Excerpt
The old “woodie” quietly rumbled along the dirt road, turned right and pulled up behind the house. It was near sundown on June 18, 1952. Summer’s foliage was thickening and turning into its heavier greens. You could smell the sweet honeysuckle. The salt air was heavy with humidity and the “skeeters” were beginning to send out search parties. A few dragonflies encircled the station wagon as it came to rest.
Car doors flew open. First, the driver’s side, and immediately to follow were the two back doors. From behind the driver’s side emerged 11 year old Ben Downey. A cowboy hat with rolled up sides was pushed back on his head. He stood 5’ (in heeled roughout riding boots.) A blue western style shirt was tucked in behind a large buckled leather belt and Levis. His round face fell from beneath the hat brim. Light brown hair, a short nose, and big hazel eyes gave him more of the All-American Kid look, rather than a diminutive gunslinger without his “piece.” Pinned to the front crown of his hat was a silver colored tin metal emblem of wings that displayed the bold initials “TWA.”
Behind the passenger seat side jumped down 8 year old Cynthia Yarnsworth Downey (who emphatically pointed out that she was practically nine.) “Cyd” was wearing a small navy blue baseball cap with a pony tail of blond hair pushed out from the back of the hat. The cap that displayed her “wings” pinned to the front shielded big blue eyes, a pug nose, and round pink cheeks. A diminutive 3’6” Cyd was wearing a white summer T-shirt piped in pink. Her shorts were colored in pink and white vertical stripes. Matching pink socks were set into black “PF Flyers.” She quickly brought to mind a box of “Good and Plenty” candies. Turning out from behind the steering wheel was Captain F. Hamilton Downey. He looked just a bit uncomfortable in his navy blue blazer, white dress shirt with starched collar, dark blue tie (knot too small), khaki trousers, and semi-shined black dress oxford shoes. He stood just shy of 6’ and the white shirt made his leathery skin stand out darker than it actually was. He had a sculptured jaw and chiseled cheek bones that held piercing eyes revealing the uncompromising air of confidence carried by a Ship’s Captain. He was a man who made quick decisions without hesitation, yet was always aware that his vessel, crew, and cargo were his sole responsibility.
On top of his head he wore a sun bleached khaki Captain’s Cap. The unpolished black bill was covered with faded and worn gold braided “scrambled eggs” of oak leaves. On the front of his cap stood the tarnished silver emblem of a Merchant Marine officer - oak leaves turned up around a shield, mounted with a fouled anchor. Perched on the shield was an eagle with spread wings. Clenched in the Captain’s teeth was the stub of an unlit cigar.
Scuttlebutt has it that one evening off the cost of Brazil, a first mate offered to light the skipper’s cigar. He thanked him, but politely declined. The persistent young mariner suggested if he wanted something between his teeth that would stay lit on deck, that he himself used a pipe. The Captain turned to go forward and replied over his shoulder that he, “… never trusted a pipe smoker.”
The Captain’s semi-distinguished uniform would be neatly returned to his wardrobe locker. There it would rest until the next “official” event (which included weddings, funerals, church services and suppers.) The cigar stub would remain with the skipper.
The Captain had tapped the car horn twice to alert everyone he had arrived on station. The “everyone” was just Walter and Bessie Jackson. Of course, they had already expected him and the kids, but through the 7th District Alert System, they had been notified of the pending arrival via Bessie’s daughter, Gladys, who was told by her Aunt’s daughter, Rose, over the phone, that her cousin Becky passed them near Morganza Chruch when returning home from Dr. Field’s office, who was doing a follow-up on her most recent attack of gout—go figure.
Walter and Bessie were both heading toward the car just as the second horn “blast” was falling silent. The congregation of passengers and residents all met at the tailgate. Luggage needed to be unloaded. Introductions, handshakes, and hugs of welcome were being passed around among the shuffle of suitcases.
The time change, long trip, and excitement should have already signed the kids up with Wynken, Blynken, and Nod on their well-known dreamland adventure, but excitement and determination to the end often works magical powers. Here they stood at the end of their first travel leg. Each yawned, stretched, and forced their eyelids open to see the real-life people who only up to a few moments ago were just mythical stories and unreal characters.
Miss Bessie stood at a medium height with a dark red scarf wrapped tightly around her hair. She appeared almost to Ben like the lady on an Aunt Jemima pancake box, except not so tall and dressed in a beautiful handmade floral print summer dress. The Black woman stood in what seemed to Cyd dark leather bedroom slippers. Clearly, she was in charge of the “River Springs” operations. The commands of unloading gear, who was to take which bag, and where it was to be taken, all began with Miss Bessie. Both Walter and the Captain stood back awaiting their orders just like the rest of the crew. The way Walter always told it, “…since Miss Julie’s passing, Cap’ns still in charge of da ships, but ats River Springs, Bessie’s da Admiral.”
|