 |
| That's me with my big sister, ready for the trip to Rustin's Lake. |
When I was four years old, Mama and Daddy scraped together the down payment to purchase a small house on Sunset Drive in Butler, Georgia. Butler sits almost exactly between Macon and Columbus, in the middle of the state, where the Piedmont meets the Plain and rolling hills turn into long stretches of loneliness. Back then, Sunset Drive was a dusty dirt road just a couple of miles out of town. Ours was the only house within eyeshot, and other than the twice-daily school bus, traffic was non-existent. The yard was flat and open, without a single tree. Soon after we moved in, at Mama’s insistence, Daddy planted a Sycamore tree for shade. It was only head-high, but he said he was planting for the future. As for immediate relief, there was none in sight. A few big pines in the fields beyond the yard’s edge provided the canopy for our playhouses and forts.
Our simple clapboard house with peeling white paint had a living room, an eat-in kitchen, and three small bedrooms with a bathroom connected by a tiny hallway. There was a small porch on the front of the house. The floors were unfinished hardwood which we later covered with cheap vinyl, the kind that comes in a big roll from the hardware store. The walls were unpainted sheetrock and remained so for most of my childhood. In winter the house was heated with propane gas space heaters, one in the hallway to heat the bedrooms, and one in the kitchen to heat the front of the house. In summer a fan was strategically placed in a window in hopes of creating a cross breeze, a futile attempt to keep cool. Daybreak brought the only relief, but by mid-morning each day a heavy blanket of heat and humidity settled in again.
On the most unbearable days, Mama would announce plans to spend the afternoon swimming at Rustin’s Lake, a merciful respite from the relentless heat and the vexatious south Georgia gnat. The buckets of peas and butterbeans to be shelled and the bushels of corn to be shucked and cleaned would wait for tomorrow. This was our version of a summer vacation. The first real vacation that I recall was in the mid-seventies when Mama finally got so hot, tired, and fed-up that she found the courage to drive us all the way to Daytona Beach.
Once the outing to Rustin’s Lake was announced, we scrambled into our bathing suits and raced for the car. My two older siblings and I jockeyed for the front passenger’s seat of our 1961 black Ford Falcon. Whoever got their first claimed it, and the other two grudgingly crawled in back. My younger sister, the baby, was plopped in wherever she would fit. These were the days before car seats and other restraints; we just climbed in, rolled down the windows, and hung on for the ride.
Rustin’s Lake was way out in the country, and the trip involved a maze of dirt roads, a mix of red clay and white sand, sharp turns, some rolling hills, and long flat stretches through farmland and puny forests of scrub oaks and loblolly pines. The swimming pool in town was no longer an option since it had been filled with dirt and cement rather than allow white children and black children to share the same water. It was the 60’s, and the rural south was clinging to its ways.
The last few minutes of the trip were marked by a steep climb, then rapid decent into the lowland where the lake resided. With dust billowing behind, the car bumped across the rickety wooden bridge and shortly came to a stop under the shade of a huge oak tree just up the hill from the lake. Mr. Rustin always greeted us in bare feet with khaki pants rolled into neat cuffs that hit him about mid shin. Despite his big straw hat, he was deeply wrinkled and brown as a ginger-cake. His feet were wide and strong, the kind that spend most of the year unshod.
As soon as the car came to a stop, we leapt out, yelled our quick respects to Mr. Rustin, and ran squealing down the hill to the lake, leaving Mama behind to handle the baby. We charged straight into the water, taking high choppy steps until we could run no further, then collapsed into cool relief.
Midway through our afternoon vacation, we took a break from swimming to rest on the wooden dock erected near the waters edge. Mama always gave us a few coins to spend at Mr. Rustin’s country store located up the hill next to the big oak tree. Bottled sodas were available in a shiny red Coca Cola chest; it opened from the top and the words “Ice Cold” were painted on the side. We liked Grape Crush, Orange Crush, or Mountain Dew, but Mama always got a co-cola. In a small bottle. She said it tasted better than in a big bottle. Our favorite candies were available at the counter: Mary Janes, Sugar Babies, Butterfingers, Candy Cigarettes, Fireballs, and Bazooka Bubblegum with a comic strip inside. I liked the penny candies best because, for just a dime, I could fill the bottom of one of the little brown paper sacks that Mr. Rustin kept on the wooden counter.
After the obligatory 30-minute delay, we returned to the water to play, swim, float, and roughhouse for as long as Mama would allow. The sad part of the day was when she declared, “It’s time to go home.” We dallied and delayed as long as possible, eventually acquiesced, and trudged up the hill with towels in tow. Tanned and exhausted, we climbed back into the 1961 Ford Falcon and made our way home.
