Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
We headed up the Mississippi when we left New Orleans to escape what we considered to be the brutal heat and humidity of the Delta. We were beginning to notice that we had escaped the humidity by the time we reached Natchez and we had exchanged brutal humidity and heat for just plain brutal heat by the time we had reached Vicksburg. The Dodge coupe had little swing ventilation windows on each side of the car in front of of the side windows. We had an idea that swinging them all the way around would blow cool wind directly onto our faces and chests. We didn't swing them around for long! The manoeuvre resulted in a headwind similar to the direct blast of a hair dryer turned on to its highest heat.
We were in Mark Twain country now and sensed the ghosts of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. The size of the Mississippi was impressive and the amount of traffic was astonishing. Huge barge trains pushed by tugs passed in both directions; the containers were piled so high we wondered how it was possible for the pilots to see where they were or where they were going. Sam Clemens would have known!
We distracted ourselves by admiring the homes of the black residents that were scattered along the roadside next to the cotton fields. They were built of weathered wood and appeared to be between twenty and twenty-five feet to a side. Most of them had two or three young black children standing in front of them who appeared to have nothing to do but watch the sparse traffic passing by. The majority of them were young girls, barefooted and wearing flimsy cotton dresses, some of which were sewn from old sugar sacks. They were shiny black and many had pigtails on either side of their head; we couldn't have found anything that resembled the 'pickaninnies' of our childhood stories more closely. Bear in mind that this was 1947 and although Civil Rights laws had been passed several years before, Missouri was very slow to yield and school integration was only partially addressed. We never stopped and asked if we could inspect one of the shanties but we naturally assumed that they all had hot and cold running water, sauna baths and colour television. Right!
Bill had an old buddy from his army days living in St. Louis so we stayed the course until we hit the big city.
'I'll say one thing about the people here,' Bill remarked, 'they sure as hell are friendly.' We were driving down a large six-lane thoroughfare and as soon as Bill commented on it I also noticed the people travelling in the opposite direction who were waving at us as they passed.
'They've probably noticed the Alberta license plate on the front bumper!' he said smugly.'
'No!' I said, they're probably trying to tell us that we're going the wrong way down a one-way street!' I had seen the sign just a moment before.
'Holy shit! How did that happen?' Bill exclaimed, peering about in every direction frantically looking for a spot to turn around. He finally took a side street leading
into what seemed to be a quiet old section of the city. He drove along slowly until we came to a home that had a group of individuals sitting around talking. Bill pulled the car up to the curb and addressed them; there were four or five young black men about eighteen to twenty-five years of age.
'Howdy,' Bill said, 'I was wondering if you folks could give us a little direction!' Dead silence ensued.
'What you really want, honkie?' one said.
'We're lost I think, we'd just like a bit of advice.'
'I'll give you a bit of advice, Bill,' I said. 'Just put the car in gear and move on out of here!' There was not a smile or a 'Welcome, stranger!' in a carload of these sullen types. It dawned on us that we were in an all-black neighborhood of St. Louis and not particularly welcome. We eventually found more amenable types at a service station and made our way to Bill's friend's home. I guess everyone has a local entertainment they use for unexpected visitors; in this case it was the paddle steamer that cruised nightly up and down the Mississippi River.
I have no recollection of Bill's friend and family but I assume they did not include a memorable southern belle. As a matter of fact that could well have been the name of the paddle steamer. I don't know how large the legendary Mississippi paddle steamers were but this one was surely as large. There was a huge ballroom with a twelve-piece band playing favourite musical selections, a long stand-up bar beside which there were tables and lounge chairs for the less thirsty.
I think I'd remember if there were a plethora of attractive southern beauties sitting primly around the edge of the dance floor. I got the impression that single girls were not made welcome, or perhaps it was overly expensive for them to pay for a ride on a paddle wheeler on the off chance that they may have a dance or two. I'll just have to canvass Bill again for his memories of that part of the journey because I've drawn a complete blank on those events.
Not long after our departure from St. Louis we began to have battery problems with the car. Suffice it to say it was completely dead and unable to turn the engine over. After our first 'jump start' it behooved us to remember to park the car at the top of a hill or steep slope before turning off the engine, otherwise we were stranded until a good Samaritan arrived to give us a boost.
We headed west from St. Louis and followed the Missouri River along until we crossed the Canadian border and followed the road right into Winnipeg.
We passed through Winnipeg and drove on to Brandon where Bill had relatives. There was an uncle, a cousin and her two young children. His cousin was a lovely girl in her early twenties and we were saddened to hear that she was already widowed, her husband having been killed in the R.C.A.F. Her son was about six years old, her daughter about four. The littl girl insisted that I help her make 'mud pies' which were really about the size of cookies.
'When we have that cookie sheet covered we'll stick them in the oven and bake them. Okay?' I said.
'Good! I'll turn on the oven,' said the little girl enthusiastically.
'About three hundred and fifty would be the right setting,' I said. A few minutes later I walked about half a block down the street to the general store and bought a package of ginger snap cookies.
'Do you think they'll be done yet?' the little girl said as soon as I returned.
'I think they should have another ten minutes or so,' I said.
'You haven't shown me your garden in the back yard yet,' Bill said. The little girl took his hand and led him reluctantly out the back door into the backyard. As soon as they departed I grabbed a pair of oven mitts and pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven, gave it a quick wipe and replaced the mud pies with the cookies I had bought at the general store. The mud cookies were flushed down the toilet. It wasn't long before Bill and the little girl returned and she immediately asked if the cookies were ready.
'I know some magic words that sometimes change mud cookies into real cookies,' I said.
'Really?'
'Really! It doesn't always work, of course, but we could give it a try; you'll have to say the magic words after me!'
'You say the magic words, then,'
'Okay, here goes!' I raised my hands mysteriously toward the oven and chanted:
'Hoogly boogly!'
'Hoogly boogly!' she repeated.
'Frickety frackety ding dang!'
'Frickety frackety ding dang!' she chorused.
'Kazam!' I said with a final flourish of my hand, 'they should be done now! Do you want to open the oven and see if it worked? Don't forget the oven mitts!' She opened the oven door and tentatively withdrew the cookie sheet. When she turned around her eyes were round and nearly as large as the ginger snaps.
'How did you do that,' she exlaimed, staring wide-eyed at the cookies.
'I told you, it was magic!' I said.
In the afternoon we went golfing with Doreen and had her laughing most of the way around. When we were about to leave Bill's uncle drew him aside.
'I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you've done for Doreen during your brief visit. She's been terribly depressed for some time but you guys have virtually made a new person out of her!'
It was probably just as well we were leaving; I was starting to have unusual ideas about the lovely Doreen. My testosterone was stirred up into a raging frenzy; She had a magnificent bosom and I had an obsessive urge to rest my head against it; maybe more! I think I'd reached the point where I was in desperate need of a nice hug; maybe more!
Our faithful old Dodge was on its last 'legs' so to speak. The differential was such a mess that it's a miracle that it lasted until we got home. A month or so later it was hauled off to the junkyard, well-travelled but lacking any further 'git up an' go'.
— The End —