Love floated wistfully in the air and remained there like an anonymous lyric, hopeful and mysterious.
Four years of passionate courtship whirled by, carrying Anne and Sonny to dizzying heights of ecstasy and then plunging them dramatically to disappointment and despair.
When making up after a tiff, Sonny would kiss Anne tenderly and murmur,
“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
“Don’t bring Shakespeare into this,” Anne would retort.
“Shakespeare said that?” Sonny would respond innocently.
Anne would ruffle his hair and hold him close, whispering, “Yes, dear, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
So the days and months fled past, merging into years. In the third year of courtship, Anne, now free from her earlier marriage, wanted to settle down and start a family. Anne and Sonny began to make serious plans for marriage in 1962. There was no question of where they would marry– it would be at the picturesque, glamorously red-bricked Central Methodist Protestant Church built in 1902 at the corner of Rhode Island Avenue and 1st Street in Washington DC. Anne and Sonny loved this church that had a rich and eventful history. It is now renamed Mt. Bethel Baptist Church.
Anne decided she would like to be a June bride and Sonny readily fell in with her wishes. There would not be any fuss or frills, they decided. What mattered was that they got married. Anne got herself a demure-looking, long ivory silk dress cut in the Chinese style that Sonny loved to see her wear. Her short hair was gracefully styled and adorned with a tiara that held in place a short sequined white veil. She held in her hand a simple mixed bouquet of pastel-shaded blooms.
The preacher’s chambers were decorated for the occasion with bowls of red roses and purple orchids. Sonny was already there when Anne entered like a vision, as Sonny recalled. It was an overwhelmingly emotional moment for the two people who gazed into each other’s eyes, immersing themselves in the love and tenderness therein. As they stood before the priest and declared their marriage vows, Anne’s voice was soft and tremulous while Sonny’s was firm and tender.
“I, Sonny,Take you, Anne,To be my lawful wedded wife,To have and to hold,From this day forward,For better, for worse,For richer, for poorer,In sickness and in health,To love and to cherish,'Till death do us part.”
As Sonny repeated those precious phrases after the priest, he felt his whole being uplifted with an overwhelming love for Anne. When he tenderly placed the band of gold on her finger, an unshed teardrop sparkled in her eye like the sparkle of diamond. Tears of joy for love fulfilled. When the priest said, “You may kiss the bride,” with trembling fingers, Sonny lifted the veil from her face and kissed her lips with passion mixed with deep tenderness. A promise of love was never to be broken.
(Church where Sonny and Anne got married).
A tape of an orchestra rendition of the Wedding March filled the air as Anne took Sonny’s arm.
“I’m so happy, baby,” whispered Anne, tears gleaming in her eyes.
“So am I, my angel,” whispered Sonny as they came out of the church into the blue skies and sunshine of an early summer day.
They paused for a moment, allowing a staff member of the church to take a photograph of them. A moment of joy was frozen in time. Later, they would arrange their meager collection of wedding photographs in a small album. Once the few visitors at the church wished them joy, Sonny and Anne made their way in bridal attire and all to the popular but tiny Chinese restaurant on Florida and New Jersey Avenue, which had two tables for customers. When the staff saw the newly wed couple walk in, they were in a tizzy, trying to get ready for a wedding meal. The customers in there all clapped and moments later, bouquets of flowers appeared here and there and the tables were laid with some special china. Anne and Sonny were deeply touched by this spontaneous response of the people. The restaurant refused to accept money for the special Chinese lunch they served. What a memorable close to a memorable morning!
The wedding night was spent at Sonny’s home. Said Sonny, “I never heard of vacations.” So, the marriage started without a honeymoon. But Anne did not mind. She was happy and content just being with Sonny.
The first four years of their marriage was spent in a rented house down Queen’s Chapel Road in Maryland. It was a quiet life in a quiet black neighborhood. Anne enjoyed the walks in the Sligo Creek Park, by the free-flowing tributary of the Northwest Branch of the Anacostia River that bordered Queen’s Chapel Road.
Sonny and Anne forged a strong relationship in marriage and blissfully shut out the rest of the world in each other’s arms. However, Sonny’s job was gradually becoming a burden, not just a necessity. Driving for Central Fuel was not financially rewarding to the newlyweds, especially as they planned to become homeowners now that blacks were allowed to buy houses. Sonny often worked overtime but never received extra compensation. He believed in doing a good job but week after week when his efforts went unappreciated, unrewarded, his attitude toward his job began to change subtly. Also, his trips to Baltimore often saw him return home well past midnight. He missed enjoying time with his wife, walking with her, sharing the day’s news, indulging her with the romantic cherishing of a new husband. The reality was, he would come into a sleeping household and fall into bed beside Anne who was generally too sleepy even to open her eyes. He increasingly felt a sense of being devalued and continued to focus on the elusive dream of owning a house -- his heart throbbed. His mind wouldn't let go. He was fired with the passion of being the master of his own home where he could feel in charge and secure.
Sonny wanted to move way out to Charles County, Maryland, long before the phenomenon of the “White Flight” took place in the borderline suburban communities. With his innate love of the outdoors and open farm country, he wanted to live amongst trees and glades, enjoying long walks, breathing in the fresh air, listening to melodious birdsong amidst peaceful country settings.
Anne, on the other hand, was a city girl and despised snakes, had no particular love for scenic beauty or trees, and insisted on living where she could walk to shops, to boutiques and to work. At this time she was working long hours as a dietician at St. Elizabeths and often returned home late in the evenings. Moreover, she felt a sense of security and wellbeing living in the city that country life would never give her. As she pointed out it to Sonny, the District of Columbia was kinder to blacks than Virginia or Maryland. Sonny and Anne had also toyed with the option of renting rooms to patients at the Hospital for extra income but they would have to live nearby to facilitate this.
Anne, on the other hand, was a city girl and despised snakes, had no particular love for scenic beauty or trees, and insisted on living where she could walk to shops, to boutiques and to work. At this time she was working long hours as a dietician at St. Elizabeths and often returned home late in the evenings. Moreover, she felt a sense of security and wellbeing living in the city that country life would never give her. As she pointed out it to Sonny, the District of Columbia was kinder to blacks than Virginia or Maryland. Sonny and Anne had also toyed with the option of renting rooms to patients at the Hospital for extra income but they would have to live nearby to facilitate this.
Sonny began looking around for any house going in Anacostia in the neighborhood of St Elizabeths Hospital. St Elizabeths, affectionately known as “St. E’s,” was an old established institution whose distinguished history can be traced back to 1855 when it began as the Government Hospital for the Insane. The hospital’s founder, renowned mental health reformer Dorothea Dix defined its early mission as providing the “most humane care and enlightened curative treatment of the insane of the Army, Navy, and District of Columbia.” (1) Wounded soldiers treated at the hospital during the Civil War were reluctant to acknowledge they were in an insane asylum, and said they were at St. Elizabeth's, the colonial name of the land where the Hospital is located. So the name stuck as if it were the most natural thing to happen.To the casual observer it looked more like a small town than a hospital, in its arboretum-like campus setting resembling a sleepy retirement community. This thriving community of nearly 130 red brick buildings is now a pathetic sight, mostly now boarded and in a state of decay. In its heyday, over 8,000 patients received care each year and was a trailblazer in utilizing the newest mental-health therapies like hydrotherapy and Freudian psychoanalytic techniques. It also was the first to have a department focused on psychological research and the first to use dance therapy and psychodrama. Among the notorious character treated there were Richard Lawrence who attempted to kill President Andrew Jackson, and John Hinckley who shot President Ronald Reagan.
Sonny would sometimes accompany Anne to work on his off-days and scout around the area for “For Sale” signs in the front yards of houses. Endless searching turned up nothing positive. Every house looked cozily occupied. As he gazed yearningly at the well-kept front yards, the pretty drapes at the windows and the two-car garages, he wondered when that dream would come true for him.
One evening in February 1964, Sonny chanced to get home early evening. With the TV switched on to a sports channel, he was reading the newspaper when Anne rushed in excitedly through the front door. “Honey, there is a house on Lebaum Street for sale,” she announced, her voice high-pitched with triumph.
Sonny put aside the newspaper in his hand, and gave Anne a thoughtful look. “Relax honey, I thought that house was for rent not for sale,” he replied.
“Well the realtors just changed it this afternoon. I saw them do it,” Anne replied. “Honey, just think. It’ll be real convenient. I could walk to work. We can rent first, then buy. We better take a look at it right away before someone else takes it.”
It had been an exhausting day at work for Sonny and he really wanted to wait until tomorrow. However, he wanted to please Anne, so he put on his jacket and got into his teal blue 63 Studebaker Wagonairre. Anne stayed behind to cook supper. Sonny approached 500 Lebaum Street and gazed intensely at the house.
It appeared quaint if non-descriptive, a 2-storyed red brick house with a deep pitch tiled roof -just like all the other cookie-cutter type houses in this neighborhood, probably constructed during WW II to house the returning veterans. What weighed positive in Sonny’s eyes was, unlike the other houses, this one included a sizeable yard that stretched from the side all the way to the back. In the distance blending into background, he could see the red-bricked ornate buildings at St. Elizabeths.
Inspecting the house from the outside Sonny noted the existence of a full basement. He knelt down by one of the basement windows and tried to peer in through the Venetian blinds. He could faintly make out a kitchen and bathroom. The more he gazed, the more he was filled with wonder. Wow! How spacious it seemed! How deep it all seemed to be! Was it an illusion? He could scarcely trust his own senses. As he explored around the house a few more times, he noted that the backyard was extensive enough to build a cinder block garage. O, wow again!
The next day, Sonny visited the realtor’s office to get the keys to the house for which he left a $10 deposit. Unlike these times where danger lurks in every corner and where people tend to be considered guilty until proven otherwise, in those days, a realtor would trust you with the keys of the house up for sale. Anne took time off from work and together they visited the house, with anticipation and barely contained excitement simmering just below the surface. The very first thing Sonny and Anne noticed upon entering the house, were the steps that led to the second floor. They were 32” steps and wide enough for any adult. This had to be more than just an attic. They climbed the steps and were thrilled with what they saw. There were two rooms up there with the ceiling high enough to accommodate a man six feet tall. Sonny being a six-footer could stand inside the room without his head touching the ceiling. On descending the steps to the basement, the strong smell of fresh paint assailed their nostrils, mixed with the fresh concrete and fresh paneling to a pungent, piercing odor. Sonny realized that this was probably the only house in the entire block with a full basement. Moreover, it was brand new; the owners just had the basement dug out. He could not believe his luck. Looking at the environs, Sonny and Anne liked the homogenous set up that was apparent, with projecting porches and varied rooflines that created a sense of rhythm up and down the street. The houses were standard, relatively simple but each had a stamp of individuality. They stood in the yard watching a few white American neighbors move around nearby, who waved to them cheerily and came over to ask if they were prospective homebuyers. Later, Anne would turn to Sonny and say, “Oh, honey, the people seem so warm and welcoming. I like it.”
Sonny and Anne made a serious review of the environment around 500 Lebaum Street and decided they wanted to live there. A symbol of the American dream had eluded them up until then. How they had yearned for their own house, their cozy little nest that would see them through their marriage. They could not get the house out of their minds. Sonny was enamored by the spacious basement and was dreaming of all the things he could do there. He had always yearned for a two-car garage and a basement. Now they were within his reach.
Sonny was a firm believer in the time-tested truth of the early bird catching the worm. There was no sense vacillating until some one else beat him to it. So as soon as they had completed looking around, Sonny and Anne made one straight trip to the realtor’s office to ask for the price. The agent’s words crushed Sonny’s hopes and the excitement was suddenly dampened. $19,700 with a $4,000 down payment. How could he afford that? That was too much. His job at Central Fuel did not pay much and at that level he did not believe he could qualify for a loan that high.
Yet, giving up without a fair effort was not Sonny’s style. As he mulled things over in his mind, an idea struck him. “Last week this house was for rent, how much was the rent?” Sonny asked, quietly, masking the excitement that was welling within.
“We had listed it for $100 per month” answered the agent, taken unawares.
“I tell you what—we will rent it from you and pay you double that amount: $200. Deposit the other $100 for the down payment. And in one year, I should be able to save enough money to purchase the house.” “You must be in real estate.”
The agent started at Sonny with a new respect in his eyes. “I’m quite impressed. Allow me to present this offer to the owner. Let me call him now.”
In ten minutes, the agent returned with a smile on her face and the keys dangling in her hands. Thirty decisive minutes later with the signed lease agreement in hand, Sonny and Anne fairly flew out of the rental office into the golden sunshine outside, triumphantly grasping the house keys. They leaped into their Studebaker Wagonaire, and as it roared to life, Sonny screamed his heart out. “Lookout, baby here we come. The Williams are comin’ to Lebaum and they’re stayin’ for good!” Sonny and Anne began this new chapter of their life together with thankfulness in their hearts. After long years of hardship and struggle, things seemed to be looking up at last. Congress Heights was a decent neighborhood with a hub of barbershops, small drug, grocery and hardware stores, and family-owned furniture shops. Lebaum Street was snugly tucked away in the heart of Congress Heights, just a stone’s throw away from Bolling Air Force base. Times were good and life was busy and vibrant up on the hill, benefiting substantially from the Air Force base as many service personnel regularly dined and shopped there. Service men and women in their regular blue uniforms were a familiar sight trekking up the hill on Portland Street in the late evening to enjoy the simple pleasures of a frothy beer and a delicious fresh-cooked meal.
The development of Congress Heights can be traced to the housing boom of the 1940s. By the late 1940s and throughout the 1950s, Congress Heights transformed from a quiet, rural environment to a bustling community as it became a critical hub for the U.S. government. The Bolling Air Force base heralded the beginnings of U.S. aviation in the nation’s capital. The base opened in 1918 and Charles Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis returned to the Bolling field in 1927 after its historic transatlantic flight. Bolling also became home to the Headquarters Command of the U.S. Air Force where fixed wing aircraft continually took off and landed up until 1962. At this time, due to airspace congestion around National Airport just across the Anacostia River, the squadrons left for Andrews Air Force base in Maryland, which was a loss, albeit nominal, for the stores along Nichols Avenue.
When Sonny and Anne moved into 500 Lebaum Street, they realized they were the only black residents down a lane of all white residents. Many of them were retirees from St. Elizabeths Hospital, trying to spend their retirement in an environment of peace and quiet. Sonny and Anne imbibed the quiet dignity of their neighborhood and as the months sped by, found their landlord appeared more and more inclined to sell them the house. One year after renting 500 Lebaum Street, Sonny and Anne became the proud owners of the premises. Sonny’s former yearning to move to Charles County, Maryland with its wooded areas and expansive backyards had dissipated. He found deep spiritual satisfaction in sauntering down the tree-lined Lebaum Street onto Mellon Street, drinking in the beauty of the varied shades of green, appreciating the restful formation of arcs as the boughs of trees on either side met above the road, providing welcome shade in the sweltering heat of summer. He would stand mesmerized by the soothing murmur of the summer breeze that blew across the tranquil waters of the Potomac, sweeping the hill and serenading the velvet green leaves.
An aura of pristine cleanliness clung to the houses and the front yards that struck a deep chord of affinity in Sonny’s innate sense of order in the world. The periodically cleaned roof gutters, the daily swept porches, the regularly raked front yards and the consistently trimmed carpets of grass enhanced the impression of quality living and respectability that Sonny yearned to identify with. The all-pervasive sense of community that yet lingered in the neighborhood seeped into Sonny as he watched people lolling around on their porches, reading the Washington Post or talking to their neighbors. Yet, this sense of security and orderliness had false overtones and seemed precariously balanced upon a gradually vanishing world, with flammable feelings simmering just below the surface.
Nevertheless, the socio-economic outlook for blacks had never been brighter. After President John F. Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, his Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson who succeeded him, made a big difference in the lives of African Americans all over the US. Dubbed by novelist Ralph Ellison as “The greatest American president ever for the poor and the Negroes,” President Johnson lived up to the accolades by championing the cause of human rights and signing the Civil Rights Act of 1964 as one of his first pieces of legislation to get passed. This Act had a threefold favorable impact on the black American population. It prohibited racial discrimination in public accommodations in the US, it authorized the Justice Department to bring lawsuits against states that discriminated against women and minorities and it guaranteed equal opportunities in the work place to all (2). As the federal government continued to grow in the 1960’s, many people came to DC to work and middle class African American neighborhoods prospered.
Sonny remembers Tim and Jane Marshall, an elderly couple, immediate neighbors who appeared to be concerned by stories of blacks trying to move into the neighborhood. Even more, they were concerned about the city’s rash and ill-advised decision to build 60,000 houses east of the Anacostia River. As the days scurried forward into chaos and confusion, concern turned into anxiety and then to worry. The white residents of the area no longer wished to remain in an environment that was increasingly becoming alien to them. When Sonny got into conversation with them, he felt no sense of resentment against black people. What he sensed was a deep feeling of foreboding. Things would veer from bad to worse. Best to leave before the going got tough. Everyday a new “For Sale” board appeared in the front yard of a house in the neighborhood. Another white family had decided to call it quits.
Before the whites moved out of Anacostia, the blacks were restricted to two closed-in areas, Barry Farms and north of U Street in Anacostia. It was very easy to spot the isolated black communities with their litter-strewn cul-de-sacs, dead-end roads and neglected houses. The white community had tree-lined streets, single-family homes and smart-looking cars in the driveway.
As more black families continued moving into the area, there was visible resentment among the white community that had lived there relatively undisturbed for long years. In the early 1960s, the resentment that was consistently building overflowed and spilled into taunting and violence. The white kids in the neighborhood resented the intrusion of black kids into their close-knit swimming sessions at the Fairlawn Pool in Ward 7. The black kids felt distinctly uncomfortable when their white-skinned peers threw cold, hostile glares at them and jeered and ridiculed no one in particular but collectively all blacks. The white kids tried their might to implement an unwritten rule that black kids could only swim at a certain time of the day. If the black kids came in earlier or later than that time, the white kids made sure they never got in the pool. There were times the white kids took immense pleasure in forcing black kids to hang around and wait in line sometimes for over an hour before they decided to allow them in. Most black kids just gave in to avoid trouble. However, there were the stronger, more stubborn ones who refused to be bullied. It appeared to be a situation of “Follow my leader.” As a few black kids stood up to the whites, others joined in, and they were driven to find strength in numbers to survive the taunting of the whites. In time, this led to the creation of black gangs. From one perspective, black gangs originated from the desperate need to survive the humiliation and the torment of racism.
Over the next 30 years, Anacostia’s close-knit neighborhood fell from its respectable middle-class perch to the depths of notoriety. As days sped by, the bustling business of the commercial area changed from conventional stores to a maze of check-cashing outlets, liquor stores, drugs, crime, homeless people, storefront churches and abandoned buildings. In the 1960s, the Interstate 295 appeared to be an anchor in a sea of chaos. In time, it turned out to be a mere shortcut from the suburbs to downtown. Residents complain of a dearth of decent restaurants amid a relative sea of take-outs that pass food to customers from bulletproof glass windows. The area remains troubled by crime, with one-fourth of the city’s murders, according to police statistics for the Seventh District. The area high schools, Anacostia and Ballou, are among the District’s most troubled.
When black families started moving in to Anacostia in the mid 60s, white families who felt their privacy and way of life were being eroded left in search of a less disturbed environment. Yet, there were many who were loath to move out of familiar surroundings.
Nobody realized what dramatic turn of events would take place after Dr. Martin Luther King’s assassination on April 4, 1968. The unbridled violence unleashed on the community removed the last vestige of respectability and sanity from the neighborhood and things got comparatively worse in the 1970s and 1980s that even black families who had moved into the area started to move out, initially to border communities like Bellevue in Washington DC and Oxon Hill in Maryland. As things got worse, people moved further away to the suburbs in Virginia and Maryland. With the white community moving away from Anacostia, the violence between whites and blacks increasingly began to take on the face of blacks against blacks. White racism had well and truly entrenched the feeling in Blacks that they were less than human beings and it not really belong in civilized society.
Unlike the school system throughout the rest of the country, the public schools of Washington DC largely depended on support from Congress. However, the schools remained segregated as like the rest of America. Between 1930 and 1950, the black population in DC doubled, with more job opportunities for blacks exploding with the New Deal program of the 1930s. This inevitably led to overcrowding in black schools, with the problem aggravating during WW II when DC halted school construction. White schools, however, had plenty of room to spare. With the end of the war, there was an initiative to build new schools in DC. Distinction was drawn between White and Black communities. For the Black students, there was a perfunctory conversion of several White schools to Black schools. The White students had brand new schools built for them. In a form of protest at this blatant discrimination, on September 11, 1950, a group of Anacostia neighborhood parents called the Consolidated Parents’ Group showed up with a dozen Black kids at the brand new Sousa School for admission flanked by police escort and a team of lawyers. However, despite this smart move, the principal refused to admit the children. The Black kids had no option but to attend Shaw Junior High, a 48-year-old school with meager facilities - a playground too small for a ball field, a welding shop converted to a makeshift gym and a science lab with a Bunson burner and a bowl of goldfish. The lawyers filed a case against the President of the D.C. Board of Education on behalf of several of the Black students, charging that segregation in itself was discrimination. On May 17, 1954, the Supreme Court ruled that racial segregation in the DC public schools was a denial to Black children of the due process of law guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment (3). Following this landmark ruling, several all-white schools such as Congress Heights Elementary, the Ballou High School and Anacostia High School opened their doors to black students most of whom were children of employees of the Air Force base or at St. Elizabeths. The admission of Black students to all-White high school in DC was an incredible achievement. Anacostia had an elementary school for Black kids, Birney Elementary School established in 1889, and named after James Gillespie Birney, a white Kentucky abolitionist. However, high school age Black kids in Anacostia had no school nearby to attend. They had to commute across the river to the only four high schools in DC for Blacks: Cardoza, Armstrong, M.M. Washington, Phelps and Dunbar (4). When black kids were gradually being admitted to predominantly white schools in DC, the white community began to seek other areas to live.
Sonny and Anne settled down well to life at Lebaum Street. They had no kids yet except Anne’s adopted son Jerry. Sonny’s old friends on the other side of the river were constantly nagging him to host a party. They knew that Sonny owned a large house with plenty of space for good fun. They knew he was a gourmet chef and a gracious host. They knew his expertise in a game of poker. Each time they tried to force the issue, Sonny resisted. He knew Anne’s objections and her voice kept echoing in his mind.
“No wild parties in our house. If you do, I’ll leave you.” The friends, however, would not call it quits. They kept on pestering Sonny and teasing him about who wore the pants in his house. After some time, the teasing irritated him. He could not allow people to think he was under his wife’s thumb. Despite misgivings and Anne’s undisguised opposition, Sonny planned a big party. They would afford it, after all unlike the first days of their marriage when they had to count every penny spent. He would host a non-stop card party from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. All his leisure time over a month, he spent on planning the party. He even mailed out formal invitations. As the big day drew near, Sonny paid a visit to Buckingham Meats, the local meat market down Nichols Avenue and bought a whole truckload of food.
He got fifty pounds of fresh pork chops, loin roasts, hock hams, ground beef, chicken, bratwurst and several kinds of fish.
Came the Friday of the party and Sonny was ready to play host. As the late evening sun turned shadows longer, men and women in party attire descended in groups. Colored lights on the trees winked and sparkled and soulful jazz and rhythm and blues of BB King, Jimmy Brown and Duke Ellington wafted from the Sonora record player.
Sonny loved Duke more than anything. Duke was such a master of jazz, an American music maestro and an immense figure of the Harlem Renaissance who told the history of African Americans through music. Duke challenged traditional representation of blacks in the entertainment industry, and Sonny respected him greatly.
As the party got underway, the liquor flowed - beer, plenty of Seagrams gin, and red wine in a huge bottle called Knotty Head -- the bottle derived its name from the "huge hangover" one would get after consuming the liquor. When the mood picked up the men got down to play poker and blackjack in earnest while the women played a simple card game called Pitty Pat where the suits are irrelevant and the play is based solely on the rank of the cards. Some folks made money, some lost, most just did it for fun. The games continued through the night through the entire day on Saturday, then nightfall and through the wee hours of Sunday.
After nearly 40 hours of non-stop partying, Sunday morning arrived, listless but still conscious. Some folks were still playing unfazed, most were lying on couches or on the floor fast asleep after a boozing binge. Congealed food was yet plentiful upon dishes on the table. The early morning sun was peeping through the partially drawn drapes, but the body was too tired to register.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. The knocker on the front door sounded urgent. Sonny asleep on the carpeted floor got up startled and hurried to the door. He opened the door and was disconcerted to see his mother standing outside with a rather grim look on her face.
Sonny tried to feign a sense of joviality he was far from feeling. “Hi Mom. What brings you here? Would you like to join us?”
Sarah ignored his questions with a brisk, “Good Morning, son,” and brushing him aside, stepped into the house, walked through the living room and knocked on a bedroom door. As she opened the door, her eyes fell on several men in a drunken stupor on the floor. Several others were seated on chairs and on milk crates. One man was dealing with cards. It looked like they were playing 3-card poker.
Sarah stepped up to them and spoke in a gentle but firm voice. “Gentlemen, it’s been over a day and a half. You’ve been here long enough. It’s time to go home,” she said. Then men at first gazed at her, surprised. Then without saying a single word, they all got up, stacked the deck and settled their earnings.
Then Sarah walked over to the backroom. She knocked and opened the door. Several women were playing Pitty Pat. A few children were fast asleep beside them.
Saeah cleared her throat. “Ahem, ladies, you’ve been here all weekend. It’s time to go.” Just like the men, they all got up. “Yes Ma’am,” they answered as they picked up their belongings and started heading out the door. They chorused, “Great party, Sonny. You’re the most excellent host.” Sonny hugged and thanked each of them as they left. Many would go home, some were even considering going to church. Not for Sonny because he had a lot of cleaning to do and he was quite sure Anne would take no part in it. “Thanks for the food, you’re quite a chef,” the last couple said as they complimented Sonny on their way out. “We need to do this again.”
“Definitely,” Sonny replied. (at this point, I wonder what Anne thinks about this wild party? Don’t you say she would leave Sonny if he hosted such a wild party and Where was she when they partied? Why Sarah appeared suddenly? Were Anne mad about the party???)
The year was 1967. Perhaps Sonny knew or maybe he didn’t, but there would be no more parties on 500 Lebaum Street. They partied this weekend. Next year, the world surrounding this community would never be the same.
Back in the world of reality, Sonny’s decision to move on in the field of employment led him to keep alert for possible job openings anywhere. They also had to raise enough money in one year for the down payment. That meant that he, Sonny, would have to come up with about $350 per month for 12 months. One day not long afterwards, he learned that Exxon Fuel was hiring and decided to apply immediately. His diligence was duly rewarded. Exxon Fuel hired him to deliver fuel oil for residential heating. Overnight Sonny and Anne found their financial standing had jumped several notches. Sonny began to make good money and it boosted his morale no end to know that he was finally able to be a good provider for Anne by earning more than she did. The job conditions were perfect for him. He worked in the DC area and could go home everyday and while the day was yet young too, so he got to spend more time with Anne. He sent a fervent prayer of thanks to the high heavens for making life good for him and for providing him with a job that made him feel valued and appreciated.
One particular incident on one particular frigid wintry day touched Sonny’s heart, even moved him to tears. According to his delivery schedule that particular day, he had to deliver fuel oil to two elderly female sisters who lived by themselves down 6th Street NE, between F and G Streets. When Sonny arrived at 6th Street, his heart sank. Thick, deadly black ice covered the road surface as far as his eye could see. Sure, by this late in the afternoon, the 3500-gallon fuel truck he drove was substantially empty. But it was risky all the same. What if the great lumbering vehicle skidded out of control and slammed into somebody’s house? To make matters considerably worse, the street was hilly and one had to make a 90 degree turn to the left to get there. He would not chance any mishap. Sonny carefully backed the truck in an alley nearby and drawing his thick leather jacket closer round his body and thrusting his gloved hands in the deep well-lined pockets, gingerly stepped on the ice to get to the two females, Edith and Edna. When he rang the doorbell, a bony, knobbly, petite woman, silvery grey hair tied back severely, bundled up in layers of woolen sweaters and overcoats, opened the door hesitantly and peered cautiously at Sonny.
“Ma’am, My name is Sonny, I have brought heating oil for you.” Sonny decided he needed to put them at ease. “But I can’t get the vehicle onto this road. It is too iced up.”
A fleeting smile brushed across the heavily lined face. “Thank God you are here. But what can we do now?”
“It might be better if I empty the tank a little more and get back here. It might be less risky to come down this road. I will finish the rest of the deliveries I have to make today, and then I’ll come back here.”
It was far from easy to get through the deliveries. There was piled up snow and slippery ice everywhere. Sonny turned and the deliveries were arduously long, exhausting and nerve-wracking. It was almost ten o’clock in the night when Sonny got to the back alley near 6th Street and parked. The skies were a leaden ash color that promised more snow in the night. As he got down, Sonny realized he had made a mistake in leaving this delivery so late. The ice on the road had steadily worsened and getting the truck near the house would be an impossible feat. He carefully made his way toward Edna’s and Edith’s house to size up entry points and to consider viable alternatives to get the heating oil inside. As his alert eyes scrutinized intently, he noticed that the sisters had a walk-in basement that also had an entrance from the back. Sonny cheered up as he thought of a plan. The 170- foot hose in the truck would come in handy now. He just needed access to the basement. He rang the doorbell once more. An eerie silence greeted him. His heart lurched in his chest as he strained his ears to catch a sound from within. He rang the bell again, with more insistence. After what seemed like an eternity, the same old lady opened the door, this time covered up to her eyes in woolen clothing.
“We had given up on you. We figured you were not coming,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion.
Sonny bowed his head in silent apology. Then, looking straight into her eyes, he said, “Ma’am, I am so sorry. I did not expect to get this late. Driving around was so hard today. I thought it might be easier to take the truck here now. But it is worse than earlier. We have to try another way.”
The lady looked bewildered. “Another way?”
Sonny took a step forward earnestly. “Ma’am, this is what I am going to do. I have a long hose in the truck and I am going to get it through the basement to fill your tank.”
Then he added as an afterthought, “I promise I will not mess up the floor.”
The lady was shivering and her teeth chattered as she practically whispered, “We haven’t been in the basement in ages.” She thrust her hand in her overcoat pocket and took out a heavy-looking bunch of keys. There would easily have been forty keys in the bunch. Sonny’s weariness increased several-fold. He would have to try each one to get to the right key. It took him nearly 15 minutes as he pushed and turned. He would not give into frustration. He kept his thoughts focused on the task. At last, one key fitted and clicked. Oh, for small mercies, thought Sonny in relief. As he opened the door and walked in, the dust almost choked him, as did the stale musty smell that assailed (Shall we change another word, since you use this word for several times throughout the book) his nostrils. As his eyes adapted to the darkness, he quickly assessed the situation and decided how he could get the fuel into the house with the truck parked where it was. He trudged back to the truck, snaked the fuel hose through the backyard, out from the front, up and over and before long the bone-dry fuel tank filled to the brim with oil. He felt a deep sense of pleasure and fulfillment as the fuel gurgled, sloshed and gushed inside. The two sisters were delighted beyond reason and they embraced Sonny with such fervor and gratitude that suddenly Sonny’s eyes blurred with tears.
Back in his truck with the heated air slowly warming his chilled bones, he looked at his watch. It was past 11 p.m. What a day! He had thought he could be home by 7 p.m. to have dinner with Anne and to turn in early. He had underestimated the severity of weather was and the impassable road conditions. He was exhausted but satisfied. He had helped his customers and they were happy. All was well in his little world. Anne was half-asleep when he returned home and listened to his story sleepily. She was happy it all turned out well but she could not understand why Sonny had been moved to tears. She kissed him and was fast asleep in seconds. Sonny was too wired up to fall asleep. He kept reliving the events of the day and was thankful for his job. He felt quite satisfied with his employment and did not anticipate changing it in a hurry.
As fate would have it, the next week Sonny learned that Exxon’s fuel oil delivery department was downsizing and they would no longer need his services. Sonny was crushed. At one time, he he had the ultimate job of his life. He did his job faithfully and thought his employers appreciated him. He shook his head regretfully. Corporate America had no heart. He should have known better.
Sonny scratched his head thoughtfully. From here to where? What would he do next? He knew he loved working with people, but he also had a keen entrepreneurial spirit and he knew how to gain business. He clasped his hands at his chest. Tomorrow he would apply for a new job -- have Faith indeed.
By the way, why are those two girls sitting next to Sonny? Or around his car??? I am a bit confused?
(1) Wikipedia, "St Elizabeth's Hospital"
(2) Wikipedia, "Civil Rights Act of 1964"
(3) Wikipedia, "Bolling v. Sharpe"
(4) Washington Post, "Still True to Their School; For Armstrong's Class of '45, Time to Tell the Untold Story," DeNeen L. Brown, 13 July 1995.
1943-44 photo of Bolling Field from the Ray Gallagher Collection, Alexandria Library
