Oblivious - lacking remembrance, memory, or mindful attention. Having no consciousness, knowledge, or awareness.
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The following are some brief accounts of things I wasn't really aware of until fairly recently; things such as my family's past, their struggles, intermittent triumphs, and migratory history. Like most folks, as a youngster, I was only fed bits and pieces of the world, much of which, I didn't understand; I wore the dark shades of youth.
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Growing up, I knew very little of my parents' backgrounds, or my family history in general; I wasn't even curious. Like most, I was caught up in my own life. My first time meeting any extended family (on my father's side) beyond my two grandmothers and first cousins, was in the summer of 1979, when I attended a family reunion in, Wetumpka, Alabama. At the time, my mother's family history had been a long running mystery that would continue to go unexplained until many years later.
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| Los Angeles to Wetumpka (1979) |
I travelled to Wetumpka from the West Coast by van with my Aunt Fannie and my three cousins. I'd just completed the 10th grade and all I really cared about those days was playing football. My aunt, like her mother Grandma Fannie Lee, was a notorious lead foot and she always drove like a bat out of hell; I remember, she recently had a CB radio installed in her van and, during the long drive eastward, she routinely exceeded the speed limit by double digits. It was a true spectacle; a van load of kids driven by a leather gloved woman jostling with 18-wheelers on the open highway.
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| The catfish mystery (1979) My cousin Eric and my younger brother Alan wandered down to the lake, on the family farm in Wetumpka, and came back with two large catfish, and they didn't have any fishing equipment when they left. Eric is proudly wearing his Alabama Crimson Tide Football hat. |
Southern origins...
The late 1930's early 1940's American South
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| Elmore is 10 miles east of Wetumpka and 14 miles northeast of Montgomery |
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| The old homestead (1979) Elmore, Alabama . My father (Aaron Billups) was born in this dwelling in 1939 and lived here with his parents, Jim and Fannie Lee, and his older sisters Laura and Dorothy until an early age; the youngest sister, Fannie, was born later after the family moved to Birmingham (AL). Hand fetched water, outhouses, and unpaved roads were the norm those days, especially, in the deep South. . Typically, African Americans had very few options regarding decent places to live because of Southern Jim Crow laws. . .I visited the old Elmore house for the first, and only, time in 1979 with my father, grandmother, and aunts, while on summer vacation from Los Angeles but the significance of the occasion was lost on me because I was 15-years old and had knucklehead tendencies.. .
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| Grandma leads the way (1979) Elmore, Alabama . As a side attraction to the Wetumpka family reunion the family elders thought it would be a good opportunity to take the younger generation, myself included, to see the old Elmore house where the family used to live from the late 1930's through the early 1940's. The rickety clapboard house had long been abandoned and sat isolated in a heavily wooded area. There were no passable roads to reach it by car so we all had to hike over rough and untamed terrain to get there. Of course Grandma (Fannie Lee), the de facto matriarch, led from the front and everyone, including the handful of grown men present, just fell right in behind her. . Grandma was the personification of unstoppable force as she stomped through the thick underbrush snapping off low hanging branches as she passed. Viewed from behind, the manner in which she led us seemed almost biblical; clasped in her fist was a large branch she'd armed herself with to fend off animals and the woods before her parted like the Red Sea. Grandma hadn't set foot in Alabama in thirty years but, judging by the number of critters fleeing in the other direction, she was still feared in these parts. I watched in amazement as a panicked white tail (deer) bolted from some nearby shrubbery and slammed headfirst into an oak; then it wobbled back to its feet and took off on three legs. I'd never seen anyone command that kind of respect; it was then I realized my Grandma's true power. |
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| My grandmother Fannie Lee I don't know when this photo was taken and I'm not going to guess because if I get it wrong she'll come back to haunt me. |
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The 16th United States Census (1940) (click on image to enlarge) .
Billups family members living in Elmore, Alabama. Those days, the primary occupations were farmer and preacher; some chose both. For the most part, African Americans in the South were "discouraged" from voting in local elections. . Apparently, preaching paid better than farming. My grandmother (my father's mother) was Fannie Lee and my grandfather was Jim and, from what I heard, they both preached, so there must have been a lot of proclaiming going on in that house.
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. . . Mid 1800s - 1960s...
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 My great-great-grandfather Moses Billups (1841-1914) . I don't know much about Moses other than, according to records, he was born into slavery in Virginia and, somehow, wound up in Elmore, Alabama. I read he was married twice and he fathered twenty-two (yes, twenty-two) children; which, would have made the children slaves too. Slavers measured their wealth in slaves so, he was probably forced into "breeding" because importing slaves into the United States was illegal since 1808. . Until just after the Civil War (Reconstruction 1865-1877) it was illegal to educate former slaves, or free African Americans, in Southern states. I'm unaware of the extent to which Moses was self-taught, or formally educated, but to have survived in the oppressive conditions of the American South is quite an accomplishment.
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Late 1940's - 1950's... . .
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| The original road warrior - Grandma Fannie Lee . After a brief residence in Birmingham (AL), sometime around 1948, my grandmother (Fannie Lee) and grandfather (Jim) parted ways. I was told my father looked on sadly as his own father left the family home for the last time; he lingered outside and watched until his father's horse drawn carriage disappeared into the distance. . Due to the loss of income in the household the situation for the family became dire; those days, the odds of a woman landing a job that paid a livable wage, especially, a colored one living under Alabama Jim Crow, were nil and, in the hostile Southern environment, the prospects for the children receiving a proper education were dismal. Faced with difficult choices, Grandma decided to get out of Dixie while the getting was good; she and her four children embarked on an 1,100 mile journey northeast to Springfield, in Western Massachusetts, with hopes of making a better life. |
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| Destination Springfield Western Massachusetts was no day at the beach for people of color in the late 1940's but, compared to Alabama, it was the Promised Land. |
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| The new homestead 97 Ashley Street - Springfield, Massachusetts |
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| The classic tale My father walking to school "uphill in a blizzard" somewhere in the "Springfield Alps." He told me his homeward journey was uphill too. |
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| Technical High School - Springfield, Mass My father was a member of the class of 57' |
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| My father on the podium at a weightlifting tournament (1958) At some point during high school he became a nationally ranked AAU Olympic weightlifter. He told me he considered playing football in high school but something about the situation there caused him to try weightlifting instead. |
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| I apologize for all the old weightlifting photos but my father would have wanted it this way |
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| Aaron Billups (Late 1950's) |
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| My father's college graduation write-up (circa 1961) from the local Springfield (MA) newspaper |
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| Aaron Billups (1961) My father attended Hampton Institute (61') in Virginia and went on to get his MBA from Drexel University in Philadelphia (PA) .He wanted to follow in his older sister Dorothy's footsteps; she chose to go to Hampton Institute so he did too .. .  My aunt attended Hampton Institute (59') and received her MBA from Fairleigh Dickinson (NJ) Of the many conversations I had with her one tidbit of advice she gave me many years ago stands out: . "When you share your food it tastes better" |
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| Aaron Billups - sophomore year (1959) attending his sister Dorothy's graduation ceremony @Hampton Institute |
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.A strong will...
one of many untold stories
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| Rosetta Brown (circa 1945) |
My mother's biological father embarked for the war in Europe in early 1942 shortly after she was conceived. During both world wars the Virginia Peninsula had been a major staging area and port of embarkation for troops and war material on the East Coast of the United States. My mother's father was temporarily barracked in Newport News when he met my future grandmother. Back then, off-duty soldiers often frequented the Washington Avenue area, adjacent to the shipyard; which, was, literally, right across the tracks from my young grandmother's neighborhood. After a brief courtship with young Estelle the soldier boarded a troop transport bound for the far side of the Atlantic and was never heard from again.
.Based on the timing of the deployment, my mother's father was more than likely part of a major troop build-up in French North Africa for Operation Torch where he'd, literally, serve a country that didn't honor his rights as a citizen; t'was the American way those days. Nonetheless, like most African Americans eager to prove their allegiance, he did his bit, perhaps, even paying the ultimate price; or, maybe he'd found foreign environs preferable to living under racial segregation in the US and elected to remain overseas. In any event, henceforth, my unborn mother faced the prospect of entering this world in segregated,1940's, Virginia and being raised by a 16-year old girl. That kind of situation, though difficult, was not uncommon due to the surrounding circumstances.
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| My mother, Rosetta C. Brown (circa 1961) Hampton Institute - Hampton, Virginia |
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| Early 1940's Newport News, Virginia A wartime hub for troop transportation, shipbuilding, & war material |
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| The Virginia Peninsula Many of the ships carrying troops and war supplies bound for the European theater departed from Newport News. My mother grew up in the southernmost part of the city. |
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| Hampton Roads Port of Embarkation - Newport News, Virginia (1942) Shortly after its activation in 1942 the port was responsible for combat loading the Western Task Force of the North African invasion. |
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| American troops departing for Europe - Newport News, Virginia (1942) Everything was racially segregated those days. |
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| Newport News Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Company (1943) The aircraft carrier USS Hornet (CV -12) launching into the James River. Still, the only shipyard in the United States equipped to build aircraft carriers. My mother's neighborhood sat downwind less than a mile away. . |
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"The bottom"...
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| Rosetta Brown - Early 1950's |
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On September 12th, 1942, Rosetta Brown came into this world in a predicament. Like all newborns, she was a blank slate with human characteristics and the circumstances around her were beyond her control. Her own young mother was unable to raise her so, from a very young age, she had to find her own way in segregated, 1940's, Virginia, in a part of town referred to locally as "the bottom" so that's where she started.
.Until her early teens, Rosetta endured the emotional roller coaster of being shuffled between numerous foster homes before finding a permanent place in the hearts of, local couple, Anne and Bill Gregory. The Gregory's welcomed the beleaguered young teen into their lives and raised her as their own; the care and nurturing they provided Rosetta added much needed stability to her life. Having secured a stable living environment, Rosetta prospered academically.
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Rosetta's foster parents, Anne and Bill Gregory
(Standing far left and far right) My mother is seated in front on the right
Hampton, Virginia - Late 1950's
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Ultimately, Rosetta graduated from Newport News' Huntington High School in 1960, with honors, earning herself a scholarship to Hampton Institute in the process; it was quite an achievement after such an inauspicious start in life but she did receive some support. She leaned on those closest to her, many of whom who'd come from similarly difficult circumstances, among them, her foster sisters Dot (Dorothy) and Mary, who my brothers and I have long considered as family. Assorted well-meaning folks in the community also contributed; a local attorney paid for my mother's college admission fees and, for a short time, she lived with the college Chaplain's family on Hampton's campus.
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| Aunt Mary & her son Brad (2019) |
My mother's, seemingly, fairytale story culminated with her graduating from Hampton Institute, third in her class, as a Mathematics major minoring in French; she met my father (Aaron Billups Senior) her freshman year at Hampton when he was a junior. For their first date they attended a cookout at Huntington Park in nearby Newport News; they were married a couple of years after my father's graduation. After I was born, we moved to Kansas briefly where my mother received her Master's in Mathematics at Kansas State University while my father was stationed at nearby Fort Riley.
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The unremembered...
early 1960's
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My parents at Hampton Institute (Circa 1961) |
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My father & Reno (1964) |
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My mother and I - Fort Riley (1964) |
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Child abuse (1964)
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She was a gentle soul and lived with us for much of her adult life. I recall during the winters she always turned the central heat thermostat up to150 degrees. I myself preferred a less hellish temperature. For many years we battled
for control of the thermostat.
She was a Virginia native.
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The saga continues....
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Made in Japan
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1967 the beginning of awareness...
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Aaron Billups Junior (Circa 1967)
Made in USA
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The first place can I remember living is Media; a quiet Philadelphia suburb where it seemed there were more evergreens than people. To this day, whenever I see an evergreen tree I think of Media. My younger brother Alan, AKA "the immobile one," was still in the crawling and drooling stage so I always left him at home. There was one other kid near my age who lived around the corner but he rarely came outdoors. As a result, I wandered my neighborhood alone; which, was cool because I could just follow my own instincts. I still prefer to explore alone.
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| "The immobile one," AKA, my younger brother Alan suddenly appeared in 1967 |
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| The power of tennis shoes For as long as I can remember I've had a thing for tennis shoes; something about their purposeful designs inspired me. As a kid, I'd clean them every night anxious for the next day to come so I could put them on again and go outdoors. Somehow, I'd come to equate tennis shoe ownership with an obligation to go outside and put them to good use. To this day, I clean my shoes at night. |
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The omen...
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| Riddlewood Drive - Media, PA My family used to live in the house on the left (1966-1968). There was a creek running through the woods just beyond our backyard. Many years later, and everything looks exactly the same; no people, or children to be seen anywhere. |
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The extra range capability the bicycle provided allowed me my first opportunity to be around real cars. Apparently, whatever makes adults lust for fast cars also affects kids; I was attracted to muscle cars in particular. Whenever I saw one being worked on in a neighbor's garage, or driveway, I'd stop whatever I was doing, and go straight to the action. Because I was four years old formal introductions weren't necessary.
The extra range capability the bicycle provided allowed me my first opportunity to be around real cars. Apparently, whatever makes adults lust for fast cars also affects kids; I was attracted to muscle cars in particular. Whenever I saw one being worked on in a neighbor's garage, or driveway, I'd stop whatever I was doing, and go straight to the action. Because I was four years old formal introductions weren't necessary.
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It was right around this juncture my parents went separate ways. I don't recall my brother or I being particularly affected; although, we were probably too young to realize the difference. After the split, my father would often pick us up on weekends, when, without fail, he'd cook scrambled eggs and cheese for us, no matter what time of day it was. My brother and I always looked forward to these outings.
One weekend, my father pulled up to our house in a shiny new car that quickly got my attention; it was a 1967 Plymouth Fury III. At 4-years old, I knew nothing about cars but my father popped the hood and showed off his engine anyway; then, he started it and revved it over and over again. I was confused. That was my father; engine revver and explainer of all things worldly and significant. Afterwards, he segued into how Plymouth Rock (Massachusetts) had been one of the first places European settlers landed in North America. I remember wondering to myself, why anyone would name a car company after a rock?
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| 1967 Plymouth Fury III |
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Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts (1620) |
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| Me, my father, and "the immobile one" (1968) |
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Whenever I was out wandering the neighborhood and heard the telltale whooping of an approaching Chinook I’d sprint to the nearest residence, no matter who's it was; the home's occupants would look out the window and I'd be there cowering on the front porch. I'd do anything to escape Santa's angry, roving, eye.
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Vengeance from above…
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I still remember the loud noise the CH-47 Chinooks made when they flew low over my neighborhood; the whooping sound the rotors made terrified me. Somehow, I'd concluded Santa Clause was at the controls and he was searching for me because of something I'd done; it was the classic manifestation of a guilty conscience. I envisioned an, increasingly, angry Santa, clad in his red suit with a headset, scanning my neighborhood streets with air to surface radar. Though still quite young, I'd never bought into the Santa and the flying reindeer legend; it didn't make sense. Santa had too much ground to cover to rely on primitive methods. Misbehaving kids worldwide had to be dealt with quickly and efficiently.
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| Putting the spotlight on misbehaving kids worldwide |
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| I ran for cover whenever I heard a Chinook approaching |
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| Santa was a skilled pilot |
Whenever I was out wandering the neighborhood and heard the telltale whooping of an approaching Chinook I’d sprint to the nearest residence, no matter who's it was; the home's occupants would look out the window and I'd be there cowering on the front porch. I'd do anything to escape Santa's angry, roving, eye.
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I have no recollection of how I came to think Santa Clause was out to get me in a huge twin rotor helicopter. My mother worked at Boeing Vertol over near the Philadelphia airport at that time so I imagine that had something to do with it. Perhaps, she'd concocted the angry Santa tale to scare me into better behavior. Those days, I had similar phobias of bulldozers and steam rollers. For many years I thought Santa was a vigilante disciplinarian.
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| "Behave or the machinery will be used against you" |
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Hell on wheels…
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| . "Thou shalt accelerate" |
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In the late 60's my father would, occasionally, drive my younger brother and I up to
Springfield, Massachusetts, to visit his mother. Grandma wasn't your
typical teetering old churchgoer; she was a larger than life, full blown, Baptist Deacon. There was nothing frail about her; she outweighed my father by twenty pounds and was built like a grand piano. Grandma was from the old school when no nonsense discipline often came in the form of a swift uppercut, or a right cross. Some time ago she worked at the local Smith & Wesson plant in Springfield assembling guns. Fittingly, she drove a mid-60’s Cadillac with wings on the back
that gave it a rocket-like appearance.
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I remember a childhood visit to Springfield when Grandma took my younger brother and I on a trip to the grocery store; it was our first time going anywhere with her alone and I was intimidated because she'd had a reputation for being heavy handed with young-ins. True to form, Grandma tossed my brother and I into the back of her monstrous Cadillac without buckling us in. The sheer scale of the vehicle was intimidating; the interior was huge and the ceiling was high as a church cathedral. Grandma turned the ignition key and the big V8 rumbled to life.
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From where I stood on the back seat, the Cadillac's hood seemed to run to the horizon. Wedged into the narrow confines of the driveway the huge four door sedan seemed more battleship than car; all the buildup associated with this jaunt to the supermarket was beginning to make my brother and I nervous. Grandma wore a pink dress with a lace trimmed hat but I thought it was a little odd when she slipped on leather driving gloves.
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I remember a childhood visit to Springfield when Grandma took my younger brother and I on a trip to the grocery store; it was our first time going anywhere with her alone and I was intimidated because she'd had a reputation for being heavy handed with young-ins. True to form, Grandma tossed my brother and I into the back of her monstrous Cadillac without buckling us in. The sheer scale of the vehicle was intimidating; the interior was huge and the ceiling was high as a church cathedral. Grandma turned the ignition key and the big V8 rumbled to life.
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From where I stood on the back seat, the Cadillac's hood seemed to run to the horizon. Wedged into the narrow confines of the driveway the huge four door sedan seemed more battleship than car; all the buildup associated with this jaunt to the supermarket was beginning to make my brother and I nervous. Grandma wore a pink dress with a lace trimmed hat but I thought it was a little odd when she slipped on leather driving gloves.
With the engine warmed Grandma gingerly put the two and a half ton steel behemoth into reverse and maneuvered it into the street. Suddenly, the sky went dark and a flock of ravens boiled from the surrounding trees. The neighbors hurriedly ushered their children indoors and drew the curtains in anticipation of impending launch. What ensued can best be described as
an Apollo One, slash “E ticket" ride like, experience combining blistering straight-line acceleration with Formula One braking.
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Before the Millennium Falcon there was this...
It had two modes; brutal acceleration and stop
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With the big Cadillac pointed in the general direction she wanted to go, Grandma stomped the accelerator with her church boot and the scenery around us, instantly, became a blur. As the Cadillac leapt forward the tremendous torque slammed my brother
and I against the backseat. At four years of age, I'd never experienced torque; I remember feeling a strange, heavy, sensation within my body, as if I had to pee. Then, as the speedometer swept upward past eighty five miles per hour, the veil on Grandma's church hat started to vibrate. I pondered the brevity of life as we shot between rows of trees and parked cars lining the narrow street. Never in my four year existence had I experienced such savage acceleration; sensing my eminent demise, my soul left me.
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| My grandma on her way to church |
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For what seemed an eternity my brother and I remain pinned against the backseat, helpless, in wide eyed terror; then, Grandma spotted a red light in the distance and it was everything in reverse. She lifted her church boot from the throttle and stomped the brake causing my brother and I to fly into the front bench seat like a couple of crash test dummies.
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For what seemed an eternity my brother and I remain pinned against the backseat, helpless, in wide eyed terror; then, Grandma spotted a red light in the distance and it was everything in reverse. She lifted her church boot from the throttle and stomped the brake causing my brother and I to fly into the front bench seat like a couple of crash test dummies.
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There was a brief reprieve as we sat there at the stop light, hearts racing, upside down and in early stage shock. My brother and I exchanged amused glances; then came the encore. The signal turned green, Grandma floored it, and we were hurled back against the seat again; the entire ride she never looked back. Apparently, Grandma's doctrine was to just out
run everything; the very tactic perfected by SR 71 spy planes during the Cold War. Law enforcement would of needed MiG 25 Foxbat's to have any hope of catching her. I've yet, since, to witness such command of raw power on an urban thoroughfare. Some years later, my dear grandmother would set a new American record for shortest travel time by land between Philadelphia and Boston.
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 alias Grandma "D" (photo date unknown) Respected or feared by most; she was definitely from the old school . |
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Miscellaneous...
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Left to right - Myself, "the immobile one," and our father (Late 1960's)
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania |
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Watching High School football (Early
1970's)
My brother (standing front), my cousins, and myself (seated
in background wearing hood)
Montclair HS - Montclair, New Jersey |
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The Franklin Institute - Philadelphia, PA
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| My father often brought my brother and I here. Sun Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Company Chester, Pennsylvania |
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| The renowned ice breaker S.S. Manhattan modified by Sun Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Company in Chester, PA. We were fans. |
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The Chester (PA) ferry terminal to New Jersey
I looked forward to the ferry more than I did the destination. The ferry service stopped in 1974 right after the Commodore Barry Bridge (left) was completed.
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1960's stuff...
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The 1960s' was a turbulent decade in the United States. Vietnam, Women's Lib, and the Civil Rights movement were on the national forefront; it was a period when older ways of thinking clashed openly with newer ones. Some of the aggrieved voiced their concerns peacefully while others took up arms; people were burning bras, flags, and even cities. Yes, it was the sixties' and there seemed to be a cause for everyone; although, for some, their very survival was at stake so their cause chose them.
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Though by no means radical, my father experimented with different methods and approaches to making his own contribution to the greater good; he shared some of this with my younger brother and I. He made sure we were present when Doctor Martin Luther King passed through Chester (PA) on the train. I had no idea who that man waving from the train was; I assumed he was important because of the train.
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Though by no means radical, my father experimented with different methods and approaches to making his own contribution to the greater good; he shared some of this with my younger brother and I. He made sure we were present when Doctor Martin Luther King passed through Chester (PA) on the train. I had no idea who that man waving from the train was; I assumed he was important because of the train.
I recall my father taking my younger brother and I to some kind of meeting in Philadelphia right before our mother moved us out to the West Coast; everyone there had a big Afro and the atmosphere seemed heavy. Many of those present were wearing dashikis and calling one another "brother," or "sister," and there was a flag on the wall bearing a clenched fist. I was 4-years old at the time so I had no idea what was going on. Everyone was just standing around talking and nobody smiled much. Somehow, I was inspired to grow a bigger Afro.
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| My father, Aaron Billups (1974) Fujinomiya, Japan |
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| Fujinomiya, Japan (2016) This photo was taken by my brother Alan |
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| My father's final resting place (2016) Fujinomiya, Japan |
My parents were born in the American South in the era of Jim Crow. My mother grew up in Newport News, Virginia, and my father spent his early years in Elmore, Alabama, before moving up to Springfield, Massachusetts, at a young age. As my parents came of age they gravitated north, and west, in search of a better life, as many had, and they took their lumps as they adjusted to new circumstances in new places. Many years later, I'd discover my parent's migration was a common one in their day.
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Spare the "switch," spoil the child...
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Spare the "switch," spoil the child...
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| A tree full of weapons |
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Newport News, VA (1968) I was 4-years old the first time I visited my mother's hometown in Southeastern Virginia. When I arrived, as usual, I was drawn to the natural environment and mechanical things. Because I was, somewhat, reserved and set in my ways, I experienced a bit of culture shock so I spent most of my time in Virginia playing in the woods with my newfound cousins. I was still young so I had no sense of the significance of setting foot on a parent's home soil for the first time. I didn't know, the majority of African Americans living throughout the US had migrated from Southern states. At that young age, I knew nothing; although, I could sense subtle differences in my surroundings.
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Prior to visiting Virginia my brother and I lived in the metropolitan Northeast and had never set foot in the South so, naturally, when we first arrived we saw everything from a youthful perspective; our observations probably wouldn't align with those of a grown-up. Kids typically see things as they are, in raw and unvarnished form. I'd noted some of our relatives seemed to go by two first names (a uniquely Southern phenomenon) and aside from the barbecue, the pies, and macaroni and cheese, much of the food we were served was foreign to us; and the athletic ceremony with which kids were disciplined seemed quite theatrical.
Prior to visiting Virginia my brother and I lived in the metropolitan Northeast and had never set foot in the South so, naturally, when we first arrived we saw everything from a youthful perspective; our observations probably wouldn't align with those of a grown-up. Kids typically see things as they are, in raw and unvarnished form. I'd noted some of our relatives seemed to go by two first names (a uniquely Southern phenomenon) and aside from the barbecue, the pies, and macaroni and cheese, much of the food we were served was foreign to us; and the athletic ceremony with which kids were disciplined seemed quite theatrical.
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were other, more subtle, details I'd noted; one of my aunts sported a mustache and there was at least one drunk uncle at every family gathering. My brother, years later albeit, referred to the recurring pickled uncle character as “Uncle Bourbon.” Looking back, I now realize kids fleeing discipline, bearded aunts, and tipsy relatives are all signs of a lively, thriving, family.
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I can recall a time when my mother sent my brother and I down to Newport News, Virginia, for a week or so just before moving us out to the West Coast. We were staying with a local family when the woman of the house, who I didn't know at the time, served us pig feet for dinner. There was nothing else before us; just a large pig foot on a plate and a glass of water. At 4-years old, I'd never faced a cloven animal appendage on a plate before. To date, the most exotic dish I'd ever eaten was Chef Boyardee ravioli. I looked
around the table and the host mother's kids, all of whom older than my brother and I, had begun disassembling their pig feet in a bare handed manner. My younger brother, at nearly 2-years of age, quickly read the situation and started to run a stall tactic where a young child fidgets with unwanted food until the adult server becomes frustrated, gives up, and throws it all away.
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Everything going on at the table appeared routine; bones were being stripped, grease was everywhere, and not a word was spoken. Someone cracked open a new bottle of hot sauce and a cheer erupted from around the room. Our hosts dined on their pig feet with gusto, all the while, smirking at my brother and I's reticence. When the hosts finished their feast the only thing left was gristle and hoofs; my brother and I's pig feet remain perfectly untouched. Fear is a funny thing; after the host mother threatened to serve us pig feet for every subsequent meal we started nibbling above the hoof. When our mother returned to retrieve my brother and I she noticed we'd lost some weight.
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| A cruel and unusual menu |
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Everything going on at the table appeared routine; bones were being stripped, grease was everywhere, and not a word was spoken. Someone cracked open a new bottle of hot sauce and a cheer erupted from around the room. Our hosts dined on their pig feet with gusto, all the while, smirking at my brother and I's reticence. When the hosts finished their feast the only thing left was gristle and hoofs; my brother and I's pig feet remain perfectly untouched. Fear is a funny thing; after the host mother threatened to serve us pig feet for every subsequent meal we started nibbling above the hoof. When our mother returned to retrieve my brother and I she noticed we'd lost some weight.
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.Old school discipline. |
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During the same stay in Virginia I remember witnessing the host mother, disciplining a teenaged boy. I don't recall what the kid's violation was; although, more than likely, it was some trumped up charges of unfinished chores. After heatedly scolding the boy the host mother ordered him into the backyard to pick a
"switch" off of a tree so she could "whup" him with it. I was stunned. I’d
been spanked numerous times myself but it had always been an indoor affair and there'd never been any talk of weaponry beyond a leather belt, or a school principal's paddle. Even at my young age, I knew it was cruel to force a kid to choose the method of their own execution.
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As the doomed boy went about
his dreadful task the executioner started to warm up her swinging arm on the porch; I moved away to a safer distance so I could observe the proceedings. Minutes later, the boy submitted his handpicked weapon for inspection. The woman's
demeanor was cold and business-like as she slashed the switch back and forth through the air to test for the right combination of flex and stiffness. Moments later, the time had come for the inevitable and boy's pleas for clemency fell on
deaf ears.
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When the woman finished her warm up a brief silence ensued; then, as if a cheetah had just spotted a gazelle, she seized the boy's arm and started slashing her switch at his "hind parts." As she struggled to hold the boy and maneuver her weapon in close quarters she roared: "I brought you into this world and I'll take you out of it." The rhythm of her taunts matched her moves and her switch whistled as it cut the air. The boy was quick as a mongoose and, somehow, managed to avoid the majority of her blows. I was taken aback because it was the first time I'd ever seen the elements of evasion and trash talking incorporated into a spanking; although, I admit being impressed with the boy's strategy of hollering though no contact was made and vowed to add the same tactic to my own defensive arsenal.
When the woman finished her warm up a brief silence ensued; then, as if a cheetah had just spotted a gazelle, she seized the boy's arm and started slashing her switch at his "hind parts." As she struggled to hold the boy and maneuver her weapon in close quarters she roared: "I brought you into this world and I'll take you out of it." The rhythm of her taunts matched her moves and her switch whistled as it cut the air. The boy was quick as a mongoose and, somehow, managed to avoid the majority of her blows. I was taken aback because it was the first time I'd ever seen the elements of evasion and trash talking incorporated into a spanking; although, I admit being impressed with the boy's strategy of hollering though no contact was made and vowed to add the same tactic to my own defensive arsenal.
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As the woman's blows began to connect the power and aggression on display caused me to fear for my own welfare; that's when I realized the potential for an escalation. Fearing I may be next, I hid behind a bush. Meanwhile, the frantic boy continued to run around the backyard, juking and yelling whenever the woman even took a swing at him; this trivial pursuit continued for five minutes, or so. Finally, winded and under the illusion her discipline had been thoroughly administered, the woman holstered her switch and went back in the house. I'd
never seen anything like it; Southern discipline was hard core.
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Witnessed from the front row...
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(1968) After five years of marriage my parents went separate ways and mom didn't miss a beat; she packed my brother and I into her Mercury Cougar and embarked on a three day journey from Media (PA) to Los Angeles to start over anew; we'd made it just past Pittsburgh when her engine died. Not to worry; she summoned a sorority girlfriend from college to retrieve my brother and I and accompany us on a flight to Los Angeles where our Aunt Fannie would be waiting for us. My mother stayed behind in Pittsburgh and took care of the car problem; it turned out, the engine was beyond repair so she purchased a new 69' Barracuda anddrove raced it 2,400 miles to Los Angeles by herself. Years later, I'd draw on this memory whenever I was about to make a major change in my life.
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When my mother arrived in Los Angeles she established a new homestead; over the next thirteen years she would work either as a Logistics Engineer in the aerospace industry, or as a college math teacher. At some point, she met "stepfather 1.0," and shortly afterwards, there was a brand new little brother in our household. A few years later, in what would prove to be a trend, stepfather 1.0 was shown the door. All throughout my junior high years my mother's van would serve as the neighborhood adventure shuttle often ferrying my brothers and I, along with a van load of our buddies, up to the nearby mountains so we could all experience camping outdoors; we, young knuckleheads, slept outdoors around a campfire while my mother slept in her van.
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| The sequel: Road Warrior II, Mom heads west |
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(1968) After five years of marriage my parents went separate ways and mom didn't miss a beat; she packed my brother and I into her Mercury Cougar and embarked on a three day journey from Media (PA) to Los Angeles to start over anew; we'd made it just past Pittsburgh when her engine died. Not to worry; she summoned a sorority girlfriend from college to retrieve my brother and I and accompany us on a flight to Los Angeles where our Aunt Fannie would be waiting for us. My mother stayed behind in Pittsburgh and took care of the car problem; it turned out, the engine was beyond repair so she purchased a new 69' Barracuda and
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| West bound (1968) |
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When my mother arrived in Los Angeles she established a new homestead; over the next thirteen years she would work either as a Logistics Engineer in the aerospace industry, or as a college math teacher. At some point, she met "stepfather 1.0," and shortly afterwards, there was a brand new little brother in our household. A few years later, in what would prove to be a trend, stepfather 1.0 was shown the door. All throughout my junior high years my mother's van would serve as the neighborhood adventure shuttle often ferrying my brothers and I, along with a van load of our buddies, up to the nearby mountains so we could all experience camping outdoors; we, young knuckleheads, slept outdoors around a campfire while my mother slept in her van.
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(Fast forward) June 1981 - The very next day after my high school graduation ceremony my mother, at the behest of recently acquired "new dad 2.0," stuffed all of our belongings into a rented U-Haul truck and set out for the East Coast; I, grudgingly, followed them in the family van with my younger brothers and our pets. Our destination was my mother's hometown, the Virginia Peninsula; being mostly West Coast raised, I wanted no part of what I perceived as Southern life. Immediately, upon arrival in Virginia I fled north in search of education, only to return one year later, somewhat, enlightened. Upon arriving in Virginia (the second time) I was unsurprised to discover my mother had rid herself of new dad 2.0 and was teaching math at her alma mater Hampton Institute. After finally leaving the teaching profession for the last time in 1986, my mother founded her own research and engineering firm, REMSA, Incorporated.
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In the midst of all her continental crisscrossing, and stepfather kick to the curbing, my mother raised my brothers and I, mostly alone, and repeatedly kicked us in the pants until we all finished college. Throughout much of her adult life, my mother kept a spare room in our home for young folks struggling through difficult circumstances and she took care of her own mother (Estelle) until it was no longer possible. To this day, my mother inspires me with her approach to life; though, by no means perfect, the only direction she seemed to know to move was forward. I'd like to add, though my mother wasn't always the most nuanced person in the world, her pugilistic skills were beyond reproach.
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(Fast forward) June 1981 - The very next day after my high school graduation ceremony my mother, at the behest of recently acquired "new dad 2.0," stuffed all of our belongings into a rented U-Haul truck and set out for the East Coast; I, grudgingly, followed them in the family van with my younger brothers and our pets. Our destination was my mother's hometown, the Virginia Peninsula; being mostly West Coast raised, I wanted no part of what I perceived as Southern life. Immediately, upon arrival in Virginia I fled north in search of education, only to return one year later, somewhat, enlightened. Upon arriving in Virginia (the second time) I was unsurprised to discover my mother had rid herself of new dad 2.0 and was teaching math at her alma mater Hampton Institute. After finally leaving the teaching profession for the last time in 1986, my mother founded her own research and engineering firm, REMSA, Incorporated.
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In the midst of all her continental crisscrossing, and stepfather kick to the curbing, my mother raised my brothers and I, mostly alone, and repeatedly kicked us in the pants until we all finished college. Throughout much of her adult life, my mother kept a spare room in our home for young folks struggling through difficult circumstances and she took care of her own mother (Estelle) until it was no longer possible. To this day, my mother inspires me with her approach to life; though, by no means perfect, the only direction she seemed to know to move was forward. I'd like to add, though my mother wasn't always the most nuanced person in the world, her pugilistic skills were beyond reproach.
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 My mother would move across the country at the drop of a hat |
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| Early 1970's |
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| A local newspaper write-up about my mother's company, REMSA, Inc. Hampton (VA) Daily Press (May 30, 1999) |
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| REMSA, Inc. - Hampton, VA (circa 2004) Home office staff My late mother, Rosetta C. Billups, (seated in middle) founded REMSA in 1986 at the age of forty-four. She built the company from scratch and, though she had numerous professionals on her staff, for the most part, ran the whole show herself, learning many lessons along the way. . My mother had tremendous drive and, though technically astute, was notorious for giving key staff too long of a leash; although, to her credit, the buck always stopped with her and, though set in her ways, she always managed to figure things out. Her company was headquartered on West Queen Street near downtown Hampton Square, the very same place where, in the early 1960's, she and her fellow Hampton Institute students were prohibited from sitting at the local Woolworths lunch counter. At the time of her passing she'd been in business for over twenty seven years and had seventy or so technical and professional staff on her payroll scattered around the country and she owned the building on West Queen Street. |
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| REMSA's home office on West Queen Street in Hampton, Virginia |
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| My mother feeding her new friends on Miyajima Island Hiroshima, Japan (circa 2004) |
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| My mother's final resting place Hampton, Virginia |
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Fog in airports...
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My memories of the late 1960's through the early 1970's are kind of foggy; sometime, in 1968 my mother moved my brother and I from Pennsylvania out to Southern California and our father remained in the Philadelphia area. Soon thereafter, my brother and I became veterans of transcontinental travel flying, by ourselves, between Los Angeles and Philadelphia during seasonal holidays. We became familiar with the major carriers and, for some odd reason, preferred TWA.
My brother and I's long running sibling rivalry manifested even while flying; we squabbled over who got to sit by the window because we both craved the G-force of acceleration combined with the visual sensation of lift-off. We continued to fight over the window seat well into our early thirties; as middle aged adults, we ended up sitting in separate rows to solve the problem.
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| Back and forth |
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| My brother and I at the airport (1996) |
Unsolved mysteries...
Philadelphia, PA (1968) - One particular weekend my younger brother and I accompanied our father to some kind of martial arts dojo in Philadelphia where we were led on a tour. I remember there were multiple rooms in which groups of men were going through assorted martial arts routines wearing gi's and shouting; it was like the scene from Enter the Dragon when the martial artists toured the villain's island. I was young so I hadn't developed the acumen to fully understand where I was, or what I was seeing. Perhaps visiting a martial arts dojo with a parent at a young age is normal; although, looking back, I now realize why my father, then in his early thirties, had a dental bridge in place of his missing front teeth.
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The sought after skills
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In the early 1970's my younger brother and I took Tae kwon do lessons during a summer stay in Philadelphia; I'm pretty sure taking Karate lessons wasn't our idea. Personally, I'd found the discipline and memorization of precise movements boring; I also disliked being barefoot.
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| Sibling rivalry - Philadelphia, PA (1974) |
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At the conclusion of our summer karate lessons my brother and I had to spar against one another to earn our belts. As a rival sibling I always looked forward to pummeling my younger brother. I kicked him at will throughout the bout: a roundhouse to the dome, a heel to the chest, and a leg sweep that put him on his back. Despite the offensive clinic, our father had secretly rigged the contest so the human kicking bag was declared the winner. That was my father; always the diplomat. Upon returning to the West Coast, my father encouraged my brother and I to join Chuck Norris’ dojo in Long Beach (CA); we didn't. This all happened during the martial arts boom in the early 1970's. Those days, everybody wanted to be like Bruce Lee.
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The pilot...
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It was the early 1970's, in a Los Angeles Airport restaurant lounge, I crossed paths with a pilot. I remember my stepfather telling me the man sitting behind me was famous. As a worshiper of aircraft, I felt anyone that could fly one was a hero. I turned around in my chair, looked at the man and drew a blank; he looked down at me from his barstool and grinned. Since I rarely watched television I had no idea who that gentleman was. We were in an airport and the man had on a suit so I assumed he was a pilot.
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Later, that same day, while riding in a San Francisco taxi, I saw that same pilot on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
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...A childhood spent in fog.
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