Move to Wiley St in Tyler

Caldwell Zoo, Tyler, Texas

I recall well the move to Wiley St in Tyler. It was a new home and no grass had been planted yet. It had a large front and back yard, with a steep terrace that descended to the street. The road itself was covered in tar pitch and would not be asphalted for some years later. That tar would be so hot in the summers, and we would pick up speed on the drive to run across to avoid burning our feet. Each summer the bottoms of our feet would take on the black color of that tar. Over time our feet would toughen, enough to survive the sticker burs in the weeds across the way.

We had pecan trees in front, back, and on one side of our house. We never suffered from a shortage of pecans. Towards the back was a persimmon tree, and some years later, we put in a pear tree as well. Behind the garage was my domain, which will be talked about in a future post. We also had a garden plot towards the rear of the back yard.

Around the time we moved, I began kindergarten at Caldwell School. What was really cool was it was also the site of Caldwell Zoo. How many kids get to go see monkeys, tigers, and a llama who loved to spit at us while attending kindergarten? On my first day, we were instructed to observe playground rules. So of course, immediately I headed up the slide the wrong way. ::chuckling:: I got to spend my first afternoon at school in the corner with my nose in a circle as punishment. It wasn’t the last.

One vivid memory was when Dad hired someone to plant the grass in our yard. He was an old African American man who went by the name of Grasshopper. A word of explanation here. This was East Texas and the year was 1953. We were in the midst of the infamous Jim Crow laws and he was the first black person I had ever met. While he worked, I wandered out to watch, and he quietly encouraged me, showing me how to plant the grass and weaving the most wonderful stories. After all these years, I don’t remember the story lines at all, but I feel a gentle warmth recalling his telling of them.

Not long after this came my next encountered with Jim Crow. Mom had taken me to downtown to shop. The store had a soda fountain there and we sat down to get a bite to eat, but I was thirsty and didn’t want to wait on the waitress. So off I wander to the water fountain. I climb onto the steps and start to drink when this huge hand clamps onto my shoulder. This guy is yelling at me about how I could get some sort of horrible disease. I’m frightened out of my wits not knowing what’s going on as he pulls me over to my mom. He then begins to lecture her on not letting her son drink out of the “colored” fountain. Lecturing my mother was a huge mistake. She never tolerated fools easily and I truly think he would never try that stunt again. But then she showed me the difference between “white” and “colored” water fountains and explained that right or wrong, the law insisted that we use the “white” fountain. The same was true of restrooms I learned. Okay, I’m around 6 years old. None of this made any sense. Hadn’t I personally taken our glasses of water to Grasshopper? Didn’t he use our restroom during the time he was there. I didn’t have a word for cognitive dissidence but it was sure there.

I began school at Bell Elementary. At this point I still enjoyed school. I started learning to read and write. In the midst of all this, I managed to fall out of our pecan tree and broke my right arm. Okay, back story here. I was born naturally left handed, but my parents as was common in those days, trained me to be right handed. My cast covered my lower right arm and part of my right hand, exposing only parts of my fingers with which I had to write. My teacher actually suggested based on my poor handwriting that I be held back a year, believing I was a slow child. My Dad was furious and would have none of it. So I went on to the second grade. Later on, over the next few years, achievement tests and IQ testing showed I was not slow at all. I have to smile, recalling my parents wouldn’t let the schools share with me my IQ scores. They didn’t want me to get the big head. Life was still pretty good, up until the third grade. What happened then will be covered in another post. One hint. It began a prolonged ugly part of my childhood that took years to overcome.