S O U T H E R N
A U T H O R
"A Play for Power"
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Hammerhead
He looked like a fit and trim Justin Wilson, the popular Cajun cook. Even down to the thin, salt-and-pepper mustache and half-rimmed silver glasses. He worked as a signalman for Southern Railway. His "office" was a control tower in a switch-yard across from the old Merita Bakery on the west side. Whenever he took me with him to work, the experience of seeing the trains, hearing the shrill sounds those old steam engines made and smelling the aroma of fresh bread baking in the huge ovens across the street was quite an experience.
He was my great-uncle John. I called him "Hammerhead."
Why? Best I recall, Uncle John called me Hammerhead first because I was so stubborn. Then, kid-like, I retorted by saying, "You're a hammerhead, too." It stuck. From that day forward, I called my Uncle John "Hammerhead."
During WW2, he was the male in my life. My surrogate father while my dad was overseas extending the hand of friendship to all the barmaids in England, Austria, and Belgium. I desperately needed Uncle John's stabilizing influence to offset the frantic females in my life - my mom, my grandmother and my great-aunt. Hammerhead was there to save me, and although he never had a son of his own, he was perfect in that role.
I was three or four years old; he was forty-two or forty-three. I lived with my mom and grandmother. Our house was three blocks away - a rented duplex on Euclid Avenue. Mom worked at the US Public Health Service downtown, my grandmother was a film inspector for United Artists. I spent some long and lonely days at a daycare center housed inside the Moreland Avenue Elementary School, across from old Bass High in Atlanta.
I hated it. Only two things in life made it tolerable: an afternoon visit by my teen-aged cousin, Betty Anne, a student across the street at Bass High; and spending the entire day with my great-aunt Louise and great-uncle John at a place we called "the House."
"The House" was a magical spot where I received plenty of attention. During the morning, Aunt Louise and I would listen to Don McNeill's Breakfast Club on the brown Philco radio in her tiny breakfast room. After that, it was Arthur Godfrey, followed by the noon news and lunch. Aunt Louise knew I loved her homemade cream of tomato soup and she often prepared it especially for me.
After lunch, we'd listen to the soaps on the same old Philco. I liked "Pepper Young's Family;" she preferred "Stella Dallas." While we listened, I'd play with a wad of wallpaper cleaner - a modeling clay-like material that I scooped from its container stored underneath the drawer where Hammerhead kept his tools.
Then it was time for a nap.
Aunt Louise would lie down with me across the old daybed on her sleeping porch. Windows lined the rear and side walls so there was always a cool breeze. We'd talk. We'd munch on Wheat Thins, drink Coca-Cola and crunch on the cracked ice. (We didn't keep Coca-Colas at my house, but there was always a full case in Aunt Louise's pantry. A wooden case. Full of 6-ounce, pale green bottles filled with syrupy sweet Coca-Cola.)
If I weren't sleepy, I'd squirm and wiggle until I ended-up standing on my knees, looking out the window into the backyard. A sweet gum tree sat next to the house. A wooden deck encircled it just a few feet off the ground. The deck was where Hammerhead potted and pruned his plants. I used it as the first step to my perch high up in the sweet gum tree.
A giant fig tree stood beside the garage. Since it was wartime and no one we knew even had a car, junk and discards filled the once empty space. It was off-limits to me. However, the fig tree had a deck around it that made it easy for me to climb-up and pick the fruit.
I'd be looking out the window on the sleeping porch, avoiding my nap. I'd ask my Aunt Louise, "When I get up, can I go out and pick some figs?" She'd say, "No honey, they aren't ripe; they're hard as a rock. If you ate one, it might make you sick." After wearing-out my aunt and myself, I'd settle down on the daybed and drift off to sleep.
My great-uncle John was quite a gardener. An open porch spanned the front of the House. It had trellises at both ends that hung heavy with the blooms of perennials. There were more flowers in the concrete planters that sat on each side of the steps. Flowering shrubs filled the space in front of the porch. Even more lined the walkway. Ivy covered the steep slope to the street. Rows of purple thrift lined each side of the second row of steps all the way to the sidewalk. He kept the lawn and his plants manicured to perfection.
On the north side of the house, Hammerhead had a beautiful rose garden that ran front to back. Arbors covered in climbing roses shaded the walkway that ran through the middle. The rose garden was also off-limits, I suppose because of the thorns although I was told it had snakes. But on Mother's Day and Father's Day, I got to pick a red rosebud to wear in my lapel to church. A red rose meant that parent was living. If not, you had to wear a white one. I was sure glad I could wear a red one.
Yes, "the House" was a magical place. But my favorite spot was the backyard, Getting to play there all afternoon - climbing trees, picking (and eating) figs, watching the fish in the fishpond, secretly plundering in the garage - was better than a trip to Lakewood Amusement Park.
I'd awaken from my nap late afternoon to the most wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. Aunt Louise could take a pinch of this, a dab of that, a wad of something else and turn it into the best tasting southern cooking on the planet. Baked hen with cornbread dressing. Chicken and dumplings. Homemade yeast rolls and biscuits that would melt in your mouth. For dessert, there might be apple pie, egg custard or even strawberry short cake. She was a wonderful cook. I even liked her S.O.S. - chipped beef and gravy on toast!
After a nap, it was up into the sweet gum. In just a little while, the garden gate would squeak and I'd see Hammerhead walking underneath the arbor that led from the alleyway behind the garage, beside the fishpond and the fig tree, onto the rear walk.
I'd jump down from my perch and run to greet him. Hammerhead would squat down on his knees, lay down his lunch pail and say, "Come here, you Hammerhead!"
I'd giggle and say, "You're a Hammerhead, too."
He'd place his arms around me, pick me up and carry me into the house.
We'd roust-a-bout until my mom and grandmother arrived from work, and we all sat down for supper. If I got too rowdy, or misbehaved, Hammerhead would come down on me hard. He'd correct me, then go stealth and give me a stern look that lasted for what seemed like hours. I'd do anything I could think of to gain his favor and win back his affection.
On one such occasion, we were at the supper table. As was our custom, I said the blessing. I bowed my head and prayed "God is great, God is good. God we thank you for our food. Amen." I looked up at my Uncle John and said, "Hammerhead, I Christ-sake'd you, too." He laughed and quickly melted like the old softy he was.
After the war, he cleaned out the garage and bought a used 1946 Ford. One day, while he was looking under the hood, he raised-up and bumped his head. He bumped it hard. No one thought much of it, but afterwards, he fell ill. A few days later, he had a stroke that left him with partial facial paralysis and a useless left side.
That stroke ended his career with the railroad. It ended a lot of things for Hammerhead. The roses died. The garden went to seed. The shrubs and the grass grew out-of-control. Rust ate away at the manual reel-type mower that he'd used to manicure his lawn.
In the summer, when we would pay a call, the front door at the House would always be open. Thanks to a mirror that hung over the mantle in the living room, even from the street we could see a reflection of Hammerhead sitting in his chair, watching a black-and-white telecast of Atlanta Crackers baseball. He didn't complain; he just sat there. Night after night.
One April day in 1953, at age 51, we received a call that Hammerhead was gone. His funeral service was at the Inman Park Baptist Church where most of our family attended. I was twelve and this was my first funeral. To this day, I remember the sweet smell of all the roses that filled the sanctuary. Also the hymn that we sung: an old Baptist favorite called "In the Garden." It goes something like this:
"I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses.
And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,
The Son of God discloses ...
And He walks with me,
And He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own.
And the joy we share as we tarry there
None other has ever known."
Ironic isn't it? A gruff old Hammerhead and his love for tender roses. That day, I "Christ-sake'd" my beloved old Hammerhead for the last time. I hope someone up there heard me.