Sassy Sonja: Bravo Atlanta

By Sarah Sewell Wolters

After the death of her abusive ex-husband in a car accident, Sonja Kent leaves Jacksonville to start a new life in Atlanta. Drawing strength from her Aunt Grace and friend Sandy, Sonja tries to put the past behind her. She is swept off her feet when Marion Avon walks into her life. The young, up-and-comin

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960629463

Sarah Sewell Wolters

Sarah Sewell Wolters wrote her first book Sassy Sonja: Behind the Closed Door of Marital Rape in 2014. Born in Atlanta in 1939, she has seen the changes that have reshaped the South and wanted to record them for her grandchildren.

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Sassy Sonja: Bravo Atlanta

Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Sewell Wolters

Published in the United States of America

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-960629-45-6

ISBN eBook: 978-1-960629-46-3

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of ReadersMagnet, LLC.

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Book design copyright © 2023 by ReadersMagnet, LLC. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Ericka Obando

Interior design by Daniel Lopez

Dedication

Dedicated to Conductor Robert Shaw and

Members of The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra

Who Put Atlanta on the World Stage

Foreword

The world around Sonja Kent Avon is the turbulent 1960s. Segregation is ending in the South; a new day of racial equality is dawning. Her husband gets involved with the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. A new generation of Atlanta leadership is determined to shape the change affecting their city and activate the goodwill present in the community at-large. Separate restrooms and water fountains must go, and racially segregated schools and restaurants also have to go, to comply with new and unpopular laws. Atlanta trains an effective police force and rioting, burning and looting are held to a minimum. Bravo Atlanta, so says the Avon family and so say I, who lived through this time in Atlanta. My book reflects my hometown pride.

Today, in a new millennium, our newspaper headlines reflect racial conflicts which still persist despite fifty years of change. Relationships have surely improved and economic opportunities for all have been increased. Readers will come away with a new awareness of the efforts of the past generations, giving them hope in a weary world and enthusiasm to meet the post millennium challenges that exist with courage like that of Sassy Sonja.

Acknowledgments

SASSY SONJA: BRAVO ATLANTA

Thanks to fellow writers

Widsoe T. Bastian

Meghan Fitzmartin

For their encouragement

For their expert help in bringing the

Atlanta Avon Family to life.

My book shines with their polish.

Snow in Atlanta

In my foggy state I think a giant pillow in the sky has burst open, with pieces of pure white goose feathers softly, silently floating down in the aftermath of destruction. I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.

Now I know I’m not living in Florida. This just doesn’t happen in Jacksonville. In when Sandy and I moved to Atlanta, we enjoyed a beautiful spring season. We expected snow at Christmas but never mind that, it’s January - the glorious snow is here.

As I slowly rouse, my brain begins to function again. When I roll out from under the warmth of my sheets, I nearly fall flat onto the cold ground for my rush to the window. Overnight the world outside has been transformed from its familiar greenery into something wonderful. Something magical. Something completely white.

Snow.

Saturday morning is the perfect time to enjoy the new winter landscape. I have always wondered what all the fuss was about. Jacksonville’s winters have never produced snow; the temperate ocean breeze and humidity is a buffer against any ice forming in the atmosphere. Last night I went to bed intent on exploring the area around my new home. Now I am both determined and excited to venture outside.

But first it is a cup of coffee to warm me up.

Even the sound of coffee brewing is magical today. I can’t help but just stare in awe and wonder. The seconds turn into minutes. Everything is crisp and pure. I feel as though if I think the wrong thoughts or say the wrong words, I will wake up and the picture before me will vanish like the images of a dream.

I am pulled away from my quiet contemplation by Ralphie, the golden Lab who adopted my roommate and me. He comes and sits by my side, vigorously wagging his tale at the prospect of exploring this strange new natural phenomenon. His enthusiasm is contagious, but I restrain myself. It is cold outside, colder than anything I’ve ever experienced in Florida. I need to be property dressed before I begin my romp with the dog in the snow.

Haphazardly I throw on my newly bought thick coat, a wool cap, and a pair of my roommate’s old boots. Then I open the front door. When I do, a blast of winter air hits my face at twenty miles per hour! I’m glad that I listened when Sandy convinced me to go shopping for winter clothes last week. Ralphie runs outside like he has been shot from a rifle, nearly knocking me over as he bolts through my legs and dashes out into our snowy front yard.

The first thing I do is stick my uncovered fingers into the icy fluff. The sensation is so surprising that I jerk back with a squeal. But I don’t let go of the snow in my hands. Instead I pack it together, forming my very first snowball.

Watch out, Ralphie! I shout before I throw the snowball, aiming just in front of the dog, which is leaping and bounding through the small drifts.

When Ralphie calms down long enough to stop barking and sniff a particular patch of snow, the quiet from the early morning returns. Only now it is even more still than the hush of dawn. I don’t think I’ve ever heard quiet quite like this before. Even the trees listen to the silence, holding their breath as if the winter wind that is blowing through them has a secret to share.

Ralphie isn’t calm for very long. After he starts to bark Again, I am aware of a peace that has settled over the neighborhood. It seems that nothing can go wrong while the snow is falling. I grin and flex my fingers, warming them up so I can pack another snowball.

The morning is perfect if Sandy, my friend and roommate, could be here with me to share the wonders of this new white playground. But Sandy is a surgical nurse at DeKalb Medical Center. She has the early shift and won’t be home until just afternoon.

Sandy and I have been talking for months about the excitement of seeing our first snowfall. Although she loves her job, I’m sure she’d rather be home right now. This is an experience we definitely wanted to share. To soften her disappointment of missing the thrill of waking up to the white stuff, I decide to make her lunch-biscuits and chicken casserole.

Playtime for Ralphie and me lasts another half hour before I figure it’s time to trade my coat for an apron. The truth is, by this point my hands feel as though they are frozen solid. The wonder of the texture of snow wears off quickly as I realize that I cannot feel my fingers. Despite the discomfort, though, it has been worth it. I will never forget the feeling of holding a snow ball in my palm and crushing the flakes between my fingers for the first time.

Ralphie follows me inside, panting heavily from the exercise. Because Sandy and I are busy working women, poor Ralphie doesn’t get enough chances to just run. He looks at me with laughter in his eyes. A thin layer of snow is covering his eyelids. A much thicker snow cocoon blankets my dog, and when he begins to shake I know that there is a cleanup job to be done before cooking.

My experience with new weather both invigorates me and terrifies me at the same time. It reinforces the truth that I am no longer home. It is time for me to branch out on my own, to leave behind the memories and life I led in the past, but every once in a while I am reminded that I have such limited experience with so much of the world. For someone so young have been through a great deal, but there is still so much that don’t know.

But we are going to make it, aren’t we, Ralphie? I ask my soggy dog. Dutifully, he answers me with a bark and a tail wag. I kiss his nose and grab an old towel, rubbing the cold out of his wet coat.

Once Ralphie is good and dry, he gives me a few doggy kisses before bouncing off to rest in his favorite spot by the window. I make quick work of whipping together the time- honored tradition of Southern cooking in my cozy kitchen. It is a morning of reminiscing. If there is a specific time when I almost always think about the past, it is while I am in the kitchen. The familiar sight of dishes, the smell of bread baking, even the color of the ingredients before they are cooked or baked-all these things remind me of my wonderful grandmother, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Even the recipes are like old friends, reminding me of the many happy days I have spent with my grandparents. Times change, but no matter where you are, chicken casserole always tastes the same.

Lunch is ready quickly. I set the table, make more coffee, even fold the napkins like I have seen it done in fancy restaurants. But there is still no sign of Sandy. She’s late, which is unusual for her but not particularly worrisome. So I wait.

Ralphie begins to whine; the smell of fresh food is too much for him. Taking pity on both my dog and my ears, I slip him a biscuit and stand, looking out again. The roads were cleared hours earlier, so cars are coming and going with ease. I frown and check my watch. It is thirty minutes past the time when Sandy usually arrives home.

Another fifteen minutes go by as I stare at the casserole, watching it get colder and colder. But I’m not concerned about the supper; I am worried about Sandy. I place the dish back in the oven and turn on the radio, leaning against the counter with an eye on the driveway.

A Frank Sinatra song spills cut into the room through the speakers. Though normally I would not turn off the crooner, I hurriedly flip the station. Then I hear update on the integration of public schools before I change the station again.

Then I hear a car door slam shut. Raiphie barks. I switch off the radio.

I let out a sigh of relief as I rush to the door, hurrying to open it as a walking, talking clothes closet enters.

It is cold as blazes! Sandy complains, heading straight to the oven.

Your lunch is in there! I exclaim. I run to rescue the casserole before Sandy can do any damage. Appraising the woman, I have to laugh. Are you wearing every piece of clothing you own?

Very nearly, Sandy says, her tone clipped. Freezing is no laughing matter.

Where on earth have you been? I ask.

Sandy shrugs and collapses with a padded thud into one of the kitchen table chairs. There was a disturbance at the hospital, she says.

I take the seat across from Sandy. Is everyone okay? Was there a fight or an automobile accident?

No, not inside the hospital, it was outside. Sandy is still shaking, Want a cup of coffee?

Sure, I’ll have another, I reply.

Sandy loads a second pot of coffee and switches on the percolator. The police came to stop a riot, she tells me with a gleam in her eye.

You’re lying. What kind of riot? I ask. Sometimes I don’t know whether or not to take Sandy seriously.

Sandy grins. She has her audience hooked. A colored man backed into a white nurse’s car.

I roll my eyes. Sandy, that’s hardly a riot.

I didn’t finish telling the whole story! she exclaims, raising her eyebrows indignantly. I know that I am going to hear the complete tale. Exhaling, I motion for her to continue.

Well, after he backed into her car, which he said was an accident, Mr. Mueller, our security guard during the day, came out swinging his club as if he were the police or something. Can you imagine, a seventy-five-year-old man on the police force?

Sandy...

Right, sorry. He comes outside swinging his club and asks what happened. But he’d already made up his mind. The colored man was in the wrong-they always are, or so it seems. He hit him, Sonja.

I gasp, and then there is silence between us for a moment as I attempt to process the information. But the pause in our conversation doesn’t last long; silence with Sandy never does.

The security guard, he drew the colored man’s blood. Everyone in the parking lot was really scared. The blood got all over the place, on the car, the asphalt. Sandy looks up and stares me right in the eye. The colored man didn’t even have a gun.

I would have been more shocked if stories like this weren’t popping up all over the news recently. The civil rights movement has been asserting itself all across the South, not just in Georgia. While I recognize it as a noble cause, the amount of violence surrounding it gives me pause. I am not fond of beatings.

Is there food? Sandy asks.

I look up and see her eyeing the dirty dishes in the sink. I laugh at my friend’s blunt nature. Yes, there’s food. I made biscuits and a casserole. Would you like me to heat it up?

Sandy’s eyes are answer enough, so I stand, still laughing, and begin to fix her a plate. Why don’t you go play in the snow while you wait? I propose.

My suggestion refocuses Sandy’s attention on the winter wonderland outside. Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. Without a word, she rushes out the door, Ralphie nipping at her heels. As I heat up the oven, glance out the window. The snow is falling again. I watch Sandy standing in the yard, her mouth wide open, trying to catch the swirling snowflakes.

Sandy’s Big Announcement

For the fifth day in a row, the snow is falling at a rapid pace. I can’t help but stand at the window of the little music shop and watch the never-ending, drifting blanket.

Mr. Roberts? I call out to the owner of the store, my eyes never leaving the windowpane. Does it snow like this every winter?

From the back of the music store, Hank Roberts, a little man with a friendly face, peeks out from behind the doorframe, showing me his small, round spectacles and his haphazard, wiry hair.

What’s that? he says in a loud voice.

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter how many times or how loudly I shout out to him, he never understands what I’m saying. His hearing is poor-the price of living his life too closes to the music, I guess. But he makes me laugh, like an adorable, absentminded uncle.

I set the sheet music in the display window before returning to my post at the counter to wait. And wait. And wait. I sigh and look at the clock. While it seems like hours have gone by, only five minutes have passed.

Glancing back at Mr. Roberts, who is rummaging around in the storage closet while humming a tuneless song, I almost feel sorry for him. I can’t imagine anyone journeying out in this weather to buy a recorder or to tune his or her guitar. Yet Mr. Roberts insists that the store stay open regardless of the dearth of customers. This is fine with me because, despite the harrowing conditions of the roads I had to travel to get to work, I need the money. While I am very grateful for the job, it isn’t providing me enough income to pay for my modest but increasing living expenses.

Just when I am about to give up on the day as a complete bust, the phone rings. I don’t let it ring a second time, happy to finally have something to do..

Roberts’ Music Store, this is Sonja. How may I help you?

Oh, thank the Lord! The desperation in Sandy’s voice erases the smile on my face.

Sandy? What’s wrong? Sandy had the early shift at the hospital today, and she should be home by now. What on earth could be...

The car, Sonja! Her voice cracks like she’s been screaming. I’m so mad I could spit right now!

I blink. Slow down, Sandy. What happened?

Over the phone I hear my roommate take a deep, steadying breath. The car... Sandy begins, calmer now. There is barely a tremor in her voice. I ran it into a snowbank.

Since Sandy’s accident, I don’t have the courage to drive my vehicle at over twenty miles per hour. Thankfully, the snow has let up but I am driving to the hospital at six p.m. to pick up Sandy. She must retrieve her car from the dealership where repairs have been completed after a week’s work. My roommate reminds me of my turtle-like pace as soon as I arrive at the nurses’ station.

You know I got off, like, thirty minutes ago. There is no condemnation in her voice; there never is. If anything, she always speaks with a laugh in her tone. You don’t have to drive like an old woman.

I just roll my eyes. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t need me to pick you up today. I wink just to make sure she knows that I’m teasing and then loop my arm through hers as we walk toward the exit.

Well, Sandy says, I’m starving. I don’t think I can make it through the next hour and a half that it’s going to take you to drive three miles to the car place. Want to grab some dinner at the cafeteria?

At first it seems like a good idea. I appreciate having a night when I am relieved of my cooking duties, and the cafeteria, from what Sandy has told me before, serves decent food. But standing in line and looking up at the prices on the menu gives me second thoughts.

I could have just made at home, I try unsuccessfully to mutter under my breath.

But then you wouldn’t be blessed with this opportunity for fine dining! Sandy says excitedly. She is always quick with the quips. But the food is not my problem.

It’s the - I don’t want to say it; every Southern instinct within me is warning against it, money. Cash is running low. I hate to admit it. And while I do not resent Sandy’s good fortune, I simply don’t make nearly the income she earns as a nurse.

Sandy waves her hand dismissively as she listens to my admission, but I notice an uncomfortable expression on her face, almost like guilt or maybe embarrassment. That just makes everything even worse. I don’t want her to take pity on me.

So I hold my head high and place it plate of who knows what on my tray as I hurry down the ins. Sandy is already at the front to pay. As I began to take my wallet out, Sandy places her hand on my arm.

I got it, she says, smiling.

I purse my lips, wanting to explain firmly, but kindly, that it isn’t necessary for her to pay for my meal. The guilty embarrassment in her eyes has come back, though, so I say, Thank you. I put my wallet away and smile back at her.

I pick up my tray and turn around. It is dinnertime at the hospital, so most of the tables are filled with nurses and doctors. However, there are a few tables near the back that aren’t occupied, and that’s where I’m going when Sandy stops me.

We can’t sit back there, she explains quietly.

Paying more attention, I look closer in the direction I was heading. Now I understand. The tables in the back are occupied by a few colored hospital workers who are busy eating and laughing. No white hospital workers sit around them. There isn’t a sign designating a colored sitting area like there sometimes are in restaurants. The arrangement appears to simply be understood. Sandy shrugs and leads us toward two seats that have just opened up in the de facto whites-only section.

Sandy mentioned to me earlier in the week that counties have ordered public hospitals to fill a certain ratio of positions with colored attendants to promote integration. It is going well, Sandy explained, but there is still tension. There is always tension.

Our seats are close to the door. The cold air blows in as the door opens, which is probably why the table had been unoccupied, but I refuse to complain. The strange brown mush isn’t awful, and though I could easily prepare something much better, the food tastes great simply because I didn’t have to cook it.

Any more trouble around here since the car accident? I ask, taking another bite.

Sandy shakes her head. No, everything has been quiet since then. People have been on their best behavior.

How is the security guard?

She laughs. Ornery as ever, but he calls one of the attendants if he’s concerned about something. They usually talk him out of whatever crazy idea has got rattling around in his head.

I laugh along with her. It is nice to enjoy moments of peace like this. It reminds me that I made the right choice moving away.

In fact, I am so caught up in the moment of peace that completely misses the approach of a young nurse who happens by our table. She is a young woman in her twenties, and she is gushing over Sandy. Her name tag reads Amy. I smile. Sandy would never brag about herself, but my visits over the past week have made it clear how well liked and respected Sandy is at the hospital. I am proud of my friend.

Is it true? Are you really going? Amy asks.

Surely I hadn’t heard that right. I look at Sandy. Her look of guilt is back, and suddenly I realize that maybe it has nothing to do with my lack of money.

The clatter of my fork as I drop it and it bounces off of my plate seems not to register with Amy. She takes the seat next to Sandy, anxious to hear the latest news.

It sounds like a great opportunity. You must be so thrilled, Amy says. I can’t be annoyed with the girl, although I want to be. There is a genuine sweetness to her enthusiasm. Margaret said that they were desperate for you, adds.

The dramatic flair to Amy’s words increases the sense of impending doom beginning to rise in the pit of my stomach. Really, it would be cruel to turn them down. She said the man on the phone sounded like quite a catch, but I told her that it’s rude to listen to people’s phone calls. A look of panic crosses Amy’s