For much of my youth, I was drawn to Black culture.
I found myself awash in the Florida beauty of gospel anthems, even sneaking a listen every now and then behind a cellophane-stained glass storefront bayfront, usually up Georgia Avenue, near the old Griffith Stadium site. Synergy ruled here — Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the celebrated guitarist/singer (arguably the original gospel superstar), was married on a huge stage mounted in the Griffith infield.
About the same time, 1962, that I’d seen “To Kill a Mockingbird” in the cellar of the pilastered masonic temple, also known as the Town Theatre, my beloved Dad, Samuel Willard, pulled off a true “Atticus Finch” move outside of Woodsborough (or Bridgeton), New Jersey one dusky evening in July or August. Our rickety Ford wagon had gone kaput. Ever the conscientious citizen, my dad allowed the creaking “puddle jumper” to roll off the road, coasting to a gentle halt in a grassy gully.
Directly across a sandy footpath the entire congregation of a neat clapboard church was sharing an evening repast — moist fried chicken, savory greens, and tangy homemade mashed, washed down with locally made fruit punch. The robust reverend, in a starched surplice, along with several members of the choir robed in spotless linens, surrounded Dad as he joggled worn cables sprouting from what looked
to resemble the original 1953 battery of “Mabelline” in all her faded lime-green glory.”
My sweat-soaked father fumbled in his pen-choked pocket for a folded 50-dollar bill. He smiled sheepishly, offering his cash to the Padre and his amazing flock. “No need, sir” the preacher said, as he offered his broad hand with a wave. “We’ll get you back on the road once you’ve had a good meal.” Years later my mother explained the arcane legend about her lineage, courtesy of the unearthing in a Hoboken backyard farm garden. Anyway, by then I knew my Dad’s mom was a quarter Iroquois. Thanks to her cousin, President Cal Coolidge, whose ancestral surname is Akula! Are we not all one people?
