul, and God bless all.

Rock of Ages, turn the pages.

He would jump up high, come down, and pound the pulpit; and I would SNAP MY NODDING HEAD. I couldn’t ever go to sleep in church in Elkhart, Indiana.

Other memories had to be about 1957 when I was about five years old. Momma told me I used to love to watch this box they called the tee vee—and my favorite shows were Saturday morning cartoons and this show called Flash Gordon. I wouldn’t miss Flash Gordon. It was about this space traveler who had a rocket ship, and it was his job to explore outta space. Flash had this lady that travelled with him, called Dale, and also this doctor guy who was real smart. It was something about their clothes and travelling through the sky that really stuck to me. Whenever I would go outside, I’d look up in the sky and think about Flash and the others flying around way up there. I hoped one day I could fly up there.

Time flew by those early years. I remember when I was around seven years old, playing catch with my father in the backyard. I played pee-wee league. We were tossing a hard ball back and forth. Daddy wanted me to be a pitcher (Another Newk, he’d say), so I would stand back and let it fly. My father would crouch in a catcher’s stance, over a piece of cardboard we used for a plate.

Come on, Squire, show me something… man, you call that pitching? he would pound his glove and ready himself for the next pitch. I was lanky for my age, and the backyard wasn’t long. He was up very close. Nate Hollyfield, one of the older kids at the park, had shown me how to grip and throw a curveball. So I wound up and put everything that was in me into that curve ball.

SWOOOOOOOOOSH!

Oh shit! my daddy yelled in pain and dropped his glove. There was that shit word again. I already knew that shit could be substituted for a lot of words. Daddy was bent over, holding the area I only knew as the balls.

Oh goddammit… shit, Daddy groaned as he rolled on the grass a couple of times. Now goddammit was a new one for me. I thought to myself, Can I throw the ball that hard? Then I realized I had heard the word shit and knew something was wrong.

I perched over my Daddy and watched him roll from side to side in pain.

Daddy, I’m sorry. Did I knock the wind out of you? It was the worst injury I knew at seven. I knew the feeling of having the air suddenly rush from your stomach.

OOOOOOoooh, Squire. You’ll learn one day, son, he said through the corner of his mouth. You’ll definitely learn one day. He continued to hold his balls, choking out a laugh with a groan.

My father first worked at an RV factory in Elkhart, Indiana. He said Elkhart was the RV capital of the world, and that the only work you could find in Elkhart was with an RV company. He said it was a shame that while he would make RV’s all day, he would never be able to buy an RV on what he made working for the company. One day I finally asked him what an RV was, and he said it was a recreational vehicle—or just a big car that you could actually live in and drive—and that only white people could afford to own an RV. Since he wouldn’t ever be able to own something that he was making, he quit that job and started working at one of the steel mills in nearby Gary, Indiana. Well, I guess he didn’t like that job either, because one day he announced he was moving West. An opportunity, he said.

Well, Roxanne, we’re moving to California. I’ll send for you as soon as I get settled. That was it, all he said, and it was settled. We were moving West.

The next day, he hopped in the blue Beetle and headed to Los Angeles, California. In a few months, we followed on a bus. At first we lived in an apartment. An apartment was a bunch of small rooms put together, squeezed by other apartments and families on all sides.

Then we moved to a two-bedroom home in Los Angeles, which my father rented out from this white man. It was a nice house, and I remember that there were palm trees at the end of the block. I remember the white man coming over to collect money from my daddy, and my daddy talking about moving into something of his own.

Daddy was moving all the time and was barely home because of all the stuff he was doing. He worked two jobs; he was delivering milk in the early, early, early morning and parked cars during the day. Plus, sometimes at night, he was going to night school, said he was working toward something called a BA. Momma worked too when we first got to LA. She was working in a hospital and wanted to become a nurse.

Just like when he decided to move to California and the people there said he wouldn’t make it, my dad believed in taking chances. He always took a chance on what he thought was right.

One day, Daddy and Mommy were driving down this street. I was in the backseat. The street, called Arbutus Street, had pretty homes; and the streets were clean and had these big trees on each side—the tree’s branches up high hung over the street like the ceiling over a house. My father saw this huge house on the corner with a For Sale sign in the front yard and said, Baby, that’s our next home.

Mommy put up a mild fight. Honey, I don’t know if there are any black families who live around here.

But, baby, this is why we have been working all these jobs and saving all our money, just so we could move into a house like this, my daddy said.

I don’t know. Carney, said Momma.

Once inside though, she fell in love with the house. On moving day, we pulled up in the rented truck. Uncle Herman, whom I had recently met—I thought all of my relatives lived in Elkhart—and some other people were along to help us. I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at this huge gray monster brick chimney, which I later learned was fake. I looked down the street at the row of neat houses. My father had bought the tallest house on the block in this city called Compton.

It was coming up on the 1960s. Compton. My earliest memories of Compton once again began with church.

Church in Compton, California

Mommy and church mellowed in California. Maybe it was Mommy being away from her family, the new climate, or something. But we were still going to find a church. Oh yes, Mommy was real about church, and I remember her words: Squire, it doesn’t matter what church, what faith, what denomination. Church is church, and it’s all the house of the Lord. It’s OK if you go to the closest church near you one day and the farthest church the next, it’s still church and the house of the Lord.

So it was strange one Sunday when Daddy was the one who woke us up and said we were going to church in Compton. Remember, we were one of the few black families in Compton. He drove us to this big green church on Compton Boulevard. The sign out front said:

FIRST METHODIST CHURCH OF COMPTON—

All Welcome.

Inside, the church was all red carpeted with real wood everywhere and stain glass in the windows. There were pictures of Jesus all around—all looking down at you. We took a seat on one of these long, skinny wooden benches that ran the width of the church. This church had mostly white people, but oh yeah, I saw some black families scattered around. The Reverend Isabell was the reverend (white folks don’t use the word preacher—they use reverend), and he was very nice. He shook our hands on the way out and said he hoped to see us again. He had a soft hand, and he never ever raised his voice during the sermon. And you know what? I heard those same common names during his sermon: Paul, Peter, Mark.

The church in Elkhart and the church in Compton had some differences though. One big difference in the Compton church was called Sunday school. Sunday school was like regular school, but only for one day and on Sunday; and it was mostly for the kids! You’d come early, attend Sunday school, and then later you could go to regular church with the grown-ups. Sunday school was for the kids to learn lessons from the Bible; the teachers were just regular parents who would trade off coming in early on Sundays. We would learn about Jesus, from the baby Jesus to the grown Jesus, and all the good stuff he did, how he got his disciples.

The best thing about Sunday school was you could ask questions. You couldn’t raise your hand and ask a question in big church. I was always asking questions in Sunday school. I would raise my hand:

Yes, Squire… do you have a question? said the teacher for the day.

Yeah… was Noah really swallowed by a whale? How did he get swallowed up and not get hurt or die? I would ask.

Yes, Squire… the Bible teaches us about faith. If the Bible says it is so… then we must have faith that it happened.

But how did he breathe in the whale’s belly? I would continue.

Oooopss… time’s up. The teacher would always find a way to get me to stop asking my questions.

Church wasn’t bad, Sunday school either. It was all good and positive learning about God and Jesus.

I remember playing with the white kids on Arbutus Street. They may have been white—but that never bothered me—we were all kids. Ah, life. I never thought about people being different. Some people were light; other people were dark. The Browns across the street were also black but were older and didn’t have any kids. Then one day another black family, the Polians, moved in down the street. David Polian, who was a year older than me, and his older brother, Billy Polian, and I became good friends. David and I became best friends, and whenever the kids on the street played war, it was automatically David and me against the white kids. Then John Moore (the Moores) and Eli Roussell (the Roussells from New Orleans) moved into the neighborhood. They were also black. I began to notice more and more that as more black families moved into the neighborhood—the white kids weren’t around as much to play with. It seemed like for every black friend I gained, I lost a white friend.

Right around this time, I noticed the signs began to appear. Yard signs. They had For Sale on them. Every day, as David and I walked to school, we made a game out of guessing where the next For Sale sign would pop up.

Watch, old Larry McClary’s house is next, I told David. I heard Larry’s mother yelling and screaming at his father… whenever that happens, it means a For Sale sign.

OK, bet… two grape kisses and a Chum Gum, David said. In two weeks, there was a For Sale sign in front of the McClary’s.

Pay up, I said.

Around the year 1963, for some reason, white people really started moving out of the neighborhood and not just from our neighborhood, but white people from all over Compton were moving out of the city. David, myself, John, and Eli would have target practice on the For Sale signs while running down the street. Hit a sign and run like the wind. Hit one sign on one side of the street, turn around, and pop another one on the other side. We used dirt clods, preferably from the flower bed of Mr. Balardo. He had the nicest lawn on the block and kept the dirt neatly turned into clods that would fit perfectly into a hand primed for throwing.

I had a good arm. I used to stick ’em and go. POP and go! All the way down to the end of the block.

Very few white families stayed. Mrs. May stayed until her dying day, bless her heart. That’s what she used to say all the time, Bless his heart. Mr. Pamilton was trimming the hedges in the front yard of his house one day, had a seizure, and was choking to death and had the misfortune of Mrs. May to be the first one there. By the time my daddy and I got there, she had blessed his heart so many times he looked like he was saying, Let me die peacefully. Please get that woman out of here. Old Mr. Pamilton died.

Mrs. May hung on though. She got old; we figured she had to be at least a hundred. Near the end, my mommy said she was senile. Don’t know what senile means, but I know Mrs. May kept a gun holster around her waist, just like the cowboys on Saturday morning TV. She was like the Arbutus Street Sheriff. I never saw a real gun in that holster, but I bet she had one someplace. Senile musta meant you were bad! Mrs. May had, oh, about one hundred long antennas on her roof so she could pick up police reports from as far away as New Mexico. She wasn’t taking any chances. It was sad that last year of her life. She would wear a teeny bikini and sunglasses outside and stand on the corner and direct traffic. I mean, she had wrinkles in places I didn’t know wrinkles could fit. Everybody loved her anyway.

The Heflins stayed. Of course, they don’t count totally as white because Mrs. Heflin had a black husband, but he was very, very light-skinned (from Louisiana). Although the Heflin kids looked white to me, my father told me that if you have a drop of black blood in you, forget it, you’re black. Seemed to me that having a drop or two of black blood never seemed to bother the Heflins. They were happy all the time. Mrs. Heflin would cook a big pot of gumbo with crawdads we used to catch down at Compton Creek. Darryl Heflin and I would spend all day at the creek with our strings, catching the crawdads and bringing them back to his mom.

Shuuuuuuuusssshhhhhhh… don’t tell anybody what’s in the gumbo, she would say while throwing the live dads into boiling water. "Nothing wrong with these crayfish, but some of these city people might not understand that what’s good and clean can’t