( 25 )
In Plain Black and White
The Other Graduation

Call it first grade; or call it primer. Call it what you will, but there I was reading above grade level. This was a paradox of major proportions. I was a slow reader, but I could read practically anything that was put before me up to third-grade level. So where was the paradoxical contradiction? When it came to putting what I knew down on paper, whether words or numbers, I hardly ever completed any “written” assignments, simple as they were. It was not from lack if trying. I was suitably motivated to the extent that I would assign myself a written project and struggle with it, and usually abandon it when it became obvious it was not going to be a satisfactory piece of work. I would rip the sheet from my tablet of ruled paper, wad it up and make it disappear! I remember as though it was only yesterday, I was expected to be able to write my numbers from one to one hundred, which sounds simple enough, but as I described in part in a previous chapter, each succeeding row of numbers was poorer and poorer quality. And I was trying my utmost to make each row look as good as the first one! I had secluded myself in my parents bedroom so I would not be disturbed; I turned to a clean sheet of paper, which seemed to have a magical way of inspiring me, and started with the first row, numbers 1 through 10. Very good so far! We have a draftsman in the making! Row two was acceptable, but some distortion was creeping in toward the end of the row. I would have to bear down, and try harder. Row three was beginning to show that this was not going to be the day I would accomplish this task, or pass this test.

I will now burden you with the doctor’s  explanation of what was happening. Start with an example of physical exercise, push-ups for instance. After a good start, fatigue will begin to interfere, a decline in quality and quantity will eventually be noticed, and a final push-up is performed, until sufficient rest overcomes the fatigue. The brain can encounter fatigue just as an arm or a shoulder can. A dyslexic condition interferes with the transfer of information, and increases the “work” required for the transfer, causing an early, or in some cases, almost immediate onset of this fatigue. The brain knows what information needs to be transferred to the tablet by using a pencil in the hand. The first row of numbers equals three or four mental push-ups. Row two equals three or four more; the last part of the last row is a little shaky. Once the mental struggle begins, the fatigue is inevitable, and trying harder only intensifies the situation. My teacher, that was an example of what passed for an education professional in 1947 Mississippi, had an answer: she told Mom I was the dumbest, laziest kid she had ever seen! Of course, Mom told Dad, and the rest of my academic year was as comfortable as a minefield! There was not, nor would there ever be any help for me or my condition in the near future. You play the hand that’s delt you; if it happens to be a bad hand, you can fold, or preferably, you can bluff your way through and stay in the game.

School was not all work and no play. One day, they loaded several school busses with the lower-grade kids and hauled us downtown to a theatre and surprised us all with a showing of Pinocchio! That was unbelievably exciting being alternately thrilled, then scared, then happy, then concerned! Even though kids pretend a lot, and know “make believe” from reality, on some level they believe that Hollywood stuff. Seeing is believing, right? That’s a lot of wear and tear on a six-year-old’s emotions! Routine things like the water fountain and the vitamin pill, and catching the right bus were second nature now. On many occasions I could look around me and observe other children perfoming with ease, things I just couldn’t seem to accomplish, even though I understood what needed to be done, and could do it in small doses, but in any extended task, the clock would become my enemy, and I would turn in another scribbly, incomplete page. Could it be that my teacher was correct in her assessment? Some of our long trips could become boring and tiresome, but Mom had a way of keeping us interested and entertained. She would have Wes and me read the signs and billboards along the roadside aloud to her. He was in school and was the only one that was expected to have reading skills. But I was listening and learning, and looking for approval from Mom and Dad. There were signs for cafes, hotels and motels, service stations and garages, churches and automobile dealerships. That may have been a magic ingredient that was giving me an edge in the reading circle. I was probably the only kid in the lower three grades that could spell “Chevrolet”!

Mississippi in 1947 was highly segregated. Change would be slow but at least it was in the right direction. So many servicemen who had served, first in segregated units, then non- segregated units were returning home after serving their country and seeing the world. Perhaps there would be some momentum to be found there, but for now, the schools were segregated. The “other” high school has graduates that are rightfully proud of their academic achievements, and expect, and deserve to be feted on this once in each lifetime occasion. My dad was contacted to see if he would be available to offer his services and preserve, in black and white photography, this important event, and assist in locking in for a lifetime, these memories. He gave his assurance that he would be honored to have the privilege. And honored he was! It was a family affair, and my mom and dad were treated like royalty. Wes and I were excited to see other people be as proud of our dad as we were. From where we parked, there was a long broad walkway that led to the wide front steps of a frame building that appeared to be a church, but was being used that day as an auditorium, with the stage decorated in honor of the graduates. The young ladies, in their splendid and spotless white robes, impressed me no less than if they had been a band of borrowed angels. There were young gents there, too, in their caps and robes, but they were outnumbered by the girls. My dad was able to photograph every phase of the festivities, and then comply with each request for individuals and family groups, so whatever was to be displayed on the mantel or mailed to a military member would be available within the next few days. For now. It was time to eat! The “Dinner on the Grounds” affair had a family-favorite menu item to cater to every appetite!

Now that people could buy gasoline again, Mr. K was using his tractor for some of the farm work and driving his sedan when he went to town. Since the Smith family car was a pickup, we all rode together to church in the sedan. Mr. K would light up his Sunday morning cigar and enjoy it until we arrived at the church. He would extinguish it on the bottom of his shoe as we started up the steps and lay it on the stone sill of the window nearest the door. He would retrieve it after church and relight it and enjoy it on the way home. I figure, at fifty-two per year, he wasn’t exactly keeping Red Dot afloat. 

I was not allowed to “mess around” on the tractor. It was considered to be one of the hazards of farming and involved in many farm injuries and deaths. I was confined to driving the wagon when something needed to be hauled, or on one occasion, I was given a turn on the plow. It took a lot of persuasion, but Mr. K wisely decided that the surest way to keep me from asking again was to let me try it. These two mules were as gentle as pets, and smart enough to know what was going on. In case of a potential mishap, Mr. K was within reach of the plow lines, which I was glad enough to relinquish after the plow would bounce, shaking the plow handles from side to side, and raking my fists against my temples a few times. Anything you do for fun should be enjoyable. What ever you do for the experience should be something you plan on doing again. Plowing behind a mule-team failed on both counts!

Spring would bring two things for certain, and many others with less certainty. The first, my seventh birthday, I was looking forward to with anticipation. Following Judy’s lead, I was going to try for a wristwatch. Maybe it would help me learn to tell time. The second was something I would prefer to skip; tornado season. There was a storm cellar where the lane joined the road that was dug into the cut-bank that was created when the road was put in. It was for shelter purposes only and contained a coal-oil lamp, a bench, and a few chairs. The cellar for storage of canned food was nearer the house, but had no room left for a group of people to ride out a storm. Owing to the distance to be traveled on foot to get to the shelter, there was no waiting until the last minute to run for it. At the first indication that a cloud might contain a tornado, we were off and running. This made for more frequent false alarms, but as the saying goes,” better safe than sorry”. I had a fervent dislike for “going to the cellar”, and the same for being in the cellar. Once inside with the door closed, the only light was the lantern, which was kept low to save fuel and keep the heat down. About all the dim light did was create deep shadows which moved with every flicker of the lamp, and any one of them could be a snake, disturbed by the commotion and ready to vent its wrath. Our only indication of what was going on outside was what we could hear from above us. All the sounds were scary, and presumed to be a twister. Fortunately, every time we emerged, we found everything intact, so if any of those occurrences was the real thing, it bounced over the Kennedy farm! 

Living on the farm and knowing and loving the Kennedys, and being loved by them in return, are immeasurable rewards. We would see them at every opportunity when we lived in Louisiana, or as a vacation destination for Wes after he was married, and for Mom and dad. We visited Judy in Jackson after she was married and expecting her first child. Both Truitt and Gene, the sons that went to sea, both returned home after the war, and once again there were no rooms to rent in that big friendly house. Dad’s business had proved to be adequate but barely that, and the company had stayed in touch, making offers to lure him back. Dad knew photography, cameras and film, lighting and posing, and he was a real technician in the darkroom, preferring to count as his film was developing rather than use a mechanical timer. His first studio had been an educational experience and he had reams of notes, in his head, and some written down. He would do this again (and very successfully!) but for now, it would be better to accept their next offer if they would sweeten it just a bit. After all, they still owed him a vacation he needed to collect!