Villages, Ghosts, Lovers....And Red Rice

By Michael Porter

Villages, Ghosts, Lovers....And Red Rice is a hauntingly delightful true story of events that took place in the life of an African American family living in Savannah, Georgia from 1963 to 2000. Both dramatic and, at times, twistingly humorous, the story touches on root working, controversial interracial relationships, an eccentric 'dognapper', a piano teacher's relationship with a wealthy antique dealer who holds dark secrets, and other equally interesting events and personalities. Though centered in Savannah, events also take place in Manhattan New York, New Orleans, and on Martha's Vineyard. Rich in both Southern and African American culture, Villages, Ghosts, Lovers....And Red Rice reveals the spirit of a city that lures people to its sultry climate and mesmerizing beauty....and never let's go!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465328564

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VILLAGES, GHOSTS,

LOVERS… AND RED RICE

MICHAEL PORTER

Copyright © 2004 by Michael Porter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

YAMACRAW VILLAGE

THE VICTORIAN DISTRICT AND

THE BIRTH OF GINA

CLOSET LOVERS AND DIRTY BUZZARDS

THE ITALIAN PIANO MAN

SEVEN-MILE SEX WALK

THE MAYOR’S BROWN SUGAR

WATERFRONT BLUES

REVEREND SUPER FLY

PICCOLO

OF YANKEES AND ICE CREAM

WOODROW, ROOSTER,

AND THE SUGAR CANE LADY

THE KING OF ENGLAND SOLDIERS

BRENDAN

CAPTAIN GEEK FUZZ PORTER

MARRIAGE 1, 2, AND 3

REFLECTION

YAMACRAW VILLAGE

The village is filled with ghosts. The ghost of the one that

used to ride me at night, I’m sure, is among them. Yamacraw has its ghosts, both holy and unholy, and they can be viewed in chronological order.

Once inhabited by the Yamacraw Native Americans, Yamacraw Village, which is located in Savannah, Georgia about two blocks northwest of the Savannah River, was made into the Hermitage Plantation, and became the designated home for more than 200 enslaved Africans after the Native Americans’ unfortunate demise. Yamacraw’s administrative building, which looks across a large field toward the Savannah River, is a replica of the Hermitage Plantation Mansion, which is the South’s most famous plantation mansion. For a brief period, German Jews and Irish Catholics also lived in Yamacraw Village, but eventually moved out, leaving Yamacraw one hundred percent Black, desegregated only by the spirits of the race-less dead.

During the time I spent my early childhood there, from birth until 1965, I never considered Yamacraw Village to be what it actually is—a public housing project. It was simply the village I grew up in. It seemed that in Savannah the Black folk lived in villages and the White folk lived in places with such elegant sounding names as Windsor Forest, Isle of Hope, Wilmington Island, Habersham Woods, Georgetown, and the Historic District. Black folk lived in Yamacraw Village, Frog Town, Hitch Village (public housing), Carver Village (not a public housing project but still named ‘village’), Kayton Homes (not really homes but a public housing project), Garden Homes (public housing project), and Frazier Homes (another public housing project which was mistakenly placed across from Laurel Grove Cemetery, where famous Whites are buried). Nevertheless, Savannah is an interesting city with a great many ghosts, most of which, I am certain, reside in Yamacraw Village.

The ghost that rode me at night lived next door to us. Well, she wasn’t a ghost then, you see, but she would leave her body late at night just to ride me. The old folk in Yamacraw called such people ‘haunts’ or ‘haints’ to be more exact. Ms. Dell was the haint that hated me. Here’s how it would happen: Several hours after Evelyn Amy Porter and Leon Tea Porter, our parents, would send us to bed, and everyone was asleep, I would feel someone leap onto me, holding me extremely tight! I was unable to move or open my eyes or yell for help. In seconds I felt myself being carried through the darkness of the night air; frozen, scared, dying. Then, as quick as it began it ended. I would feel the haint leap off me and I would immediately sit up in bed, sweating and yelling for Amy and Tea.

Amy and Tea Porter sought help. They talked with some of the old folk in the village who recommended other old folk, one man in particular. He was an old man with red eyes, beautiful crystal black skin and a mouth full of teeth, which I found interesting, seeing that he looked to be 100 years old. I had to sit in a separate room while they talked. That night Amy and Tea placed a Bible under my pillow just as I went to bed. It happened! I was in a coma-like sleep when it leapt onto me, but then it quickly jumped off. I sat up and saw Ms. Dell looking angrily at me as she walked out of my room. I screamed! It was comforting that Amy, Tea, Grandma, Ronald, Debra, and Jackie believed me when I told them what happened. Placing the Bible under my pillow worked. Ms. Dell never rode me again, but she gave me lots of dirty looks.

Years later, I learned that the old man explained to Amy and Tea that haints could be killed, but my parents didn’t want to kill anyone, not even a haint. The old man explained how another haint, Mr. George, was killed. A broom and an open jar were used to trap Mr. George, who had transformed himself into an insect in order to enter the room to ride his victim. The insect was caught and the jar tossed into the Savannah River. The next morning Mr. George was found dead, trying to crawl back into his bed.

Despite all the ghosts, though, Yamacraw was fun. The warmth of having mama, daddy, grandma, and my brothers and sisters all under one roof was a blessing of the highest order. Adding to the warmth of it all, my two uncles, Henry and Brother, would visit seven days a week. While Tea worked as a Longshoreman (he used to be a foreman at a major plant along the Savannah River but was fired after he refused to fire several Black workers) and Amy worked as a domestic, Grandma would look after me, my brother, and sisters before and after school. Ronald and Debra, the two oldest, attended West Broad Street School while Jackie and I attended Barnard Street Elementary School. One day the teachers at West Broad Street School found human skeletons underneath the basement. Everyone believed that these were the remains of enslaved Africans. More ghosts. West Broad Street School was later closed, renovated, and reopened as the William Scarborough House.

I enjoyed Barnard Street School. The school, which is now owned by Savannah College of Art and Design, sits on the corner of Taylor and Barnard Streets, about ten yards away from Chatham Square, in Savannah’s Historic District. I was a bright, cute boy and the teachers loved me. And I loved Michelle. She was the color of vanilla wafers, with dreamy eyes, a soft voice and long hair. She looked like a candy store with toys in it. She also lived in Yamacraw. All the children attending Barnard Street School either lived in Yamacraw or Frogtown. I would go near Michelle’s apartment and pretend I was very busy doing whatever, hoping she would come outside; then I would simply stare at her. Ain’t nothin’ like love! I didn’t love every female, though, and Linda Lee was one such female.

Elementary aged children follow rules to the letter; this is the reason that teachers leave someone to take names while the teacher goes to pee (they never told us they were going to pee, but we knew it was either that or #2). Mrs. Sexton left the class and told Linda Lee to take names. The second after Mrs. Sexton walked out I started talking, playing, and laughing. True to the code of the elementary aged child, Linda Lee wrote my name on the punishment pad. I got into trouble. The next day I told Linda Lee that I was going to get her on Yamacraw’s playground after school. All the kids knew that though I was small in stature, I was very tough.

I arrived early onto the playground, with several of my side-kicks hanging around. Soon, dozens of kids started raining onto the playground. Then Linda Lee, nervous as hell, walked onto the playground, trying to make it home. There was mean-teacher-classroom-silence as I walked up to Linda Lee, admonished her, then pushed her. Linda Lee, scared as hell, then commenced to whipping my ass. All of my courage evaporated as I realized that I couldn’t handle her. Her being larger than me meant nothing; I was accustomed to whipping large kids. But now I was secretly praying for some adult to break up the fight, and my prayer was answered. Playing the ass-whipping she gave me off in a real cool manner, I acted like I really taught Linda Lee that writing my name on the punishment pad was a bad idea. Funny thing, after receiving an A-1 ass kicking, I began to notice how nice and likable Linda Lee is. I guess you can say that she beat me into a new perspective.

Summers in Yamacraw were a great deal of fun, too. At night the fruit and vegetable truck, driven by a very kind, elderly Black man, would slowly drive past the little kids as we sat on the curb, our parents sitting on the porch overseeing everything. Then he would stop the truck and ask us to sing THE song. And we would sing, Watermelon watermelon red to the rind; Yamacraw people we LIKE that kind! The fruit man would smile and laugh then give us several watermelons. We ate, laughed, and spat seeds on each other until we became tired. Then we would bask in the joy of the moment as we listened to the soft, steady hum of cars traveling across the Talmadge Bridge.

Summers in Yamacraw Village wouldn’t be Summer without the boat rides. At least once each Summer, Amy and Tea would take us on boat rides to Dafuskie Island. We’d go to River Street and board Captain Sam’s boat, The Visitor. The boat would be filled with folks from Yamacraw, Frogtown, and other Black areas. Oooh, the feeling is indescribable! The cool Summer breeze flowing through the lower and second decks, sensually mixing with the mesmerizing sounds of Marvin Gaye’s Mercy Mercy Me and Otis Redding’s Sitting on the Dock of the Bay. The entire color spectrum of Blacks, talking, laughing, slow dancing, eating, and gazing out over the river as the Talmadge Bridge slowly shrank in the background. Captain Sam, with his white captain’s uniform beautifully contrasting with his flawless black skin would smile one of those large Kool Aid smiles, revealing all thirty-two of his perfectly formed pearly whites, obviously enjoying his ability to provide us with such intense fun. After all, a Black man owning a tour boat on River Street was something to write home about. And the food! To describe the food as delicious would be an understatement.

Fried chicken, fried fish, red rice, collard greens, potato salad, macaroni with cheese, pig feet, chitlins, home-made pound cakes, sweet potato pies, corn bread—this alone was reason enough to go on boat rides. There would be more food on Dafuskie Island, and upon arrival the passengers on board The Visitor will commence to pigging out with even greater enthusiasm! Many of the folks living in Yamacraw and Frogtown had relatives on Dafuskie. The people living on Dafuskie were amazing. In a matter of minutes they could pick dozens of crabs and not cut their hands. They would make delicious deviled crabs, fry fish, and would boil crabs and shrimp. We couldn’t wait for the boat to dock. The Visitor would cruise to the dock and we would see the children waving to us, then turning back to yell to the adults, Hey dey cum!

Walcum to Dafuskie, sistas and bruddas! This greeting would be repeated over and over until The Visitor was emptied of all passengers, including Captain Sam. After impatiently listening to Amy and Tea’s Be respectful, be careful, and don’t get loss speech, we would be off! I would head straight to the small wood frame restaurant/store/community building that looked like a cabin to get some deviled crabs. Though eating, I would simultaneously run, jump, roll, talk, and laugh with the children who lived on the island. Even dirt and grass couldn’t dampen the taste of those deviled crabs. The grown-ups would talk, laugh, drink a bit too much, eat, then dance to Aretha Franklin, Four Tops, Sam Cook, B.B. King, Lou Rawls, and others. No one wanted to leave. We wished that those precious few hours could last forever.

Yamacraw Village is only one block away from Broughton Street, which is the home of Savannah’s downtown area. I felt that there could not be a better location in which to live: Two blocks from the Savannah River; one block from downtown; and two blocks from Bargain Corner, located on the corner of Bay and Jefferson Streets, which had to be the largest grocery store on earth. All the major department stores were located on Broughton Street—Sears and Roebuck, J.C. Penney, Lerner’s, Levy’s, and Kress were all lined up along Broughton Street. Broughton Street was also the major parade route. My cousin, Reverend, got into trouble during one of these parades. Reverend was a merchant seaman and had become used to being treated as an equal in many of the countries he visited. So when a White man, during a parade in Savannah, Georgia in the year 1964, accidentally stepped on Reverend’s foot and instead of apologizing, cussed Reverend, Reverend slapped the man, knocking him to the ground. Then Reverend did what any sensible Black man living in Georgia in 1964 would do after slapping a White man to the ground: He hauled ass. For two days, Savannah’s men in blue were trying to find Reverend, but Black folk had developed a sudden case of amnesia.

During one very special parade on Broughton Street, I got to shake the hand of Richard Nixon. I didn’t know who the hell he was, but I figured he had to be important since so many people were almost falling over one another to shake his hand. If I had a chance, I would have invited him to come and eat at Kress with Amy and me. It was in Kress where my mom almost snatched my arm off my body. All I did was drink some water. I paid absolutely no attention to the adjective WHITE that was nailed to the wall above the fountain. I thought they were planning to paint the wall white. Anyway, Amy was ordering our food and didn’t notice me drinking from that particular fountain. No one else appeared to pay me any attention. And that was some good water!

Even though Yamacraw Village is a public housing project, it had its share of entrepreneurs. Yamacraw’s entrepreneurs were ahead of their time; they had established home-based businesses more than 30 years before such businesses would become popular. Having access to so many home-based entrepreneurs made life less complicated for many of the project’s residents. There were liquor entrepreneurs (they even opened all night and on Sundays), apparel entrepreneurs (it seemed that they were always large women who wore large clothes and sold the exact same items that Broughton Street merchants sold), Bolita entrepreneurs (mathematicians and investors), seafood entrepreneurs (they’d roll out plastic on your front lawn and place the fish for display—talk about real service!), and the sweet entrepreneurs (my favorite because they sold candy, pickles, chips and stuff). My grand aunt, Emma, however, had a thriving home-based liquor business located off of West Broad Street, behind the Star Theater. I guess Emma’s place was somewhat of a high-class joint because mailmen, teachers, and police officers (White ones too) would frequent her establishment. They would all sit around listening to B. B. King, Lou Rawls, and other favorite artists while sipping liquor from shot glasses. Even now I can still hear Lou Rawls singing, I was born in a dump. My mama died and my daddy got drunk. He left me hear to carry on in this place called Tobacco Road. Aunt Emma purchased real estate with most of her money, and when she died she left everything to her son, my cousin Earl, whom is the most likable crook I know.

Tea would take me to the Star Theater or to the Dunbar Theater on most Saturdays. I used to call the theater the dark house for obvious reasons. I loved going to the movies with my daddy. We’d eat hot dogs and hamburgers then wash it down with Cokes. Amy loved it when I hung with Tea. But she didn’t love it when she found out that Tea was hiring me out as a mercenary. Tea and other men would have their sons and grandsons to wrestle one another, and the winner’s father or grandfather would receive the bet money. I was an excellent wrestler. Whenever I had a tall opponent I knew I would win, because I would go under their arms, grab them from behind, trip them then hold them down. Tea was proud of me. One day, though, I had an unfortunate experience; I had to wrestle my cousin, named Man. It didn’t bother me that everyone thought I would lose and that Tea was worried. What bothered me was that I knew that I would win and I didn’t want to hurt Man’s feelings; I liked my cousin. The bets were placed, the match began, and I quickly dispatched of Man. Afterwards, Tea bought me and Man some snacks, and seeing Man happy helped to ease my guilt. Well, anyway, Amy eventually found out, fussed with Tea, and my wrestling career was over.

Yamacraw was the home of many colorful and sometimes strange characters. So it should come as no surprise that I really believed that Yamacraw was also the home of Gwineabee. Berle, an old drunk out of Frogtown, stood in front of Union Station one bright Saturday afternoon, standing next to a large box with a curtain placed over it. Then he started. Come on up ‘n see Gwineabee! Come see Gwineabee! Fo’ fitty cents you kin see Gwineabee! Come on up ’n see Gwineabee! Only fitty cents to see Gwineabee! Berle the drunk went on and on, and the