Growing up in a warm weather city is one of the best things a child could possibly want. I went barefoot most of the time and when school beckoned, I sadly had to encase my happy feet in shoes.
I remember rain; wonderful rain that left puddles in the soft sandy loam that was the street in front of my house. I would go out when the rains stopped and sit on the curb holding handfuls of the sweet smelling moist earth to my face. The scent of fresh cut grass came in second best. I inhaled the scent of Waco.
I remember the Cotton Palace. Waco is in the heart of cotton country. A fair was held once a year and I would wander up and down watching snake charmers, dancing girls, strong men and of course, cotton candy. A large machine filled with wonderful toys was there for 5 cents to manipulate a claw and if luck was with you, you were a winner of some wondrous object. The only object I ever snared was a pencil clip and I remember that distinctly.
I remember Juan. He sold tamales out of a box hung by a leather strap around his neck. The inside of the box was lined with shiny metal. The smell and taste of those steamy tamales still makes me sigh with pleasure.
I remember W. Lee O'Daniels and his hillbilly band. He was running for governor and the crowd loved him and his music; he became governor.
I remember downtown, Goldstein, Miguel - the largest department store in town. It had a small café that served blue plate specials for 25 cents and just about everything else you wanted to buy.
The best place of all was the ice cream parlor "Palace of Sweets" long marble counter, ice cream chairs and tables for the big people and the little people.
I remember walking with my mother on summer nights on long strolls past Baylor University, the oldest college in Texas, which has the world's largest collection of the works of Robert Browning.
I remember going for ice-cream cones with my brother one day a week when cones were two for a nickel. I would slowly savor my cone on the way home and one disastrous day I dropped my cone in the dirt. My brother calmly handed me his cone saying, "I don't like ice-cream anyway". I protested mildly and guiltily licked his melting cone the rest of the way home.
I remember my father sitting close to a small radio listening to the ravings of Hitler. None of knew German, except my father, but we sensed heaviness in the air.
I remember the buses with the "Jim Crow" section in the back, which in those days had very little meaning for me. Years later when I lived in Houston and became wiser, I would approach the public drinking fountains, labeled "White" and "Colored" and loudly proclaim "I wonder how colored water tastes".
I remember lying on a blanket at night and trying to find the Big Dipper. I remember the fireflies and the sound of crickets. Waco, tree lined streets, shacks down by the Brazos River, Castle Heights, the upscale community where a rich cotton baron had build his home to look like a castle complete with turrets. I was told it is now a museum.
I remember people coming into our store to buy Brown Mule Chewing Tobacco - little tin mules were imbedded in each piece. Ladies would come in and request in a quiet voice "Garrett Snuff". It was not exactly ladylike to dip snuff.
Waco, a town where people said, "Yes mam" and "no mam". I was the only one in my classroom that refused to finish a sentence with a "mam"; I don't think I've changed.
I remember Cameron Park, a glorious natural park with spring water gushing out from crevices among the rocks; playgrounds, Sunday picnics, watermelon cuts (a term used for sharing a melon) which was brought from the icehouse, wonderfully cold.
I remember Oakwood Cemetery, a wooded area where squirrels ran happily and birds were everywhere in abundance. Large marble angels guarding graves, small mausoleums, large blocks of intricately carved marble. It is the oldest cemetery in Texas dating back to the l800's. During Halloween, we would venture into the grounds at night and it didn't take much to scare us as we wandered down the paths that twisted and turned.
The small Jewish Cemetery adjacent to its huge neighbor was my last image of Waco. My father, my mother and my brother are all resting there. I spent my last day visiting her grave. Everything was peaceful and soft winds blew at my face; I felt as if my mother's hand was brushing gently through my hair. I knew somehow that this would be my last look at Waco. It had for me been a beginning and now it come to an end with the death of my mother.
I will always remember the Waco of my youth and it is worth remembering.
