Crossing the bridge

I never believed that men were designed by God solely to be hunters and protectors in a way that prevented them from showing love. My memories hold numerous examples of men who cared for their families, and not just financially. My brother and I had a number of male figures who, as they watched us, modeled behavior and illuminated the path that would guide us to adulthood, manhood. There are so many stories. This, however, is a different kind of story about the time when Uncle Greg underestimated the steely resolve of two little boys in his care.

Jay and I had spent a good portion of the afternoon playing outside. I was glad to have a sibling because I was never alone. I had a built-in best friend. Still, freeze tag, hide-and-go-seek, and especially red rover, could become boring rather quickly with only two participants. As we took a break, the hunger that had been masked by boredom came into clear focus. We decided that we wanted to go to BBF (Burger Boy Food-O-Rama), which was Bluefield’s precursor to McDonald’s. The allure of of well conceived marketing campaign was not lost on us. Only BBF would do. The die was cast.

The great obstacle to our determination was the lack of transportation. We asked Uncle Greg to take us to BBF. His initial response was, “wait ‘til later.” I should probably explain that my mother’s youngest brother was on the phone when Jay and I decided it was time to make our way to burger land. We were dutiful in our intent to wait as Uncle Greg had instructed. Mom was a no nonsense woman, so her children were taught one the pillars of African-American childhood and we ALL knew better than to interrupt someone while they were on the phone. Notwithstanding, the joint spirits of hunger and excitement overtook us and we couldn’t resist. After several agonizing seconds that surely fell short of even one full minute, we knew it was time to ask again “Will you take us to BBF?” Perhaps it was the distraction of the other person on the line, or the frustration with two nephews who were devolving into petulance but, Uncle Greg’s second response was decidedly terser. “If you can’t wait until I am off the phone, then you can just walk to BFF…”

In my maturation, I would learn to understand hyperbole, but six year old Steven was a literal being. Uncle Greg had just told me and Jay to WALK TO BFF. My seven year old brother, despite his superior wisdom and experience offered little improvement to my ridiculous plan. I was barefoot, but still believed we could just walk to BBF and get some food. Unrestrained by the fear of failing or a list of reasons not to go, off we went.

Most of Bluefield sits on some hills, so our initial steps were aided by gravity as we walked past the basketball goal dad had mounted on a telephone poll.  We passed the Green Plymouth Fury owned by Uncle Greg with a mix of arrogance and ignorance as we told ourselves, “we don’t need the car, he told us we could walk.”  We made our way through the neighborhood noting all the familiar sights and landmarks.  Because we had good home training, we politely spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Alexander and Mr. Martin as we passed the home on Greenbrier Street.

As we turned on to Lincoln Street, I wished we had passed a cobbler.  Lincoln Street was not yet paved when Jay and I set out on the burger trek and the rocks and dirt were less comforting than the pavement, but I would not be deterred.  We walked on, passing the church and other neighbors, innocent, bonded as brothers and really, quite content.  As we approached the corner of Wayne Street and Grant Street we began to consider the HUGE hurdle that lay ahead, the Grant Street bridge.

Greenbrier Street and the rest of the “East End” of Bluefield developed on the other side of the tracks, the Norfolk and Western railroad tracks, specifically.  In order to access the predominantly and historically African-American neighborhoods in “nature’s air conditioned city,” one had to cross the railroad tracks on one of three main bridges:  Mercer Street, Grant Street, and “the little bridge down the way.” 

The two young sojourners had become even more emboldened now, perhaps because Uncle Greg was nowhere to be found yet and we thought—as so many children do—that we were grown. The bridge itself, though it seemed enormous, was not so scary. The Norfolk and Western coal trains below provided an ample source of terror. Their movement was always announced by the accompanying cacophony. There were rows of tracks, mostly with idle trains carrying the earthen treasures that brought both grandfathers to West Virginia, but a moving train animated the surrounding terrain. Even standing over the trains produced some trepidation, but once again, innocent ignorance propelled us forward. We made our way over the tracks as we slayed the barrier that kept us confined to East End.

Life is a constant educator. Circumstances and outcomes have frequently reminded me that when I am climbing a hill and get to the top, another hill is the reward. Once we crossed the bridge, we stood face to face with Bluefield Avenue and two-way traffic. Common sense would have turned us around, but little boy reasoning though common, sometimes lacks sense. After surveying our prospects. Jay decided that I absolutely could not cross the road barefoot. It did not matter that I had made the journey up to that point without shoes, this was a turning point. The brother who would always inspire me gave me a glimpse into the future in that moment. “Get on my back,” he said. “I’ll give you a piggy-back ride.” We waited until we saw that there were no cars coming from either direction, then off we went to cross the avenue. Incrementally pleased with ourselves, we felt like we had conquered the world, our hunger, and our limitations all on the way to BBF. That’s when we saw the Green Plymouth Fury.

I wasn’t with Uncle Greg at the time, so I can only imagine the amaurosis fugax (a Latin term for a “black curtain coming down over one eye”) he must have experienced when he wrapped up his phone call and came outside to look for us. As an uncle myself now, I can understand the escalating urgency that must have ensued when he called us and there was no answer.

Uncle Greg, like dad, and almost all our uncles, was a military man. The “get ‘er done” approach informed many of his actions. So, he approached the missing nephews in a logical, if slightly panicked, manner. He recalled telling us to walk to BBF, he just had not conceived that we might take him seriously. As reality drifted into focus for him, Uncle Greg passed all the landmarks Jay and I placed in our rear view. Though it felt like we had mastered the world, we actually hadn’t advanced all that far, so a quick trip in the car relieved our uncle as he saw two little boys walking in front of the ACE hardware store on Bluefield Avenue. We kept walking because we did not realize that he was coming to get us because we were still operating under the directive that we were going to walk to BBF. Once he stopped us, we understood that our pedestrian adventure had come to its conclusion. We jumped in the car and didn’t really notice that Uncle Greg was a little anxious. We did, however, notice that the car was moving back across the bridge.

Uncle Greg took us home first so that he could explain to us that we were wrong to walk away from him and that we should not have crossed the street by ourselves.  He also wanted to make sure that we were okay and to make sure that I put on some shoes.  We weren’t entirely sure if we were going to be punished because we came to recognize Uncle Greg’s deep concern for our well-being and the consequent fear of what might have happened to us.  He was just so happy that we were all right, we didn’t get a time out [no one got a time out then, by the way.  It was 1972 so time outs came in the form of switches and belts then].

I learned that two minds together can hatch some plans that are improbable, but not impossible. Jay would be a lifelong inspiration to me and his spirit still helps me and carries me when I need it. I also learned that you cannot take everything grown-ups say seriously…