Walter & Me (4 page)

Momma didn’t leave the house to work when we were kids, but looking back, I think those were actually the years she worked the most and the hardest in her life. Walter and I weren’t exactly easy to raise, as you might’ve guessed. Along with my fond memories are the times Momma had to say, “Wait ’til your daddy gets home.” We required plenty of “child-rearing” from Daddy, as you already know. I’m just thankful we at least had a break from that during the day while Daddy was away!

Daddy worked as a custodian and a maintenance man at the Pioneer Recovery factory, where they made parachutes. That was his main job. Once we were all in school, Momma started working at that factory, too, as a seamstress. When Momma was ready to take on other jobs, she picked up a sponge and a fryin’ pan. She cooked and cleaned at the country club and at the homes of many prominent white families in Columbia. Some might read that last sentence and think of my momma as “the help” and feel sorry for her, but she actually loved that work. She never once complained about her “second job.” And if you asked me as a kid what my daddy’s second job was, I’d probably respond by saying “everything.” He had a truck he used to haul stuff for people and help them move. Basically, he’d use that truck in any way he could to bring in some extra money. He also would cut grass, shine shoes, whatever. Like I said—everything.

Daddy was a proud man, but he wasn’t above swallowing his pride if it would put food on the table for his family. He always did what he had to do for as long as I can remember, even back to our days on Korea Alley. I say this with great shame now, but Walter and I weren’t always proud of Daddy’s work. In particular, we’d try to make sure the other kids didn’t find out Daddy shined shoes. Not sure what it was about shining shoes. Perhaps it was too much like servitude, I don’t know. All I know is, Walter and I would try to avoid Daddy when he was shining shoes. And we’d do that on the way to church of all places.

Walter and I always walked to church. We had two paths we could take: (1) the long way or (2) the point-A-to-point-B way. The long way required us to head out the back door, cross a log over a ditch that was always full of water, walk up the road, and then go straight ahead to Orange Street. The short way was to go down Orange to the corner and cut across directly to the church. Though the short way was obviously the better choice for two kids trying to get to church quickly, Walter and I would take the long way, because on Sunday morning, Daddy could be seen shining shoes along the short way. We didn’t want the other kids to make fun of us, so we just avoided him altogether. Shameful, I know. Daddy swallowed his pride to shine shoes and provide for us, and if I could do it over again, I’d give him the respect he was due.

The adults in our neighborhood knew better than Walter and I did. Our parents were very well-respected in our area, and that included over at the local bank. When Daddy was ready to move us all up from our double-barrel shotgun house, he went to the bank for a construction loan. Let’s just say he didn’t need a shotgun to get them to give him money. He secured a construction loan and mortgage based on his reputation alone and soon started the project of building us our third house. Looking back, I’m amazed at how shrewd a negotiator Daddy was. Plain and simply, he was a “can-do” kind of person. When he wanted to do something, he found a way, whether we’re talking about securing money to build a house or actually building it.

When Daddy started building our new house, he went to the high school shop teacher and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Daddy presented him with the generous opportunity to use the construction of our new house as a project for the kids in his class. Brilliant. The shop teacher quickly agreed, and his students worked alongside Daddy and his subcontractors to build the house. A “learning experience” for the kids, a fulfillment of job requirements for the teacher, and free labor for Daddy. Win, win, win. That’s what our daddy did.

That new house Daddy built for us is still standing to this day. Though I was only eight years old at the time, I remember feeling a little uneasy about moving into the house, not because high school kids had helped Daddy build it, but because I had grown to love our place in Smith Quarters, despite (and maybe even because of) the less than desirable surroundings. Saying good-bye to the city dump, the abandoned brakeman’s hut, the pond, and the Pearl River was difficult for sure, but I also knew we were moving on up to something better once again. The excitement of moving to a new house that was built just for us began to grow as we got closer to the moving date, and I knew it was a step up, because others were wondering why we built ourselves such a “big house.”

Well, not only did Daddy build that big house, but somehow Momma figured out a way to buy the house next to it, too. She had a vision to make us some extra money on the side, and she ended up renting that other house to a couple of school teachers. Momma had a real good sense about how to make money, how to save money, how to invest, how to spot opportunity, and even how to borrow when needed. She developed all of this because she wasn’t too proud to work jobs others might look down on, and because she was always on the lookout for what she could get out of a job.

One of the prominent white folks Momma worked for was W.E. Walker, who was the founder of Bill’s Dollar Stores, a discount variety store with locations mostly in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Momma cleaned Mr. Walker’s house and cooked for his family, starting from the time Walter went to school, and she still cooks for their family to this day. She did her best for Mr. Walker and consequently won his respect. He began to share some of his business sense with her, and Momma would listen and learn, taking it all in. Most importantly, she wasn’t scared to ask questions and to seek specific advice from him. She’d be doing her job well, all the time picking Mr. Walker’s brain and gathering pearls of business and money-related know-how. Over the years, Mr. Walker shared a lot of information with Momma, teaching her how and when to borrow money, how to buy property, and how to put people in it and cash flow it. And Momma wasn’t gathering this info to just sit on it, either. She put it to work. At one time, she had about 13 units that all made money. Not too bad for “the help,” don’t ya think?

So, there we were, owning houses other people lived in, and living in a big ol’ house of our own. But please don’t think for a second that having a big house meant Walter and I could just sit around in it. No, sir. Our parents didn’t just care about providing us with a good place to live; they were set on making sure we got out of the house and actually did live. There was a time to be in the house, and there was a time to be outside. Monday through Friday, your ass better be in the house when the streetlights come on. But between school and the streetlights coming on, you better be out there working, playing, or doing something. When we weren’t working, Walter and I were mostly out there playing football in the front yard with other kids or basketball in the backyard using a bicycle tire rim tacked up to a tree. Mostly just staying busy, having fun, and passing time.

As kids, we weren’t allowed to just play sports, either. Momma was all about broadening our horizons, so Walter and I had to take music at school and piano after school before we were allowed to play any kind of sports during our outside playtime. We played other instruments, too, and all three of us kids were in the marching band. I played trumpet, Walter played drums (makes sense with all that rhythm, don’t it?), and my sister, Pam, played clarinet. Thanks to marching band, Walter and I even mixed sports and music together from time to time.

I was in the concert band for football and basketball in the winter and for baseball in the spring. Walter was also in the band for football when he played, though we were never on the field together in high school (whether running the ball or marching in the band). When I started playing football, I just marched with the band at halftime in my football uniform. When there was a parade for homecoming, I’d march in uniform during the parade. Walter did the same when he started playing football. And Momma would always be out there watching whenever Walter or I would be marching in the band. I think she liked that part even better than watching us play football. Looking back, I can see why. I mean, it must’ve been a sight to see a football player in a wet, smelly T-shirt and cleats out there marching and playing his instrument with a bunch of other kids dressed up like toy soldiers. Regardless, from Monday to Friday, whether it was sports, work, or music, Momma was behind it in some way.

And on the weekends, well, that was family time. On Saturday, there was always a family outing of some sort. And that usually involved work, of course. We’d sometimes visit our relatives out in the country. When we were there we’d help them pick greens and work in the garden before having supper and visiting with them. My parents knew the importance of strong relationships and helping others when they needed it, whether in times of emergency or just when a little work around the yard was in order.

Then came Sunday.

Sunday was for church. And I’m talkin’ the whole day was for church, okay? We went to Owens Chapel Missionary Baptist for Sunday school, regular church service, and then the evening service. No one dared complain about being there all day, and I wouldn’t have complained even without the threat of a whoopin’. I actually liked being there because I got to see a bunch of kids I didn’t get to see during the week and sing songs with family and friends.

Walter, Pam, and I were all in the church choir. That’s until they realized I couldn’t sing and had no business being in the choir. The powers that be soon viewed me as a “congregational singer,” and then it was just Walter and Pam representing the Payton kids. Walter had quite the voice, too. He often sang solo, and I’ll never forget the time he just kept repeating the same verse over and over. There he was, belting his little heart out….

“Bringin’ in the sheaves, bringin’ in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicin’, bringin’ in the sheaves!”

Again and again with the “bringin’ in the sheaves.” Even as his older brother, I couldn’t help but think Walter was sweet up there, repeating the hook, because he didn’t know the rest of the words.

Our church was the typical Baptist church. Everybody knew everybody, and that meant everybody knew everybody’s business. Sunday school, vacation Bible school, choir, life. We did it all together. That’s how church was, and that’s how it should be. Church where I’m from was nothing like some of the churches I see today, where you have a faceless and anonymous churchgoer who can’t be bothered to smile at anyone else, let alone get to know others in the church and be held to account for their spiritual walk. It seems walking into some churches these days is no different than walking into a Walmart. Everyone just comes in with their heads down, going about their business and leaving as soon as possible. That wasn’t our church. There was no way for that to happen with us. I got to know everybody. And I got to know the best part of “everybody” when we had revivals.

At the revivals, another church pastor would come in and preach. The sermons were good and all, but it wasn’t usually the sermons that got my attention. You see, along with the pastor came his congregation. And with his congregation came an unending flow of pretty girls. It never failed, and I could hardly contain myself when they’d all file in. I’d pay attention to where the pretty girls would go to sit, and yep, I’d sit my little butt down right there with ’em. You can bet I was never going to miss a revival.

The only problem I had with all of that was that Walter was there, too, hanging around like an albatross around my neck. Our parents made us all go to church, of course, and being the older brother, Daddy put it on me to kind of look after my little brother and sister. What Daddy didn’t know was that, when it came time to put a move on a girl, I’d pass Walter off to Pam and let my sister be the babysitter. I didn’t even think twice about it despite Daddy’s hyperactive belt. I guess I figured if he ever found out, he’d understand that a guy just can’t get with the ladies if there’s a little brother hanging around. Also, I suppose I didn’t care much if Daddy wouldn’t understand. I mean, we’re talking about girls here.
Girls.
The best thing God ever created. And I mean, come on…I was just admiring God’s creation, and in church after all. Nothing at all could get my eyes off the girls. Not the safety of my little brother and not the fear of Daddy’s whoopin’. Nothing.

Okay, maybe not nothing. There was this one thing. If girls were queens to me in those days, baseball was king. God made girls, but it sure seemed like Zeke Bradley made baseball. Mr. Bradley was a well-known and great athlete from back in the day. He’d moved away from Columbia down to the coast for a while, but he moved back when I was nine or 10 and started organizing youth athletics in the area. He started Columbia’s first Little League baseball team and the “Babe Ruth” league for teenagers.

And that was it. I was hooked. I had my second love—baseball.

Mr. Bradley and his volunteers, along with the city of Columbia, built a pool, a recreation center, and baseball fields for the area. And like everything else in those days, it was segregated. The athletic complex Mr. Bradley brought to town was all black. And though it didn’t live up to the ideals of Dr. King, at least it was something that I, as a black kid, could use. The only problem: it was five miles away from where I lived, on the other side of town. Well, I was going to be playing baseball, period, so five miles without a car wasn’t going to get between me and the recreation center. Walter and I had to walk or jog down there every day to practice. And it only seemed worth it once we got there. That place was a refuge for Walter and me; it was a haven. Mr. Bradley taught us about discipline and being part of a successful team. And it worked. We were successful. Heck, our team didn’t lose a single game in Little League in the first three years I played.

When I reached the ripe old age of 11, I was bumped up to the Babe Ruth league. I could’ve played in Little League until I was 12, since that was the cutoff age, but Mr. Bradley saw I was ready for Babe Ruth a little early. And it didn’t take me long to progress from there. When I finally reached 12, I moved on from Babe Ruth and was playing semipro baseball. Then when I was 13, I began playing in what we all called the Negro League, obviously for black players only. I played for the Hattiesburg Black Sox and the Laurel Black Cats. No matter how you sliced it, I guess I was a black sox. And I was getting paid to play baseball. At 13 years of age. Black sox, white sox, whatever. I was seeing green!