Dennis Crocker Memories - Part 3 (June 1, 2013)
During the time that we lived in Pacolet Station, in the old Doc Jett House, I was only 3-4 years old. I don't have a great number of memories from that time but I do have one or two.
Mr. And Mrs. Jett, our wonderful neighbors, had a fig tree in their back yard. I had permission to pick some figs, and I was doing that one day when I stepped on a rusty nail in an old board. It went pretty deeply into my heel, and I am sure I cried, And that is putting it mildly! There were two neighborhood girls from across the street, one about 6 or 7 the other maybe 13 -14. Unfortunately I can't remember their names, but they comforted me. I don't know where my Mother and Dad were, but I don't recall them being involved until later.
The two girls gave me a nickel and a dime and we went off to Coleman's store to spend it on candy. They had bandaged my foot, and my feet were pretty tough from walking barefoot all summer. I enjoyed the trip to the store, and I bought a lot of candy.
Later that day, my Mother came home and I told her about my mishap. Uh-OH! Down to Dr. Hill's office we went where I had to get a tetanus shot. So that darn nail stuck me twice. I don't think I minded the shot as much as having the nurse make me pull my britches down. I was a mighty bashful kid!
Another memory I have was "helping" my Dad . He was setting concrete blocks, on edge, and end- to- end separating the dirt sidewalk from our front lawn. He would dig a small trench, level it set the block to about half its depth, and backfill against it to keep it in place. As a matter of fact, I believe those blocks are still in place 66 years later, but are almost totally covered by dirt. I look at them every time I pass by there. I don't think I had any specific job, but probably staying out of his way was my main assignment.
We were working along the sidewalk, well, at least Dad was, and a little black girl came by, coming from Coleman's store. She had a little wax whistle - harp. Do you remember those? They were about 5 or 6 tubes of wax each a little longer that the next, molded together, and each one was a whistle that would play a different note. She was whistling pretty good, so I hailed her and asked her what she had that would whistle like that. She showed it to me, and I asked to hold it, and she handed it to me. I then asked her if I could play it, and she nodded her assent, so I stuck my mouth to it and was blowing loud, producing the 5 notes that the thing would make, when Daddy snatched it out of my hand and handed it back to the little black girl!*
He waited until the little girl was on down the street, and jumped on me (verbally) telling me in no uncertain terms that I was never to put my mouth on something a "Nigra" had had their mouth on. I questioned him,"why?" ""Cause it'll make you turn black if you get any of their spit in your mouth!" He went on to say,"Look , you are turning black already" pointing at a dirty spot on my arm. With that I went running into the house, wailing for my Mother. *
I didn't want to be black! I told Mother what Daddy had said (that fixed his little red wagon!) and Mom told me it wasn't true. "It is too. Just look! I am already turning Black".
"You are not she laughed, That is just dirt. Come on, lets wash it off" Wow, was I ever relieved when it came off on the wash rag. I also was really pleased later when I heard Mom giving Dad a pretty good tongue lashing for telling me such stuff.
I didn't know what "Jim Crow" was back then, but my Dad was a true child of his times and he was "Jim Crow" through and through. He didn't change much on that before he died, but he did mellow some.
Well, that is about all I remember from the days we lived in the Doc Jett house. We moved over to "Burgess Town" across from "Uncle Floyd's store into the old "Granny Blanton House". Next time, I'll have you along as we meet my childhood best friend.
Til then, travel safely and tell the ones you love that you do.
* Editor’s Note - For the most part - race relations were cordial between Whites and Blacks in the Pacolet area during the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s. However, the heavy hand of segregation affected everything. In many ways, Black people of the time lived in a very different and harsher Pacolet than did the average White person. See Mary Littlejohn Knox’s story about Growing Up Black in Pacolet.
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