Wheeler Hill

By F.E. Greene Jr.

Frank E. Greene Jr. was born during that era when segregation was King and when Jim Crow laws demoralized every aspect of his life.

He was seven when he came to the realization he was Black in a world of ethnic discrimination! Soon, he adopted an inferiority complex recruiting in timidness!

But even then, he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. He knew he had to write this wrong—up against segregation! Up against a giant of opposition that pledged Black people since coming to this new land. Some of the other books he has written:

Two worlds between Us

A Walkthrough the Bible

Up against a Giant

Wheeler Hill the Saga

All of these plus more! I will continue to write with my last dying breath!

—F.E. Greene

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662458699

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Wheeler Hill

F.E. Greene Jr.

Copyright © 2021 F.E. Greene Jr.

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-7329-6 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-5869-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Wheeler Hill, a predominate

Black neighborhood. During that

Bygone era. When segregation was King

Preface

Wheeler Hill, our story, gives a narrator guide of a predominate Black neighborhood back during that era when segregation was king. When an entire Black race had to be content living through absorbed by poverty!

Wheeler Hill, our story, reveals some of the conditions and experiencing of Black people that most history books do not tell!

Wheeler Hill, our story, was written and inspired by true experiences, of people and events. Therefore, many of the scenes are uncensored.

Chapter 1

Narrator: After the war between the states in 1865, thousands of Negro slaves throughout the South was freed in South Carolina. Hundreds of these Negroes left their plantations homes, in search of this emancipated freedom.

In Columbia, the state capitol, many of these now-free Negroes had journey just north of the geographic area of Columbia and found themselves camp out in a campsite, near Columbia.

Our story began inside this campsite where several large Negroes families had set up their tents and shelters and where they were told by city sheriff they could camp out on this property on until the landowner come back from the war. You people can camp out here! Only until Mr. Wheeler come back from the war! this sheriff shouted.

This unidentified Negro male replied, Captain, sir! We won’t be here long! We’re just waiting on the president’s promise!

This sheriff asked, What promise might that be boy?

This male replied, Captain! That would be ours forty acres and a mule, sir!

This sheriff shouted, Boy! That shit ass ain’t gonna give you vomits! No forty acres or a mule! He laughed while walking away.

Six months later, Confederate General Wheeler returned from the war. He found his top moneymaking crop (cotton) in ruin and all his Negroes and left.

Refusing to lose a battle in defeat a second time, General Wheeler consolidated what little money possessions he had left and invested it into building dozens of shanty-like housings that soon became known as Wheeler Hill.

Narrator: General Wheeler knew back from the surrender agreement of Robert E. Lee that this union government was soon to issue the Freedmen’s Bureau Act to aid these newly free Negroes—aid to housing!

General Wheeler building project gave him commanding authority as landlord to sham these Negroes’ fraudulent amount for rent away from their governor welfare money.

It wasn’t long before this little neighborhood began swelling into a melting pot, groups of Negroes from nearby plantations. All came together, living for the first time, out on their own. And for the first time, many found themselves so divided in a variety of goals for life—some good and some not so good.

Nonetheless, this poverty-stricken little community soon escalated in crimes. Some say it was because of a lack of jobs, poor education, and very little food. These people were at the brim of starvation! And Blacks killings! Were at an all-time high!

Narrator: For several decades, Wheeler Hill Negro population grew. In what Columbia City mayor’s said, Them Niggers have grown into a intolerance mess!

Mayor Bate went on to say, Most of them vagrantly wandering about! Have adopt the Greeks’ philosophy, eat drink, and be merry! With no meaning of support.

Picerlo staggered out of the front entrance way of this café on the corner, sipping what was left of his 12 oz can of beer.

He mumble, Ain’t life a bitch! as he staged his way down the sidewalks (some fifty feet). He turned right and continued stumbling down into a narrow pathway alongside old Seabrook Cleaners.

As Picerlo approached the railroad track, he recognized three of his cut buddies kneeing midway the tracks, gambling! Enthusiastically moving toward those three figures were those randomly reflecting shadows of light from the backside window of the Jones’s family house.

As Picerlo moved closer, he heard the music from the radio, playing in the background: The night was clear! And the moon was yellow, and the leaves came tumbling down! He was standing on the corner when he heard his bulldog bark! He was barking at three men who were gambling in the dark!

While shadow dancing, Picerlo suddenly stopped and started yelling, Old shit, police, police, police! About that time, Picerlo quickly turned and started running back up the footpaths (toward Picken Street).

Meanwhile, a police officer sped up onto the railroad track, with its blue lights on. Suddenly, one policeman jumped out and yelled, That’s all right! You niggers can run! But, I’ll get you.

This policeman reached over, picking up the few dollar bills off the ground while Fats Domino’s song was playing in the background. Ain’t that ar-sham! Tears fell like rain!

Narrator: This policeman (name: Mustache Slim) then drove his patrol car off the track onto the hillside front yard of an old man—Mr. Timers! (a colored gentleman who was sitting on his front porch watching everything that had just gone down).

Walking up to the porch, Mr. Mustache Slim noked, Boy! About giving me the names of them boys! Who was up yonder gambling? (He pointed.)

Old man Timers pretended as if he was asleep, jumped, and shouted, Oh, Captain! I ain’t seen a thing! scratching his head, Mr. Timers replied, Maybe, sir! Them boys ain’t from around here!

Turning, Policeman Mustache Slim shouted, You niggers don’t never know nuting! while walking back to his patrol car.

Fats Domino was still singing (in the background), You made me cry!

The Wheeler Hill story continued. That Friday after the confrontation with the three gamblers, back up on Picken Street, several small groups had started gathering (in that one block near those two clubs).

Five minutes later, the noisy crowd intensified. Many of these standers were secretly indulging in drinking moonshine out of 7 Up soda bottles. Alternatively, their drinking wasn’t a secret. Most were drinking just to blob out their terrible lifestyle. Suddenly, a loud voice of a woman called out, Grant, Grant, Grant!

It was the voice of Mrs. Leala, Grant’s mother. She was calling for him to come home. Of course, as always, Grant never ever answered. Mrs. Leala’s voice had such high degree of loudness; she could be heard as far as Mr. Martin’s grocery two blocks away.

Finally, after numerous attempts calling, someone standing in the crowd answered, Mrs. Leala, the last time I saw little boy Grant, he was running up Rice Street from the police!

When Mrs. Leala heard this, she snapped saying, Oh hell no! Not my boy Grant! He’s a good child. He don’t get in any trouble with the law!

Of course, everyone knew Grant better known as Picerlo! He was the neighborhood’s worst teenager! If anything, Grant was probably somewhere getting high!

Meanwhile, the crowds had swollen into a small army of young coloreds all the way from Mrs. Mcnight’s café to the other cafés on the corner.

Every young colored, who was somebody, was hanging out tonight just trying to have a good time.

And like every Friday before, this Friday was beginning to show the intensity among the crowd. After all, this Black community had a reputation to live up to. (which was) that every weekend. Someone was either seriously hurt or killed.

Suddenly, the front doorway of the café on the corner swung open. Two men came bursting out. There appear the larger of the two men, who was on top punching repeatedly what appeared to be a small deformed little man. Yet between each blow by the bigger man, I saw this little crippled man pushing upward a small-looking blade into the big man’s stomach area.

After several seconds of punching, the big man suddenly stopped punching. He came to his feet while blood poured from his stomach, like a faucet. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

At that moment, the little man got up still holding onto the small knife now dripping in blood and limping back into the café.

Walking up to the jukebox, he punched in two selections and started shadow dancing; just then, a voice called out from over in the corner, Hey, Duo’kers! Block daddy called out from a table in the corner.

Duo’kers then turned and yelled, That’s my name, Block daddy! Do you want my address?