Chapter 8 Trailways to DC

Note to Reader: Please join be in Chapters 6 to 20 as we go back in time to read and study the life and story of Sonny Williams (The owner of the little Cape Cod style house on Lebaum Street).

Sarah could not remember exactly how she made it. She was stumbling along a main road, weighted down by her heavy bag with Sonny in her arms, shivering in the stinging cold rain. Would a Trailways bus come her way? She knew she didn’t have to go to a bus terminal like for a Greyhound bus.  Anyhow, the Greyhound was not permitted -- the more comfortable, convenient ride was only for whites. She was tired of being forced to give up her seat to white riders and stand by until seats became available at the back of the bus.

 The blacks had to make do with the Trailways which had no specific stops, halted wherever and whenever, picking up passengers near gas stations and by the wayside, jamming them packed, making each seat count 

Forty minutes later she sat at the end of a crowded Trailways bus, embracing Sonny. She couldn’t help the tears that tumbled down her cheeks. What now?  The question rolled like the forest and foothills over and over in her mind.  She thought of her two sisters Edna and Angie who had made their lives in Washington DC.  She had grown apart from them for long years. Would they accept her now? Would they take her in and offer her sisterly love? If she were in their place, she would do it, but would they? There was little else to do but to throw herself at their mercy. Not for too long though, just until she found her feet over there and would be ready to run.

As it happened, her fears were needless. When she was reunited with her sisters and cried peacefully in their arms, they hugged her warmly and promised to be be by her side. For the first time since she married Leo, Sarah felt pampered and cared for as her sisters bought her clothes and fed her and Sonny nourishing, home-cooked meals.

 Sarah took a few days to adjust to her new life and to get her bearings straight. She walked the streets of DC trying to understand her environs, to gauge what type of job would be available for some one like her, hardworking but inexperienced.  She went for several walk-in interviews for store-hands. Somehow none of them worked out. They never called back, didn't even show a faint of interest. Sarah would not be discouraged, however. Something would work out somewhere, she thought determinedly. 

 (Photo Courtesy of Shoppy.com)

One evening in the midst of chatting, her sister Edna told her about a job at Wardman Park Hotel located in the upscale Woodley Park neighborhood on Connecticut Avenue in North West DC. The position was for an elevator operator and the recruiting officer seemed taken up with the plight of this soft-spoken, elegant young woman. She was hired on the spot, and so Sarah began working in the plush, elegant environs of this boutique-style hotel built in 1916, complete with glossy parquet flooring and gleaming French antiques. It brought her in contact with a world she had never before even had a chance to look at from the outside. 

 

From Wikipedia: "Harry Wardman"

A large portion of rowhouses in DC were built by Harry Wardman, in neighborhoods including Columbia Heights, Bloomingdale, Eckington and Brightwood. Wardman’s first houses, designed by architect Nicholas Grimm, included those located at the 900 block of Longfellow Street, NW. To this day, his homes are renowned for their high-quality construction and materials. In 1907, he embarked on a project to build 750 rowhouses in Columbia Heights, which included new design elements, most notably the front porch. However, most real estate agents and homeowners incorrectly assume that their house is a Wardman house simply based on its design; dozens of other developers such as Lewis Brueninger, Harry Kite, Francis Blundon, and David Dunigan built massive rows of townhouses in the District.

Apartments

Northumberland Apartments

The Chastleton

Wardman quickly rose through the ranks and began building luxury apartments — most which were designed by architect Albert H. Beers. His numerous apartment buildings, located along 16th Street, NW, Connecticut Avenue, Columbia Heights, and elsewhere, include:

• The Chastleton - 1701 16th Street, NW
• The Wardman - 1916 17th Street, NW
• The Dresden - 2126 Connecticut Avenue, NW
• The Maxwell - 1419 Clifton Street, NW
• Northumberland Apartments - 2039 New Hampshire Avenue, NW
• Rutland Court - 1725 17th Street, NW
• South Cathedral Mansions - 2900 Connecticut Avenue, NW
• Wardman Court (formerly, Clifton Terrace) - 1312 Clifton Street, NW
• Wardman Row - 1416-1440 R Street, NW
• Copley Plaza - 1514 17th Street, NW
• Cavanaugh Court - 1526 17th Street, NW
• Apartment Building at 2225 N Street

Hotels:   In 1916, he built the 1200-room Wardman Park Hotel (now the site of the Marriott Wardman Park Hotel and Conference Center) along Connecticut Avenue in Woodley Park. The hotel was successful, meeting the strong demand due to an influx of government workers after World War I. In 1984, the Wardman Tower, an apartment building located on the hotel site, was added to the National Register of Historic Places.^[1] In 1928, Wardman built the Hay-Adams Hotel, designed by Turkish architect, Mihran Mesrobian, and located across from Lafayette Park. Other landmarks built include the British Embassy.
During his career, Wardman had accumulated a fortune of $30 million and was living extravagantly in Washington and abroad. His prosperity vanished with the 1929 stock market crash, though he managed to continue building middle-class homes. Wardman died in 1938 from cancer and is buried in Rock Creek Cemetery.
     

The romantic splendor of affluent females in glittering, shimmering expensive dresses with escorts in smartly tailored obviously expensive suits became a common sight. The easy sophistication of the celebrities who breezed in and out to attend functions at the hotel almost took her breath away. It was all so novel to her. She watched with wonderment as beautiful young women in shimmering white bridal attire gazed at their bridegrooms with love-misted eyes. A sudden pain would twist in her heart as she watched their lips meet with joyous passion. Very often she would watch young couples in love, oblivious to the world around them, lost in their own sweet world of youthful love. 

Gay laughter and warm endearments twisted the knife further with a deep heartache and twinges of envy. She passionately desired the good life she saw around her, but none of it even brushed her life. She yearned so deeply for a love of her own and a blissful family life. Right now there was only the chirpy endearing warmth of Sonny to fill her hungry heart. She loved Sonny with all her might but her heart yearned for a different sort of love. Oh, to feel the throbbing passion of a lover’s kiss, to enjoy the pleasures of love she never had the chance to in her miserable marriage. One day, she promised herself fervently, one day………I will find my true love………

'30-'32: A Son is Born

Chapter 7: A Son is Born

Note to Reader: Please join me in Chapters 7 to 20 as we go back in time to read and enjoy the lessons and life story of Alphonso "Sonny Williams" (The previous owner and seller of the little Cape Cod style house on Lebaum Street).

Alphonso “Sonny” Williams saw the light of this world in a small town on Staten Island, New York, on a blustery winter’s morn in 1930. His mother used to tease him how his infant’s squeal matched the howl of the raw Atlantic winter wind that swept across Staten Island that day, churning the icy, grey waters of the Hudson River. Thick mists had wreathed the Outerbridge Crossing and Goethals Bridge connecting Staten Island with the mainland since 1928. As a little boy, Sonny remembers the Hudson River under more benign weather conditions, a calm, blue-grey stretch of water under sunny New York summer skies. Hazy memories of childhood include watching the orange and blue boats of the Staten Island Ferry fleet skim the waters, carrying thousands of people to and from the mainland while the awe-inspiring Manhattan skyline filled him with a desire to reach beyond his own little world.

On some nice weekends when the raspy wind wasn't blowing harsh and rude across the faces and sunlight shone warm and radiant all over the body, Sonny's mother, Sarah, would feel the urge to board the five-mile journey across the Hudson, scrounging the nickel-ferry fare for the two of them, so that they could wander and explore all around the dense city metropolis of lower Manhattan.

On one extended, summer weekend, when the sun sweltered and stayed, Sarah and Sonny caught the subway to Coney Island. She had never seen bikini-clad girls and muscle men in shorts walking and talking along a busy broadwalk. She had never buried her feet on a sandy beach, one that seemed to go on long and forever and wrapped in the ubiquitous warmth of the New York sunlight.

But these excursions into the city and to the beaches were memorable and rare. Sarah had a passion for homemaking and was the quintessential mother and wife, for someone who would appreciate having and loving one.

Whenever appetizing food aromas waft towards Sonny, he is reminded of his mother’s delicious cooking. The mouthwatering bread and pies she used to bake, the meat stews and roasts that filled the air with great aromas and sent him scuttling to her side for a bite of something, the heartening smell of sizzling bacon, in the early morn. However, Sonny’s memories of his childhood are tainted by the disharmony and violence he witnessed at home. His father, Leo Williams, was from the Virgin Islands, a tall, bulky man with a surly expression seemingly fixed on his face all the time. His fits of violence could never be anticipated. If a chair was slightly out of place or if one of Sonny’s toys were in his way, he would raise his voice to the high heavens and yell, making Sonny shiver in his shoes. He would grab at whatever he could and would start throwing them at his mother. He remembers how his mother crouched behind furniture as his father ranted and raved at perceived neglect of him. His angry eyes would seek her out and despite the tears pouring from her beseeching, helpless eyes, he would shake her violently, pull her hair till she screamed and then bang her against rough edges of furniture and on the wall. Bumps on the head and forehead, bleeding noses, split lips, bruised face and arms were a daily occurrence. Even in the innocence of childhood, he hated this man who hurt his mother so much. Despite all she did for him, waiting on him hand and foot all the time he was at home, he never had a kind word or a loving expression for her. She would slave away at trying to make him comfortable and at the most unexpected moment he would turn on her like a mad man. When Sonny was old enough to understand, his mother would tell him that her first marriage was her punishment for an indiscretion committed as a young girl. She got herself pregnant in 1928 when she was yet unmarried. Living among nine siblings, she delivered the baby who was then taken away by her mother to bring up because she did not have the wherewithal to do so. Sonny had reached adulthood when he learned that the person he had played with as a cousin was really his brother.

As a guileless three-year old, Sonny grew up quiet and timid, afraid to say and do things that would start his father yelling. Instinctively he knew the time his father came home. Before the wooden steps creaked and grumbled under Leo’s weight as he staggered up to the entrance, Sonny would clear up all his toys so his mother would not get a black eye. As young as Sonny was, he knew he had two different lives – the carefree, laughing child he was with his mother and the fearful, nervous one when his father was home.

Sonny remembers one terrible night when his father acted more violently than he had ever before. He tore the clothes off his mother’s back and pushed her out the back door into the icy blowing of a freezing winter’s night. Later, when he was old enough to understand his mother filled in the blanks in his memory. As she shivered in the dark night for hours before Leo finally allowed her in, Sarah made up her mind. No more of this, she thought fiercely, as she suppressed her sobs, trying valiantly to cover her nakedness with a rag she had in her hand. She was up even before dawn on that grim December day in 1933. As she lay awake during the long night, she had made her plans. Her head ached and her body had chilled in the freezing wind. Her limbs were sore with beatings. She could not tolerate another night under the same roof with her abusive husband. As she dragged herself to the kitchen to get breakfast going, she marveled at the way Leo could so conveniently forget all the devilish things he did. This morning, it was as if nothing had happened last night. Oh, how could he? As his raucous laughter jangled her nerves, she could hardly wait for him to be on his way to work. Finally, he was ready to leave. As he stomped down the wooden steps and got into his rattling jalopy, Sarah watched from the kitchen window, hardly daring to breathe. Would he have to come back in for anything? Would he decide to take a day off? The driver’s side door creaked shut, the engine spluttered and started up painfully, a squeal of tires, and then, he was gone. Her heart jumped with joyful relief and she sent a silent prayer up to heaven. Please, please, let him not come back till late evening. No time to squander, at any rate. She wiped her hands and got up on a chair to raid her scanty food supply. Some crackers and cheese for Sonny and some canned fish for lunch. She packed her can opener into a grocery bag with the food. She hurriedly got her small overnight bag from under her bed. She pulled her clothes out from her closet and urgently chose a few warm sweaters, two thick pants and some straggly underwear. She took a handful of Sonny’s winter clothes and thrust them all in her case, along with her meager toiletries and their toothbrushes. The next half-hour she spent getting herself and Sonny dressed while making anxious trips to the window for signs of her returning husband.

At nine o’clock in the midst of a freezing rain, Sarah decided it was safe to assume Leo was out of the house for the day. She hurriedly wrapped Sonny up in a thick quilt and slinging her overnight back on her shoulder, she stole out the back door, into their back yard, then out the gate in furtive, swift steps. Even as her heart tripped in relief at this unexpected end to a miserable existence, she was gripped with a sudden fear of the unknown. What would happen to her and her son now? She was like a ferry that had broken loose of its moorings. She was drifting along, being carried by the swirling current of fate to who knows where? As she lay sleepless last night, she had planned what to do. She would get to the bus terminal and buy a one-way ticket to Washington DC. She had enough money with her to buy her freedom in this form. A one-way ticket out of hell. A one-way ticket at the gateway to a new life for her son and herself.

Chapter 6 The Offer

In the safety and sterility of my truck as I rattled off down the road away from Anacostia and its troubles, my mind was buzzing with all the experiences of the past hours. The hodge-podge of events began to gradually settle themselves in a logical way in my thoughts. Somewhere halfway home, I clapped my hands on the steering wheel in fierce determination. Okay, my mind was made up. I knew what I had to do. No sooner than I returned home, I called my realtor and related the entire strange drama to him and my even stranger involvement in the future of this lost community. I sought his professional maneuvering to make an offer for the house, $5,000 below asking price. In other words, I would purchase it “as is” for $100,000.

As I spoke with my realtor from the cool of the balcony of my high-rise apartment, my eyes feasted on the Washington Monument in the background, with weekend crowds milling around restaurants and shops in Pentagon City. Two communities so close, yet so far. Was I going to be a catalyst for change? A harbinger of events to come?

My realtor delved into the history of Williams’ house and called me back. The house was actually in foreclosure, with Williams not having paid his mortgage for over seven months. The bank had already set in motion the process to repossess the house. What was more, the payoff was just a little below $100,000. For some strange reason, Williams had refinanced the loan a couple months back. It seemed such an unfair twist of fate, a bitter shame that they were losing the house. After forty years of struggle, after forty years of sweat and blood and reams of dreams, you would think that they would have something to show for it.

The next day came, Monday, and soon after my work day I met with Billy at the house. He had beside him a youthful, pleasantly plump-looking woman with, honey-brown eyes and thick hair captured in a tight braid. There seemed to be a substantial age gap between the two. I thought she looked closer to my age. She wore a police uniform and I could tell right away that she worked as a dispatcher for the DC Police. Billy laid his hand on her shoulder as I joined them. “Chito, I want you to meet Tina. Tina has the power of attorney. You deal with her from now on as the seller and for the settlement. Just deal with me for the repairs and renovation.”

“Nice to meet you, Tina.” Tina’s glowing eyes penetrated my gaze and held eyes contact for a long moment. She was trying to tell me something, I felt. Behind the casual friendliness I could see an urgency, a desperation, a plea for help, to get them out of the mess they were in. I felt a strange invitation being silently extended to me, to join as an ad hoc member of the house and to become part of their family. There was no racial division. It didn’t matter that I was Asian. As she held my gaze she knew she could trust me. She knew I would end up being their saviour in preserving their father’s house.

It was all gone in a moment, though. Tina grasped my hand and said, “Very nice to meet you. Where are you from?”

“I live in Virginia. Arlington to be exact.”

Tina’s five year old son, Daryl gripping his mother’s skirt, looked me up and down in silent, intense absorption.

Tina was suddenly all business-like. “So how much are you willing to offer for my father’s house?”

There were several offers on their house, I knew that by now - a couple of them over the asking price. Yet it seemed that she was more interested in the prospect of my involvement in their house. She seemed to be making a close assessment of me as a person.

“Not much over the asking price,” I replied. “But pretty close to it.”

I was trying to be cordial but I had to maintain a professional demeanor for the sake of the peculiar business transaction that seemed to be taking place. She gave me a hard look. Then her face broke into a warm grin and she gripped my hand in a firm, tenacious clasp. “You are in, that’s for sure.”

I thought I was dreaming. I had not really given a strong offer but it was obvious they had welcomed me into the family with open arms. This was really incredible. Almost against my will, I had got dragged into this family situation, and as much as I wanted to keep my distance, I knew I couldn’t. I was in it with them whether I liked it or not, the rapport and affinity I had felt from the start subtly changing to compassion and a compelling passion to save this house for this family.

As I reflected momentarily on what I was taking on, I felt a surge of panic arise in my throat. I had never tackled anything of this scope. I wasn’t even handy. But deep down in the core of my being, I knew I had to take on this challenge. Unswerving determination gripped me. I would learn construction. I would hire Billy’s team and together we would demo the basement, layout the floor plan and build the rooms to specs. A formidable task may be, but it was my calling both on a personal level and in recognition of Alphonso Williams for all his hard work and commitment.

Chapter 5 Little House on Lebaum St

Immersed in my musings, I suddenly realized where I was and decided it was about time I made myself scarce. I had barely turned on my heels when a lanky man, probably on the good side of his fifties, with a deeply creased face that reflected the trials and tribulations of this community over the years, walked out the door, and dumped yet another box on the yard. As I looked at him with undisguised interest, I could see that the box was not filled with clothes like the rest, but with some old books and photographs. I felt like an interloper, an intruder, even an opportunist - driving in from out of state in the safety of broad daylight, to exploit the depressed socio-economic conditions of this once stately area, but not having to live with it at night. Is that how I would be perceived?

I wanted to dispel such thoughts at the outset. I went towards him with hand extended, and I was touched when he responded warmly.

Hello, I am Billy,” he said, beaming at me as if he had always known me.

Welcome,” he added simply.

As I introduced myself, I found myself asking if his house was for sale. As soon as the words were out of my lips, I felt a little ridiculous. After all, there wasn’t even a “For Sale” sign there, but the whole day had seemed barely one step away from the ridiculous. I had better watch my step, I thought.

“Yes, this house is for sale. You seem destined to buy it.”
Meantime, Billy was trying his best to play the gracious host. “Please come inside,” he invited in a friendly, easy style, “If you don’t mind the mess.”

I felt a little uneasy at this unadulterated friendliness. Could there be strings attached? Was it exactly what it seemed to be? After all, I was just a moment away from stepping into an unoccupied house with a total stranger. Varying degrees of ominous thoughts assailed me. Was he genuine? Or was he trying to lure me inside – to do God knows what. To shoot me? Stab me? I felt panic rise up to my throat.

I paused for a long second. My belief in human nature won over my fears. I followed him warily, almost reluctantly inside. Standing at the threshold, Billy turned to me, his face awash with pride. “This is my father’s house. This is Alphonso Williams’ house --he owned and maintained it for 40 years.”

As my eyes took in the dim interior of the house, I could see that it looked as old as he claimed. It appeared to be nothing but a mound of haphazardly dumped junk, as if intruders had barged in and raided the house, overturning everything he owned.

If there was a description of perfect chaos, this would be it. The hardwood floor was ugly and bare, the loose boards creaking with every step. The floral wallpaper in the living room and foyer which would have once lent grace and beauty to quiet living, looked sad and forlorn, stained an ugly brown from the smoke and grease of decades. The shabby, threadbare sofa, the broken down bookcase, the chipped dining table and dirty wobbly chairs were pathetically thrown here and there, as if they had outstayed their welcome long ago. A monstrous Sylvania black and white TV almost as big as a bed, sat dejectedly in the living room. It had obviously outlived its usefulness and now merely served as extra area to store more junk. Amidst the thick coat of dust on the TV top was a dusty old RCA record player and an equally dusty collection of old records: Duke Ellington, Elvis Presley. It was a peculiar feeling of having got stuck in a groove in the past, being an uninvited guest witnessing the historic remorseless decline of Anacostia, the whirlwind transformation from genteel, upscale living to this pathetic “down and out” community.

I was bemused, filled with a certain wonderment as I absorbed the dirty, neglected surroundings. The dark drapes jealously kept the sun’s golden rays away, allowing mere flickers of light to heighten the feeling of age and degradation. I breathed in the musty odor of stale air and dusty junk. The bedrooms were simply crying out for attention and long-forgotten memories were flung over the dresser in the form of scattered old photographs, a few hanging on the wall by frail nails ready to give way at any time. It was a dismally decrepit house, to be sure. But what character it revealed! If the walls could talk, what poignant tales of unsung heroism they would relate.

The remnants of bygone energy of Alphonso Williams penetrated my consciousness in the most peculiar way. An honest-to-God hard-working family man who had tried to do his best for his wife and kids and for his community. A few of his local civic awards, dirty and tinged with age were carelessly scattered with the mess of clothes on the floor – trash like the rest of it - irrelevant and forgotten.

Billy followed my gaze as it rested on his father’s bygone achievements. He looked a little guilty, a shadow of regret flitting across his face. “This is all Pop’s,” he muttered. “Back when he was still active, he was a civic man and very popular and considered to be the Mayor of the Block.” I felt a pensive flash of regret sweep through me as my eyes fell on a youthful photograph of Williams in his 20s, fresh and energetic in army fatigues, looking upon the world with winning eyes. His energy was still around, as if he was brooding over why he had lost everything and reliving the idealism of latent dreams.

I never knew Williams, had never met him, but felt a certain affinity with the man who had had so many dreams for a glorious future for his family, for his community – a man who believed in compassion and humanity. I felt a surge of strange desire to know more about him.

“How is your father doing?” I asked gingerly, almost afraid to put my thoughts into words.

Billy shook his head. “Pop is in the hospital now, not doing too good.” I had been afraid of that.

“Will he return to his house?” Billy shook his head again more vigorously. “I’m afraid he lost his mind. He’s in the VA and he’s in good hands. My sister Tracy just wants to put the house on the market.”

I couldn’t understand why I was getting drawn into a family situation which really had nothing to do with me. “Why don’t you just keep this house? You and your sister can live here. I’m sure you can fix it up.”

Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Tina says there are too many memories. We live up the road at the foot of Lebaum Street. We’re fine there and we can always keep an eye on Pop’s house. Besides we’re behind in our payment and need to payoff the mortgage.”

I couldn’t really grasp the logic of this reasoning. But then who was I to judge? There was no way I could put myself in their shoes because I had not experienced the hardship and depravity that shook this community and tore this family apart.

If I had been shocked earlier, what I saw down in the basement absolutely horrified me. The miserable environment above had in no way prepared me for the hellhole down below. The basement was in impenetrable darkness, smelled dank and musty, with dirty, stagnant water creeping relentlessly up my ankles. The mold and the mildew told their own story and electricity in this household was very much a thing of the past. Pepco had turned the electricity off months ago.

Billy obviously didn’t realize the traumatic effect his house was having on me. He continued nonchalantly, matter-of-fact. “This is the recreation room where the tenants hung out. There was a kitchen, a bathroom and a living room down here. We had four tenants here at one time and this is where they watched TV and ate. There’s a heck of a lot of space.”

I shrivelled my nose in disgust. This was the last straw. The entire specter was nauseating. I couldn’t take anymore. How on earth was I to even envision six people in this house. Insane guests too!! The eeriness of the atmosphere was getting to me pretty badly. I felt chilly goose bumps as my eyes played tricks on me – shadowy images in the darkness...... Had anyone ever been raped or murdered here? Were there revengeful spirits lurking around to pounce on the unsuspecting? Ugghh....... I had to escape this prison and breathe in some God’s own fresh air.

As we stepped outside from the rear basement entrance, I filled my lungs with the cool air, trying to shrug off the dark moments of a while ago. The beautiful St Elizabeths red brick building with its boarded windows arose from beyond, symbolic and apologetic to this economically deprived community. In its heyday, this teeming campus had housed thousands of mental patients.

Billy looked at me quizzically. “Well, what did you think?”

What was I really supposed to say? I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I tried to be diplomatic. “It was interesting.” Even as the words left my lips, I knew that all I wanted to do was jump into my car and drive off without a backward glance and leave Anacostia behind forever like a hideous nightmare never to haunt me again.

So much for my intentions. Billy appeared to have taken my words in their very literal sense. He was suddenly infused with energy and latent excitement. “Great. If you trust me, I can round up a bunch of guys and we can do all the renovation inside as well as outside for a grand total of $15,000.”

I have lived long enough in this world to recognize an untruth when I see one. And I knew that Billy was lying through his teeth. Did he really think this dump could be repaired for $15,000? That money wouldn’t pay to move all the junk out of the house. But then, on second thoughts, some of this junk might be worth something and we might be able to barter it. What was more, I wanted to believe this man. I desperately wanted to believe him. I needed to reassure myself of the genuine humanity of people living in the depths of degradation. God knows how skimpy my budget is. Probably $15,000 was all I could afford to spend without hurting my delicate financial balance. So I deliberately ignored the nasty nagging doubts that assailed my saner self. I had to make a gigantic effort to sound enthusiastic.

“Super, sign me up. You have good people?”

Billy appeared to be leaps ahead of me. “Well, I could do the drywall and refinish the floor. I could even do some of the exterior work: siding and replace some of the shingles on the roof. My good friend is an electrician, a former Sailor—you’ll like him. We don’t need new wiring just replace some receptacles and of course a new circuit in the basement, depending on what you want to do down there. We will also need a good carpenter to build the framing and to hang the doors. There’s a lot to do but all very manageable.”

As I listened to Billy’s plans, a strange surge of compassion and goodwill coursed through my veins. It was not for my benefit that I felt this intense motivation. It was for the sake of a man I had never even seen in the flesh. It was a deep compelling wish to complete the renovation for Mr. Williams’ sake. Alphonse Williams may be hospitalized and on a respirator and may never see the light of day. But something in me felt that if was a debt of gratitude society owed this man for his hard work for a better life for his community. I felt someone had to recognize the sacrifice this man had made for the sake of posterity, maintaining this house in stellar condition through lean and mean times, rejecting a more comfortable life for himself so others could bear the fruits if his efforts. Some one should be large-hearted enough to restore it to its original standard or better. Was that person going to be me?

The whole situation was beginning to overwhelm me – I had to get away from here to clear my thoughts. I needed a neutral environment to make a decision, one way or the other. I turned to Billy to ward off any more attempts to influence me. “Billy, don’t say any more. Let me think about this and come back to you in the next day or two.”

Chapter 11 Private Sonny

The years did finally speed up to leave Sonny transformed into a resilient, self-reliant young man, sturdy, rugged and as sharp as a whistle. Having gotten through high school by 1947, 17-year old Sonny, still a raw and fresh-eyed teenager, volunteered his services to the army. Stationed in Fort Meade, Maryland, as a Buck Private, he earned a measly $75 a month, which satisfied him at the time, as the army provided him a room and board as well. 

The romantic in Sonny was enchanted by the location of Fort Meade. It was a nature’s paradise with virgin forestland, tall and shady beautiful trees and endless vantage points for Sonny to watch wildlife undisturbed.  The Hummingbirds, the bluebirds and the Purple Martins looked fascinating as they pecked about looking for grub. The black squirrels so furry and endearing scampered about looking for nuts to store for winter and spotted deer enjoyed free run of the base. Sonny would get so deeply moved by these encounters with nature, he turned his after hours into creative writing sessions, allowing his spirit the freedom of flight into poetic fantasy.

            The struggles his mother went through during his childhood had left an indelible mark on Sonny for he adhered to a frugal, almost reclusive existence without parties, drinking or smoking. He distanced himself from frivolity and extravagance. Living so frugally, he was able to set aside some money for a rainy day, even from the paltry salary he was paid.  His solitary existence it didn’t bother him overmuch. Books on any topic were his friends and when he was not absorbed in observing wildlife or writing poetry, he could be found with his nose buried deep in a book. He was not one for travel either. Though he loved the company of his mother and stepfather, he rarely spent time out of town. When his mother spoke with him on the phone, she would plead with him to come home on weekends. The yearning so obvious in her teary voice never failed to tug at his heartstrings and he would relent and plan a trip home. From Anne Arundel County where he was based, it was a two-hour bus-ride to Washington DC. To see his mother’s face light up on seeing him and the warmth of her hugs were worth all the hassle of travel. The man-to-man chats with his stepfather gave him the strength and reassurance he needed to be the totally committed soldier of his dreams. Or at least to come somewhere close to it. His doubts and fears miraculously vanished when Enas Broadway soothed his spirit with a gentle philosophical turn of phrase.  

So in time, Sonny adjusted smoothly to his soldier’s way of life. He already had an alert, vigilant disposition and he had trained himself to be observant. His ability to zero in on what interested him combined with his innate capability to steer a vehicle, made him a much sought after tank driver for the 2^nd Armored Cavalry Division, driving their M24 tanks and personnel carriers. The M24 Chaffee was arguably the best light tank of World War II, able to deliver relatively large caliber direct fire with an excellent 75 mm M6 gun. Sonny was proud of this fact even though his relationship with heroism was destined to remain vicarious. Every time he sat at the driving seat of an M24, his thoughts would wing back to the tales of bravery Enas Broadway had related. Time had dulled the pathos of life and death situations but the characters seemed so real yet. There were times when Sonny felt the tears stream down his cheeks as he felt the pain and heartache of his stepfather. Would he have measured up to him? What is the choice he would have made when faced with certain death in saving his buddy? For Enas Broadway there had been no choice. He saved his buddy and almost lost his life. Located in the relative safety of the US, there were times Sonny sorely wished to experience the spine-tingling thrill of danger in the air or the oppressive fear of his life constantly on the line.

Chapter 12 Valley Forge VA

A year or two later, Sonny realized that facing danger and dying was one thing, but facing danger and being incapacitated for life was something totally different.  The sobering truth struck him real hard during one weekend visit to Valley Forge Pennsylvania Hospital to participate in a boxing tournament dedicated to war veterans who were war wounded. Sonny, now 5’ 10” and weighing 170 pounds boxed in the Light Heavyweight category. Before the tournament while the other fighters were warming up, Sonny wanted to warm up his heart instead.  He decided to sit with the veterans, bond, share emotions and listen intently to their life stories.

 Each of those veterans had their own story of unsung heroism to relate. They had all been patriotic young men filled with a deep desire to make a difference in the world. They were young enough to believe they could. And they all paid dearly for it. Many were double or triple amputees and some had suffered severe burns.  One guy had sadly lost his ears and had just a small stub for what once used to be a nose.  His name was Phil, a P-38 Pilot from Baltimore who was attached to a unit in North Africa.  Flying missions over the Mediterranean, Phil spent much of his time escorting bombers to southern Germany or across the Balkans, attacking targets in Yugoslavia.

On only his 2nd mission to Vienna on August 1944 he was strafing a large concentration of trains and locomotives in Hungary when he caught a wing tip on a tree and cart wheeled forward crashing to the ground on its back.  Phil was badly burned and as he was climbing out of the flaming wreckage, the Hungarian soldiers captured him and lugged him in a horse-drawn cart to a Catholic hospital in Kormand, where he was expected to die. With resolute strength and stamina, he survived, and in a couple of months, a couple of Hungarian guards took him to another hospital in Budapest by train disguised as a Czech prisoner-of-war. On the train two German soldiers came up to him and put a gun to his head threatening to shoot him as a spy in disguise before letting him go. It was just one of the many close calls he was able to survive. 


Eventually Phil joined up with other Prisoners of War and were led to Frankfurt forty-five days after leaving Budapest.  Phil was interrogated and deloused then led to a huge room where several hundred starving Russians were lying on the floor.  The stench was so overwhelming one of the prisoners fainted.  A few days later they were all sent off to Numberg in crowded boxcars.    

Phil was in terrible shape. To sleep he had to roll his eyes up into his head. In the mornings he'd had to wipe the caked pus from his eyes with a dirty piece of gauze, while staring at his horribly disfigured face from a cracked piece of mirror.

Later in 1945, all the POWs were liberated and flown home for hospitalization.  Eventually Phil made it to the VA Rehabilitation Center in Valley Forge where he had been recovering for the last few years, hoping one day, soon to be back on his own two feet.

At the end of the talk, Sonny had completely broken down in tears.  His heart went out to the Veterans and War Wounded who had served unconditionally and sacrificed almost everything they had for their country and cause that they held so near and dear.

With some of their injuries, it became challenging to return back to normalcy and the lives they once knew. Some could not make their relationships with wives or girlfriends work. Their injuries and the pain and memories of the insuppressible horrors of war had taken a huge toll, but now they had embarked on a slow but steady road to recovery.  Some had become strangers to their own families.  Some who were severely wounded could not handle the compassion or perceived charity they received from their loved ones and preferred to live in a world away and to heal peacefully in this sanctuary where doctors and nurses catered to their needs and their brothers in arms who were coping with the same life situations consoled with each other so that they could come to grips with what had transpired.  It was not easy to comprehend, it was not easy to hear.  One or two broke down when speaking of their children who they deeply missed and wanted to be with again. The war was over and the world had moved on. It was their private tragedy now.

As Sonny listened and watched, he was filled with admiration for these hard-core men who had given their limbs and lives for our country and who had adapted themselves to life stoically, even cheerfully, despite their heart-wrenching handicaps. It seemed to him a reinforcement of what Valley Forge stood for, the suffering and stoic endurance of American soldiers – a modern day version of the patriotic young men in George Washington’s Army. In their own way these men appeared content with their lives, smoking and laughing as if they had no care in the world. Sonny was determined to do his very best to lift their spirits.  Unlike, them, he had never fought in combat, never even stepped foot on foreign soil.  But tonight, he would fight for them and tonight, they would cheer for him. 

Chapter 14 Champion Fighter

This unexpected thrust onto the spotlight got him the Army’s attention and not long after that, in 1950, he had to face Curtis Lowe again at the All Army Boxing Tournament in Panama. He had been reaching beyond himself in training for this event and he was physically and mentally geared to face his arch rival. So as he met Curtis Lowe again in the boxing ring, this time around, Lowe’s tough, ruthless stance and expression did not throw Sonny off balance. With equal determination, he met him punch for punch and stood up unwavering against his overbearing manner.  But Sonny was champion once again. The thunderous clapping and cheering made Sonny’s spirits soar. Holding the glittering gilt trophy high in the air, Sonny faced the exultant spectators. Amidst the roar of the thunderous applause, he suddenly missed his parents. He felt a stab of loneliness, wanting to see the pride and joy in their faces as they watched him prove his skills and strength. As soon as he could get away, he went straight to a phone booth and called Sarah and Enas. They were absolutely overjoyed, stunned, never realized that a local boy from Armstrong could win a national title.

A little later after in the locker room, after the celebrating had subdued, two distinguished white guys in coat and tie approached him with an unexpected proposal.

“Son, what we want to find out is, are you interested in fighting off-post in Baltimore?”

Sonny looked surprised. “I don’t think the post would allow me.”

“The post doesn’t have to know. The matches are on Friday nights and on the weekends,” said one of the guys.

“And why should it interest me?”

“Well, you actually get to keep the prize money,” was the innocuous reply.

Images of the new car in town, the Studebaker, filled his mind. He might be able to afford it finally.

“Here you are, son. Think about it and call me when you get to Maryland,” one guy handed him his business card.

After much contemplation and several sleepless nights, Sonny made the call and accepted the proposal to play off-post despite a niggling fear that he could not shake off. And so, he trained and won two consecutive matches. He had a little cash in his hand now and he sent a major portion of it to his mother and kept a little aside to buy his dream Studebaker one day. He also decided not to push his luck too far. If the Army found out, he would be in deep trouble. All the money in the world would not be worth getting in trouble with his chain of command.

Chapter 15 Losing Virginity

It was now Sonny’s second year in the army and he was still a very solitary figure who rarely dated because he preferred his own company. The obvious charms of the opposite sex left him unmoved, probably because he was too shy to even look at them. Nevertheless, he did volunteer to drive the females to the regular Friday night dances, which the GIs enjoyed in the summertime. The long sultry summer evenings enticed the GIs and their partners to let their hair down on a Friday and sway to the R&B and Blues that wooed their stressed-out spirits. Sonny would look on with disinterest at the cuddling couples and the steamy embraces. He couldn’t relate to these feelings and felt more than a little isolated in his hermit-like attitude. Once in a while he would feel he was being stared at. He would look up to find an interested female gaze upon him, eyes which blatantly gave him come-hither looks. He would blush and look away, not yet ready to love a woman. Of all the women Sonny had come to know, he never imagined that Katherine Wilson would become such an ominous figure in his life. What made him a little uneasy were the intense glances Katherine Wilson would focusing his way. Katherine Wilson was a hefty middle-aged woman with a big bosom and voluptuous lips, a formidable chaperone for the young women after the dance. Sonny had to drop off the women at their residences in Baltimore and Washington DC before finally dropping off Katherine Wilson.

One Friday night as myriad stars glimmered in the sky and the full moon bathed the world with its' soft silvery light, Sonny drove through the silent streets of Washington DC and Baltimore, dropping off the young service women one by one. Finally, there was only Katherine Wilson left to be dropped off. From his rear-view mirror, Sonny saw the female figure making her way to the rear of the bus, not sure why she did so, he kept driving. As he drove in silence, Sonny had the weirdest feeling that the evening had a surprises ending in store for him yet he couldn’t fathom what it would be. Sonny stopped the bus in front of Katherine Wilson’s house and waited patiently for her to get off, but she did not attempt the leave the bus that night as tradition dictated. Instead, he heard her deep resonating voice, “Mr. Williams, would you please come check out this noise back here!” He felt bewildered as he sat there, not knowing she spoke off. What could possibly be wrong? He felt a little overwhelmed by Katherine Wilson and did not wish to antagonize her by disobeying. He strode to the rear end of the bus and tried to listen to the sound of the running engine. Everything seemed to be in order. “Well I don’t hear any noise, Ms. Katherine. It may just be the exhaust", he retorted. Back in those days buses had their motors in the back, rather than in the front, so it could have been anything. “No, no, no…there iiiiissss a noise and it is comin’ from the bottom of the bus. Would you pleasseee listen for this noise?” What was her problem he wondered. Later on as he reflected on the events that transpired that night, he could have kicked himself for not recognizing the ploys of a lust-filled woman. As Sonny crouched on the ground and put his ear to the floor attentively, trying to listen for this ghost noise that could be coming from under the bus, he felt the pressure of a body on his back. Suddenly one arm came under him and flipped him over with no struggle. Looking up into her lustful eyes, he closes his eyes thinking he had finally lost his mind and his imagination had gone rampant. But it was not his imagination for he felt the cold of damp air against his lower body as she pulled his zipper down. He heard the rustle of his cloths as she pulled them down his body. He could also feel clammy, yet warm hands groping him, touching, grasping, caressing. His body assaulted by alien sensations that were not altogether distasteful. In fact, he liked the feelings that were swamping his better judgment. He allowed himself to be led and gave into the pleasurable sensations Katherine Wilson’s surprisingly agile fingers were arousing in him. Then, she was on top of him, pushing herself onto him with deep, vigorous thrusts that first amazed Sonny, then, frightened him because of the acute pain it brought him, as if she were impaling him. He began to scream out, “Ms Katherine, please stop, you're hurting me, Ms Katherine, stop…….” But she didn't stop and he felt so used. He remembered the moment until this day when his body gave in and he erupted, and as she lifted herself from his body all she said was, "thanks for the ride". She left him there lost, dazed and completely disoriented. What could he do or even say about this moment. While he knew this moment could never be repeated, he also knew he could not speak of it, his pride would not allow any thought of it again. Later as he recalled that moment, and how he felt his world was going to end. He remembered fear in that early morning and even though it only took about 2 minutes, it affected his entire life from that moment on. A silent torment digging at his heart, carving out a place in him, a place he could never get back and a place he could never forget. Later on, in the quiet of his bed, Sonny reflected wryly that of all the ways of losing his virginity, he had never in his wildest dreams anticipated this. But he sure didn’t want to tarnish his views on sex by allowing the likes of Katherine Wilson to take advantage of his inexperience in that sphere. He made sure that he kept his distance from her and got down from the bus and stood away when he dropped her off after the Friday night dances. He was surprised she never tried anything again maybe it was because she saw his reaction. Once for just a moment, as she walked from the bus, she looked back at him and he saw something foreign in her eyes. Maybe it was remorse or maybe it was another attempt to throw him off so she could get her claws into him again, but he never found out. Luckily for him, summer was almost over and the dances stopped too and he never saw Katherine Wilson again. But in his heart, that secret torment she gave him, creeps out and he imagines where she maybe and who else she had scared with her brand of loving.