Mixed Bag

By Phillip L. Rice Sr.

Mixed Bag is a detailed and entertaining description of how, throughout his careers, the author dealt with fear, insecurity, and self-doubt instilled during his childhood by social, economic and cultural conditions during the 1930s and 1940s in Birmingham, Alabama. Strong, insightful parents and a solid public school education equipped him to transform these obstacles into challenges and motivation for extraordinary achievement in diverse and difficult careers. These included the U.S. Air Force (Colonel, ret.), Private Industry, and Academia. He earned Masters Degrees and a Doctorate Degree from Big Ten and Ivy League Universities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 24, 2009
• ISBN: 9781477162477

Phillip L. Rice Sr.

Rice entered the U.S. Air Force as a Second Lieutenant in 1952, and served until retirement as a Colonel in 1977. His career included assignments as Russian Linguist, Pilot, Assistant Air Attaché (London, England), and various command and senior staff positions. He served 3-year tours in Misawa, Japan and London, England, and stateside tours at 17 locations in 10 different states. He served in combat in Viet Nam in 1967-1968, where he earned the Distinguished Flying Cross for extraordinary flight achievement during the Tet Offensive. His post-military careers include aerospace manufacturing, consulting and academia.

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Chapter 1

THE EARLY DAYS: 1930-1946

PASSION AND JOY: THE MISSING INGREDIENTS

Since retirement in 1996, I have spent many hours and days reflecting upon my seventy—odd years of life. There were many unusual experiences and endeavors, and several rewarding careers of which I am proud and were enjoyable. It is therefore perplexing that I find it difficult to say that any of them were pursued with simple passion and joy, and not inspired by expected rewards such as recognition, money, prestige, or sense of payback to my family for their sacrifices in seeing me through my formative years. Have I simply been oblivious to endeavors which I could pursue with passion and joy? What could occupy my mind or attention so much that such opportunities never seemed to appear? Passion and joy can be the result of curiosity and discovery among other things, two qualities that were essential, but not encouraged as I grew up. Curiosity killed the cat was a typical response (supposedly a nugget of wisdom) to some adventure, intellectual or otherwise that I attempted to pursue as a youth. Too much pleasure would certainly lead to some type of misfortune. There was an ever-present boundary that discouraged going beyond the cultural norms of the community. These were religion-inspired, with the biblical Old Testament mentality prevailing.

Fear was the predominant driver of whatever transpired—fear of punishment, disapproval, failure—even of success!

I frequently heard the word depression (referring to the Great Depression of the 1930’s) as early as the impressionable age of five, with admonitions to be careful and not waste things ranging from clothing, to toys and even eating everything on your plate because life was difficult for many people and could be worse. Additional fears included punishment for misadventures such as straying into bad neighborhoods where moral behavior was less than proscribed in church on Sundays. A seemingly justifiable scuffle with another child would result in punishment by my parents in addition to any minor injuries sustained by me. In my case, because of an appendectomy at age three, I had to be careful not to re-injure myself or disrupt the healing process, so participating in normal spontaneous childhood play and antics was restricted. Money was scarce, and I doubt if there was anything like health insurance in those days to pay medical expenses. There was burial insurance, however, which in a way reflected more of a focus on dying than on living.

Fear also arose at the sight of police, who entered sections of neighborhoods and intimidated and harassed citizens, made arrests on the basis of suspicion and carted males, an sometimes females off, presumably to jail. During this time, stories were told about lynchings, some of which had occurred relatively recently, as well as others in years past.It is unlikely that a positive outlook and perspective on life could be instilled in a young, impressionable mind under these conditions. I am sure that many people would be satisfied with their personal accomplishments and life’s experiences, were they the same as mine. Indeed I should be thankful for the experience of living—thankful for that eternal something that created, guided and protected me. To observe a colorful morning sky and a mysterious night sky are sheer fascination and joy. To hear the birds sing and see them fly efficiently and sometimes effortlessly through the sky, or to watch a crawling amphibious creature move about the land and into the water is marvelous and an inspiration. It is fascinating to see how they use their gifts to participate in and contribute nature’s processes, not destroy it. It is part of a great mystery to me as to the whys and wherefores of it all.

Why, then, over the years, have I experienced feelings of disappointment and occasional sadness, even with so many blessings and the ample talents which I have been reasonably successful in applying? I now find it compelling to explore where it all began, and the impact of fears on my development as a child and my behavior through the years. There were two beacons that shone through it all—my parent’s religion-based teachings, and learning about the U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights in elementary school. The promise of both of these provided hope and expectations for a better life and a better world. These provided fuel for aspirations, to work hard and develop my gifts and talents. Work hard and keep the faith, and you can become anything you wish. There was an unstated maybe, however, imposed by the prevailing social and economic systems. To successfully navigate the two, there was a critical need for astute guidance, mentoring, and protection from assaults on one’s dignity, self-confidence and self-esteem. I was fortunate in that these needs were provided by my family, as well as dedicated and loving public school teachers and educators.

Such were the forces that interacted to launch and shape my Mixed Bag story, beginning in Birmingham, Alabama, the night of June 3, 1930.

Chapter 2

EARLIEST MEMORIES

Birmingham, Alabama, founded in 1871, became known as The Magic City due to its rapid growth at the turn of the 20th century. It was also called the Pittsburgh of the South because of its prominence in the steel industry and close proximity to deposits of iron ore, coal and limestone. It prospered as a manufacturing center during the two world wars. It is here that my earliest memories began.

I doubt that there was great joy at my arrival on planet earth here at about 10:30 PM on June 3, 1930. I was the fifth child, unplanned, and arrived at a time when the two oldest children were approaching college age. It was during the Great Depression, and my family had only recently moved into a newly built home on 10th Avenue North in the Smithfield section of town. It was an all-brick bungalow, and considered one of the finer homes in the city at that time. According to my mother, Dad, a chef cook at one of the largest restaurants in the city, erred in judgment when he proudly showed the home to his employer. Why would he trust that sager?’ she caustically asked. That guy couldn’t possibly bear the thought of us building and owning such a home. For one reason or another, the employer began to cut Dad’s wages week by week. He finally decided to sell the house and return to the previous family home, which he also owned along with two other houses in the Woodlawn section of town. All of Mother’s family lived here in close proximity to each other and were now our neighbors again. This was a major embarrassment for her, as she considered Smithfield a step up" from the old neighborhood and was now forced to return. The experience no doubt contributed to her risk-averse and pessimistic attitude through the years. I was a little over two years old when we returned to the old neighborhood. The Smithfield home was sold to a Supervisor of Schools in the Birmingham public school system, who still lived there when we migrated to Cleveland, Ohio in 1946.

Although I was born in Smithfield, my earliest memories are at age three, while ill at home (6313 3rd Avenue South, Woodlawn). When I became sick, the doctor who lived nearby diagnosed my illness as measles. My oldest sister, Vernice, thought that it was more serious and contacted a physician friend, who immediately came to see me. He was young, slight of build, carrying a little black bag, wearing eyeglasses and sporting a goatee. He correctly diagnosed it as appendicitis and quickly arranged for me to go to Hillman Hospital in Birmingham for an appendectomy.

I was completely disoriented in the hospital. Accompanied by Dad, it was a bumpy ride there in a borrowed car. I was met at the ambulance entry and moved to where I lay on a bed with an orange-colored rubber cup placed over my mouth and nose. I remember little until Dad came to visit me the following day. He arrived with the Birmingham News tucked under his arm, wore his usual white shirt and a tie, and tapped out his smoldering King Edward cigar as he entered the area, preceded by the aroma of tobacco. He flashed his usual, caring smile. Hi, son.You feel ok? We’re going to get you out of here in a day or so. Still hazy, I was happy to hear this because I was afraid. The hospital ward was a dingy basement area with pipes near the ceiling and several beds in a row. Most of the beds were empty. It even smelled strange there.

The surgery must have been accomplished by an extraordinarily incompetent or negligent surgeon because over 19 years later, during an examination at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio to enter the Air Force, the doctor who examined me showed the incision scar to other staff and asked me where was your operation done? Out of embarrassment, I answered Cleveland Clinic, the noted hospital in Cleveland, Ohio. He called others in to see what a terrible job those guys at Cleveland Clinic had done.

My stay at Hillman hospital couldn’t have been very long because I remember very little about it—not even eating. After the appendectomy, I was not allowed to play regularly with the neighborhood kids until I started school, for fear of re-injury.

WOODLAWN—The Physical Environment

Our new house, 6313, is a brown frame bungalow, facing North, with a high slanted roof, and a front porch with a swing. I remember approaching it from either end of 3rd Avenue, walking along an unpaved sidewalk, and first noticing the tall beautifully orchid-like blossomed Indian Cigar tree in the front yard, which is enclosed by neatly trimmed shrubbery. On the east side of the house are beautifully blooming dahlias, roses, snapdragons, and elephant ears. I was always fascinated to watch humming birds hover while extracting nectar from the flowers. I invariably tried to catch one and failed. There is also a large oak tree on this side. I often inserted a leaf stem or toothpick into the fallen acorns and pretended I was smoking a pipe like my favorite comic strip character, Popeye. He always ate a can of spinach to boost his strength before a fight, so I ate all of my spinach at dinner thinking I could have muscles like my hero. When I grew older, I learned to actually light up and smoke the Indian cigars, while imagining I was Tonto on the Lone Ranger radio program. Trying to do this gave me my first experience at choking and gagging while breathing smoke.

Entering the house via the entrance hallway there is a telephone, one of the first in the neighborhood, located on a little mahogany table with chair near the front door. To the right is the bedroom where I slept on my little iron military style cot in the southeast corner of the room. I loved that little cot. One night a worm from the Indian cigar tree in the front yard got into my bed and stung the heck out of me before I found it and got it out of there. Every night thereafter, the bed received a careful inspection to ensure that there were no such worms hiding anywhere.

My sister Vernice slept across the room in the double bed when she was home from school during the Summer. What a wonderful room mate! I loved to hear her call Phillip, will you do something for me? Run to the store and bring me a pack of Dentyne chewing gum. She would always tip me a few pennies when I ran an errand for her. I would figure out while in the store what kind of cookies or candy to buy with my tip and return within minutes to buy it. The room also contains a pot-bellied heater that burned wood or coal (we used coal), and a fireplace that we used occasionally. I had fun using the fireplace embers to pop popcorn in a long-handled wire basket with a sliding top. It was a treat. I ate burnt kernels and all, liberally doused in butter and sprinkled with salt. In winter, Dad quietly made a fire in the heater before he left very early in the morning and again in the evening at bedtime. The days were usually warm enough without heat.

The living room, where our piano and a fireplace with a mantle are located, is to the left of the entrance hall. Also in the room are a rocking chair and a sofa bed, both with black leather upholstery and wide wooden arms. It doubles as a guest room This is where Vernice masterfully practices classical music, and my sister, Wilma, struggles trying to play Jubba Dance. The entrance hall also leads into the dining room, to the right of which is the kitchen. Here is the coal stove and oven where many a delicious meal was prepared, especially on Sundays when the minister might visit after services. It was usually fried chicken (raised in the backyard), roast beef, or pork chops with string beans and other green vegetables, mashed potatoes or yams (all from the garden), and hot rolls or corn bread. Fruit cobbler or pie with homemade ice cream was for dessert. To the left of the dining room is a second bedroom and to the rear of that another bedroom. To the right of the rearmost bedroom is a screened-in porch, which leads to the bathroom. It had a toilet, a bathtub and washbowl, but was not heated. In winter, when it was too cold, we took our baths in a tin wash tub near the heater in the rear bedroom in water that was heated on the stove.

It seemed a long way from the back porch to the end of our yard. It stretched to the alley where trash was picked up. It was probably 50 feet or so deep, although it seemed longer. Dad always planted a garden in back, usually corn, string beans, squash, tomatoes, peanuts and potatoes. From time to time there were chickens, and a couple of years even a pig. A shed near the house where tools and garden equipment were kept was unlocked, so I often wandered inside and played around with the tools. If Mother was away, I would take a hoe or rake into the garden and try to use it. Dad also dried peanuts, which were planted every year, on top of the shed that stood near three fig trees. It was always a delightful self-treat to snitch and eat peanuts even before they were ready. A slight feeling of guilt usually followed, even though probably no one would have said anything had I been caught. Anyhow, I never got a stomach ache from eating the green peanuts or the figs, which Mother made into delicious preserves each year. Gardening was Dad’s thing, and I’m sure a way to unwind and relax. He rarely asked us to help in the garden or with the chickens or pig. I think he wanted us to, but yielded to my mother’s insistence that the dirt and the stench from the garden and animals remain outside the house. This is not the country here.

Churches were the social, political, moral, as well as religious teaching and information centers for the community. Within five blocks of our house there were seven churches, five of which were within two blocks. Churches sponsored activities and programs, individually and collaboratively, such as tutoring, recreation, or Sunday afternoon cultural activities for the community. Our local school, Patterson elementary, was often represented by teachers and students. The school was conveniently located within walking distance of all of its students. This created a compact, collaborative community environment.

Owners of vacant fields in the area grew corn, millet, sugar cane, water melons and other vegetables during the summer. Several fields were used as playgrounds and ball fields, and were occasionally used by traveling carnivals. There was a stream called the branch with a swimming hole a block or so east of 64th street which only the daring entered. We’d get a whipping if caught in there because of all those other dirty folks there (some nude), and we might even get infantile paralysis! This was the dreaded disease at the time, which no doubt contributed to my lack of interest in swimming.

Most of the homes in the neighborhood were single-family, with quite a few occupied by their owners. Others were called double tenant homes, which were two-family rentals with absentee landlords. One landlord was notorious for cruising the neighborhood in his coupe looking for tenants who were delinquent, sometimes removing their belongings to the sidewalk. In one enclave east of the branch, called death alley, there was a row of about ten or so shotgun tenant houses. Males were on the road during the week (working in mines, farms, etc.) and would come home on the weekends. Beginning on Fridays, there was a weekend brawl every week—folks would get stabbed, shot and brutalized during these fights after heavy drinking of moonshine liquor. It was strange to me that no one really seemed to care. I never knew of a funeral or memorial held at any church for their deceased. I was not permitted to go near there, although I did occasionally sneak and walk by there out of curiosity. We lived at 6313 until 1943, when my father bought another piece of property and had a new home built for us on 62nd Street, two blocks or so away and on a paved street.

It was easy to travel about the city, which was simply laid out on a North/South-East/West grid. Numbered streets ran North /South, and numbered avenues East/West. It had a good public transportation system which charged a fare of seven cents. The dividing line between North and South in Woodlawn was Division Avenue. Georgia Road was the southern boundary, beyond which was the Southern Railways railroad. There was an extremely dangerous crossing just beyond 64th Street, where several fatal accidents were caused by speeding trains and no barrier to warn vehicles or people.

One streetcar trolley line (on First Avenue North) served Woodlawn. It ran East-West from East Lake (eastern suburb of Birmingham) to Ensley (western suburb). It was about a four-block walk northwards from our house to the nearest stop, at 62nd Street. A bus line on Georgia Road, two blocks south, ran from the eastern suburb of Irondale into the business district of Woodlawn, where people headed for downtown Birmingham would transfer to the streetcar. The bus stop was nearer to our house, but the trolleys ran more frequently. Until age 13, my boundaries to roam free were 62nd to 65th street (West to East) and First Avenue North to Georgia Road, (four blocks North and two blocks South of where I lived.

There were two neighborhood business districts on the way from my house to the First Avenue streetcar stop. One was colored with a funeral home, cleaning and tailor shop, barber shop with a pool table in the back room, sandwich shop, a shoe shine stand (Hustler) and an auto mechanic shop. I enjoyed going to Jellyroll Canady’s barber shop for a haircut, and listening to the pool hustlers betting and boasting and talking trash talk. With razor in hand, and a silent and menacing look towards the back room, he made sure that language was kept clean when children and parents were in the shop. There were also some little row houses along the way in which I’m sure various services were provided to clients. There was typically a lady in a robe sitting on the front porch in a swing, Occasionally on the street corner or on the side of one of the houses, there were crapshoots and the inevitable arguments (gimme my money) and fist fights, occasionally with switchblade knives, but never guns.

The other businesses in this section were an Italian-owned grocery store, an icehouse and a Greek-owned restaurant (with a segregated eating counter) on First Avenue South and 62nd Street, in the middle of our community. I stopped going to the candy counter there when one of the owners, an immigrant who could barely speak English, denied that I had given him a dime for a nickel bar of candy, and refused to give me my change. When I demanded it, he turned his back and looked out the window. A lifelong psychological scar was inflicted by this incident—by an immigrant who could barely speak English at that, knowing that should an incident occur, authorities would believe his story!

The second cluster of businesses was further along the way to the streetcar stop on First Avenue North. There was a Piper’s Ice Cream Store, a locally-owned grocery store, shoe repair shop, Rexall drug store and Advance Cleaners. Advance was a customer of the printing shop, which my brothers ran. We printed their cleaning tickets. Actually, Colored and Whites lived in close proximity to one another, though in separate enclaves.

A few bootleggers lived in the community. The main one was on Georgia Road and 62nd Street (Ed W.). He had a screened in facility with picnic tables to seat 20 or so customers, where he also sold watermelons and soft drinks during the Summer. He always wore overalls, two straps with only one over his shoulder, high top work shoes with run over heels and no laces. He sold the melons whole or by the slice, all satisfaction guaranteed with no quibbling on returning them. He could thump a melon and tell whether it was just right or not, or would plug it for the buyer to taste a sample. A second bootlegger was on 3rd Avenue (Mr. B., the Elementary School janitor). He was probably in his forties, but seemed very old to the school kids. Police