Jake - Part 1 The Innocent Years (conclusion), by Wes Brewton

Jake Bruton, our paternal grandfather, was half black, half Choctaw Indian and to tell the truth, I was always afraid of Jake. He was a tall black man and looked identical to the profile on the Indian head nickel. Jake was not a talker and I always avoided him.

I remember Jake, daddy, and I going to a slaughter house and shoveling "free meat" into large pails. The meat was mostly hog heads and internal organs, neck bones, pig feet, and tails. This meat was on the floor of the slaughter house and was free for the taking in those days. Times have changed. Today that food is sold in some of our finest markets.

We were living for a time on a government program called "relief." I don't remember too much about the program, but I do remember the government gave most of the children what we called "long johns," a one-piece underwear that covered you from neck to ankle, with a buttoned flap at the buttocks to facilitate toilet use.

When I was six or seven, I was in a physical education class with both boys and girls. We would do simple exercises, but it required us to removed our shirts. All of the other boys removed their shirts. Some had newer "tee" shirts which placed their family in a higher economic status. I stood in shock, still wearing my shirt, not willing to reveal my long johns to the class and establish my poorness. The teacher insisted that I remove my shirt and needless-to-say, I was devastated by my classmates with their laughter. It took me a while before I wanted to return to school and I would tell momma that she could save the nickel it would cost for lunch if I stayed home. Sometimes this worked for me because she could prepare dinner for under a dime in those days.

There was one thing that I commend the fathers of St. Louis for and that was the outdoor opera in Forest Park. It was free and remembering those Sunday evening affairs brings back warm memories to me. I don't remember the names of the cultural events, but the music and the scenery was good.

Our family would fill an entire row with our baskets of food, jugs of lemonade, and Herbert Sanders, a young man much older than us, but a part of the family none-the-less. Herbert lived with us because he didn't have a family and daddy would take in anyone in trouble. He worked with daddy in the garage until he went off to war during World War II.

~ Tomorrow, Part 2 Rude Awakening