Detroit Hillbillies

Pilgrims in Detroit—1950*

After struggling through first grade, my six-year-old (same as Calvin) wisdom told me I should try living the debonair life of a big city boy. At the time—1951—Johnson City was the largest town I was familiar with, and I am guessing it had a population of around 25,000. I had been to Detroit, Michigan where my dad worked in the Hudson automobile factory, riding there with my parents in either in 1949 or 1950. We stayed a the week at the rooming house where my dad lived, and he brought us back home in a 1935 Plymouth sedan on the weekend. After school let out in '51, my mom decided to move to Detroit and live full time. She quit her job in a Johnson City textile mill and again we walked the long mile to Jonesborough, she carrying a cardboard suitcase in one hand and half dragging me with the other. The Greyhound bus made a stop at the cab stand, where we boarded for the first leg of the journey; we were heading south to Knoxville. Once there, we had to wait for the northbound bus from Atlanta to come by and carry us to Cincinnati, Ohio where we again changed buses and finally arrived in Detroit in mid-morning the day after we left home. With the layovers and a stop to fix a flat tire on the bus near Lexington, Kentucky, the trip had taken about 21 hours. My mom had rented me a pillow and I used her huge hoop skirt for cover; we were both pooped when my dad picked us up at the bus depot after work.

For the occasion of his family moving to the big city to live with him, my dad had given up his old digs and rented us a small apartment on a quiet street not too far from downtown. Our dwelling was owned by an old lady whose husband had retired and then died not long afterward. She had a one beroom apartment built in the basement, and we were ready to settle into the life of big city urbanites. The apartment rent was very cheap, and there was a reason for that. The old lady liked birds. She liked lots of birds. She liked lots of differnet kinds of birds. We shared the basement with all those birds. Part of the agreement for renting the place was that we had to care for the birds; hundreds of birds; hundreds of stinky, noisy birds. Birds that made me sneeze. The lady kept parakeets, lorikeets, canaries, white doves, and some colorful finches of some sort. She had a deal with a local newspaper to buy a bunch of their unsold newsprint each day, and each day, the cages had to be cleaned and new newspaper put down. With all the cleaning, there was still the stench of fecal ammonia perpetually lingering in the air. The screaming, feathered flying rats had to be fed and watered each day, and I was ready to abandon the bright city lights and crawl back to the hills after my first 24 hours of surviving Detroit. I suspect the birds were as unhappy about their lot in life as was I. Fortunately there was wall between us and the foul fowl, so most times things were tolerable. The old woman also kept some larger birds upstairs; a couple of talking crows, some radio-head parrots or macaws, cockatoos and cockatiels, and probably some others I have mercifully forgotten about. Thankfully, we didn't have to care for these gems; her housekeeper was charged with their welfare.

Why? She liked birds!

This all was bad enough, but to add to my anxiety, my mom sent me to a small mom-&-pop store just down the street to buy a loaf of bread. The storekeeper laughed at me when I told him what I wanted. He said he had never heard of what I was looking for in a store like his; he said I should to go on down the street and turn left and go another few blocks and get what I wanted from a mom-&-pop bakery. Being a shy country kid, his laughing at me embarrassed me and devastated my bit of self confidence. Oh yes, he was laughing at me; as I left the place holding back tears, I heard him tell someone whom I supposed was his wife that I was an ignorant hillbilly kid. His sarcastic words have remained ingrained in my soul to this day. He was correct of course, but correctness sometimes stings. I loitered my way back toward the apartment, but I must have dawdled suspiciously; a cop walking up the other side of the street came across and asked me why I wasn't in school. I explained as best as a scared hillbilly boy could that school was out for summer, but he made me show him where we lived and he asked my mom if I was telling the truth. He said that schools would not go on summer vacation there for about another week. That was strike two against sophisticated city living.

Strike three came when my mom tried to light the gas stove, a contrivance she had no flying time in. She damn near blew up the apartment and us with it. Along with singed hair, we endured a cold supper that night.

Strike four and the final one came when two men came knocking at the door, supposedly looking for a man who lived there and owed them some money. My mom grabbed the nearest weapon—a straw broom—for self defense and talked to the guys through the screen door. She explained it wasn't any of us they were seeking, and that my dad was expected home at any minute. Actually, it would be several hours before he was due to arrive home from work. They left just before my mom could go spastic on them; she was very scared as we had no phone and there was no one else around to help. In my mind's eye, I can still see my mom defending the door with the broom poised ready to strike and protect her child and herself. Bless her heart.

So went the week; on Friday as soon as my dad came in from work, we threw our bit of stuff in the car, told the birds goodbye, and headed back to the hills of home.

That is my story and I am sticking by it. How does he remember those events so well after nearly 60 years, you ask? Well, a couple of times I have stated in this blog that I have a pretty good memory, but it ain't that good. When I was in high school, I concluded that I was someday going to be a rich and famous and very rich author of worldwide renown; loved by most and respected by all. I realized that my success would lead to a demand for my memoirs from my many groupies and fans, so I began taking notes of things which happened to me during my formative years; the things that would eventually lead to my many—but humble—successes. My mom filled in some of the blanks from what she remembered of my youth, as did other members of the family and some friends and neighbors, too. So, I have a written record of much of my life, but it isn't completely accurate because I still depend somewhat on my slowly failing memory of the recollections of others whom have long since passed. The above story is basically true.
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*In the above photo, my mom seems to have an extra leg. Actually it was one of the neighboring kids whom was playing hooky from school hiding from the camera's evidence.
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