Breaking Silence
by C.A. Harris
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by C.A. Harris
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review and with written permission from the author/publisher.
Dedication
To Dr. Vernon Grier…if it had not been for you, I would not be writing this page. You suggested that I start writing immediately and you suggested that I read a “Pursuit of Purpose” by Myles Monroe. I THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. I thank you for pushing me and I thank you for believing in me.
Acknowledgements
To my husband and children: you are my inspiration! Thank you for the encouragement and support to write this book.
To my best friend Sherry Weaver: you and I have been a long way together. There are so many things to thank you for; I find there are too many to list. You’ve inspired me more than you know, and from the bottom of my heart, I thank you.
To Monica Harrison: my sister, my cousin, my friend, my spiritual advisor. Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for pulling me up when all I wanted to do was lie down. Thank you.
To L.A. O’Neil, Director of CPAS Writing Services: last, but not least, thank you for everything you’ve done to put this book together. I could not have done it without you.
Chapter 1
Detroit, 1966
Summers in the Midwest are always oppressive. Hot. Humid. Heavy. The thick, summer air felt like a wool blanket on our bodies, and it was no different when I was growing up in Detroit as a little girl during the ‘60s. Kids in our neighborhood were lucky, though, since the fire department turned on the hydrant for a few hours every day at the corner of Virginia Park and Holmur – it was the city’s way of keepin’ us wet and cool by letting us have fun from June through August. The hydrant was only seven doors down from our house and I thought it was just as good as goin’ to a pool.
I am that little girl. Camilla Harris. And in 1966, I was five.
We didn’t have the luxury of air conditioning or a swamp cooler in our house, so Momma always closed the living room drapes in late-morning to prevent the sun from bleaching the furniture and heating the house. That’s how I knew it was time to part them in the middle every few minutes, peek out the front bay windows and scan the street for the small fire truck. I remember always feeling a little scared that it might not come – it always did, though…right about noon!
I knew it was on its way when I saw the neighborhood kids shrieking with delight and running down the sidewalk toward the hydrant. Momma always laughed softly, because it must have taken me less than a minute to sprint to my room, put on my new swimsuit, grab a towel, and dash for the front door. Momma always had to help me with the tie on my swimsuit, but that barely stopped me for a second! Robert (he’s my older brother) always beat me to the hydrant and he was already drenched by the time I felt the cool water on my skin. It didn’t matter, though – I never felt like I was being left behind.
Oh, how I loved that lavender and canary yellow swimsuit! None of the other girls had one nearly as pretty as mine, and that made me feel good. Real good. I liked that it matched the hydrant and the yellow fire truck, too. There was one thing, though. It didn’t hide the birthmark and moles on my back…
But summertime always made me feel like I could do anything in the world – and even though it was hot and humid, Momma and Daddy always treated us kids once or twice during the summer to what we loved most – a glorious adventure day at Bob-Lo Island! Bob-Lo was one of the largest amusement parks in the country and I heard it was the Coney Island of the Midwest. Of course, when I was only five or six years old I had no idea what Coney Island was – I figured it must have hot dogs, though, because I’d heard of a Coney dog.
We didn’t know then that Bob-Lo was actually part of Canada and the real French name was Bois Blanc, meaning ‘white woods’ because of the white-barked beech, birch and poplar trees – somehow Americans managed to mangle the name, and it became Bob-Lo and it stuck ever since. But we didn’t give a rat’s patootie what it was called – we just wanted to go!
During the summer months, there was always an empty chair at the head of the table. Since Daddy worked construction, he took advantage of the extended daylight and logged every hour he could. It didn’t get dark until after 9:00, so he wouldn’t get home until well after we had eaten dinner, watched some TV and gone to bed. So, Momma always made the announcement about a week before, while we sat quietly at the dinner table. One of the household rules was no talking during dinner, but that only applied to only us kids, of course. When Daddy was home on a rare day off or when bad weather was socked in, he would talk about work and Momma would relate the events of the day – but, we had to shut up and eat everything on our plates. Shuttin’ up, though, wasn’t on William’s list of things to do. He’s a year younger than me and he was always pullin’ pranks at the table and messin’ around with his food.
Momma would casually glance around the table and when she was good and ready, she’d break the silence by saying somethin’ like, “Do you kids have any plans for next Saturday?”
We knew what that meant! Plans? Of course we didn’t have plans! Forks clanged in unison as they dropped to our white Melmac plates, our eyes as wide open. Momma could always tell when we were really excited, because we’d swing our legs under our chairs at a pretty good clip. Grinning until our lips nearly split, we tried to eat, but we were already planning how to spend the day at Bob-Lo.
“O.K. It’s settled then. We’ll go to Bob-Lo Island next weekend, but only under one condition – if you clean up your plates in the next fifteen minutes. Time starts now!” Momma didn’t wear a watch, so she’d look at the dining room wall clock and, without crackin’ a smile, she’d say, “You’d best get to steppin,’ William.”
We knew what that meant, too. Robert and I’d look at the clock, and then at William. I wasn’t sure how long fifteen minutes was, but if Momma said fifteen minutes, she meant fifteen minutes. I was pretty sure it wasn’t very long – and, sure enough, William scarfed the pork chop and most of the carrots, but the mound of red kidney beans still looked like a pile of red dirt on his plate. Sometimes, I’d try to kick him under the table, but my legs were too short to reach his chair. If anyone could kill the deal, it was William. He hated all beans with a passion and he would sit there… and sit there…sometimes forcing them down one by one. But Momma wouldn’t let him off the hook and of all days to have those stinkin’ beans, he still had a whole pile of them growing colder by the second.
It’s funny how motivation and reward works with kids. I think Robert’s kicking him in the leg under the table probably helped a lot, too. He was a lot taller than me, and his legs could reach William’s shins and then some. We tried not to laugh as William shoveled beans in his mouth, dramatically gagging until the last one was gone. Even Momma could barely hold back a chuckle. I don’t think he even bothered to chew – he just held his breath and swallowed. I never saw anyone eat so fast!
When I look back, I know Momma and Daddy planned the whole dinner thing just for their amusement. Were the beans simply a coincidence? I don’t think so. Well, I guess parents are entitled to having some light-hearted fun playin’ a few mind games with their kids once in awhile. God knows they deserve it – the parents and the kids. I’ll bet that Daddy, on his last snack break for the night, glanced at the tarnished, gold pocket watch his father had given to him years before, and thought, “Well, I guess William is tryin’ to choke down them beans, right about now. I hope the boy makes it.” Their devious plan worked – we were off to Bob-Lo! William squeaked by the deadline and Momma was already planning when she would fix the fried chicken and potato salad, and hopin’ that the chicken would be on sale.
All I could think about during that week was the trip to Bob-Lo. I kept thinkin’ about how my stomach would rise to my throat on the roller coasters, the Wild Mouse and the Sky Streak. This year I was older and tall enough to take a swing at the big kids’ rides as long as Momma or Daddy went with me, and it made me feel important. I couldn’t wait to feel the wind whip against my body and my stomach lurch as the car hurtled from the top of the world, back to the ground, then back up, then back down again. Even though it was almost a week away, I prayed every night that it wouldn’t rain.
My brothers and I talked about what to do first, what rides to take, and, if Momma were generous that day, what flavors of popsicles to get and what color of cotton candy we would share. It all sounded better than Christmas and, as you might expect, our master plan changed every couple of hours – so we had no plan, really. In real life, we knew our plans didn’t mean squat. Momma and Daddy would have everything planned out and we were just goin’ along for the ride – or, rides.
That summer of 1966, all of the hydrant kids were jealous when they overheard our chattering about the trip. Our goin’ to Bob-Lo made me feel special – for once, I was going to do something they couldn’t do. They didn’t have moles on their backs, they didn’t have bleeding skin rashes and the girls didn’t have hair that looked like a boy’s…but, they weren’t going to Bob-Lo in a few days either. I even thought about wearing my beautiful swimsuit so everyone at Bob-Lo could see how pretty it was – and, how pretty I was.
* * *
On Friday afternoon, Momma started preparing the food for our picnic on the island. She made my brothers go outside to soak in the hydrant or play in the yard so they wouldn’t get under foot in the kitchen. Although our duplex home (we called it a flat back then) was very spacious, the kitchen was rather tiny and you know how boys can be – clownin’ around, not paying attention to what was goin’ on and making a mess of things.
But I was Momma’s special helper and she always told me how glad she was that I did such a great job in the kitchen, and that she couldn’t possibly get everything ready without me. Momma didn’t see me, but I always stuck my tongue out at my brothers as they opened the front door, triumphant in my knowledge that Momma wanted me – not them – in the kitchen as her helper.
The menu for our trip was fried chicken, potato salad and bologna sandwiches. Momma always bought whole chickens and cut them up into pieces for frying – she said it was cheaper that way, because she could use all of the chicken. I wasn’t sure what she meant, because I thought we ate all of the chicken. I watched as she made short work of the bird, cutting the wings, thighs and legs with precision and speed. Then she’d carefully carve the breast meat and split it in half. When all of the chicken pieces were piled on the cutting board, Momma would fill a huge pot with water and plop in the chicken carcass, guts and all, so she could make stock to use later in the week.
“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to waste in this house,” she’d say with a big grin. So, it was that Friday before Bob-Lo that I learned what using all of the chicken meant – and my brothers didn’t have a clue! I knew Momma took me into her confidence about the chicken because I was her special helper and she knew I’d understand.
When you think about it, how much help can a five year old be? I had to stand on the kitchen stool to reach the counter and I was always a little scared, because the stool wasn’t very steady when I stood on my tiptoes. It had two steps that folded out and when I stood on the first step, I still couldn’t reach. But, when I stood on the higher second step, I was way above the countertop. That’s why I stood on my tiptoes on the first step – it was scary, but I sure was proud of my contribution to making the food to take to Bob-Lo. I’d hand Momma the eggs and spices like a surgeon’s assistant hands the scalpel to the doctor and for the batter, I’d place my tiny fingers on the bottle to help her pour the milk into the measuring cup. Clutching the metal whisk, I swirled the batter around the mixing bowl, listening to Momma tell me how to make sure everything was mixed together real good. It was even more fun using the rolling pin to smash corn flakes and stale dried bread to make the coating.
I watched Momma dip the chicken pieces into the fresh milk that the milkman delivered each week along with the eggs, and she only used the milk for cooking. I’m not sure what kind of milk it was, since it had a thick layer of cream on top and my brothers and I never got to drink it. In fact, whenever we had cereal for breakfast, Momma mixed Carnation evaporated milk with water and flooded our bowls with the thin, bluish diluted mixture. Yuck! Corn flakes tasted a lot better on fried chicken than in our cereal bowls! It wasn’t until I was much older that I figured out that Momma was trying to stick to a budget and trim food costs in order to pay for my mounting medical bills.
Momma would let the milk drip from the chicken pieces and then I got to roll them in flour. I’d help her dip the chicken in the batter and the crumbs, but she wouldn’t let me put them in the skillet. She made me stand back as she carefully lowered them into the spitting oil. My skin was too tender and if I risked getting spattered with hot oil, it would only make things worse. Before I could bolt from the kitchen to look out the living room window for my brothers, the tantalizing aroma of fried chicken began wafting throughout the house. How I loved that smell – it was the best thing in the whole wide world!
Once all the spattering was over, I got to make the bologna sandwiches all by myself. I laid out the bread on the cutting board, spread each slice with mayonnaise and then added the bologna and a strip or two of lettuce. Daddy liked mustard on his, so I made special ones for him. They were perfect! Bein’ only five, my butter knife skills were less than perfect and the cutting board had quite a bit of mayonnaise and mustard on it, too. As I finished each sandwich, Momma wrapped my works of bologna art in waxed paper and put them in the fridge so they wouldn’t spoil overnight.
I didn’t help much with the potato salad because of all of the peeling, slicing and chopping – all I really did was hand her the potatoes. But, that was good enough for Momma, and my reward for the afternoon was being the only one who got to have a small bowl of it. Even Daddy couldn’t have any until we got to the island – I was her special helper, after all. But, bein’ Momma’s special helper didn’t help me much in the fried chicken department – I didn’t get any until Bob-Lo either! And after all of my hard work, too!