First Encounters - Part II

(Reference Posting from yesterday, January 25, 2008)

I attended kindergarten at a church in the Renton highlands. In the early sixties, most school districts did not have kindergarten. In kindergarten I made friends with a boy named Jonathon. I bugged my mom for days to have Jonathon come over to our house to play. She discussed it with his father who said “No.” After a couple more tries Mom and Jonathon’s dad were able to agree on meeting at our church. Mom and Jonathon’s dad talked while Jonathon and I played. It just wasn’t proper for Jonathon to be at a white boy’s house – even in the northwest! I never saw Jonathon after that year.

Mr. Taylor lived at the end of our street in the SeaTac area of south Seattle. He had a little house. We loved to go there for Halloween because he gave out the “nickel” candy bars.

When he drove by and we were outside he would wave. He had a great smile! (I could write a whole blog just on that – some day I will). Sometimes he would sit in his car and we would chat – but he would never get out of the ’65 Chrysler New Yorker. It started out as light blue and he painted a couple of times – ending up a beautiful dark, almost navy blue.

Dad asked Greg and I to go mow his lawn. It was mostly grass gone to seed. The first time I asked him he said that would be wonderful – how much do I want? We said “nothing – people do these types of things for neighbors.” After the mowing he would bring us a “giant” bottle of pop – probably about 20 oz. size. Usually it was Sprite even though I preferred 7-Up, I didn’t complain. He would sit on the steps and tell us his story (this would be several interesting blogs).

Soon the four of us became good friends, Mr. Taylor driving by slowing, stopping occasionally to chat. I remember a time when we were standing by the car and Mr. Taylor handed Dad a half gallon bottle of Gallo Burgundy – maybe the start of Dad’s love of wine (jug kind anyway!).

Dad asked Mr. Taylor if he would have Thanksgiving Dinner with us. It would be just the neighbors. He replied politely “it would not be proper for a black man to enter a white man’s house.” Dad of course said “bunk” or some other polite response. We wanted him for Thanksgiving and none of us cared what others thought. Mr. Taylor however refused. He was scared of what people might do to him. After all he was 89 at the time and could hardly defend himself and his property. It was in the early to mid-seventies (before I graduated in ’75).

That Christmas Mom fixed a basket for Mr. Taylor for the men to take to him for Christmas. I remember it included oranges, some nuts and a wrapped pair of black gloves – the kind which are partly knitted with leather on the back and palms.

Dad, Greg, and I took it up to his house – wrapped in cellophane. This was the first time we went in – he offered. We stood there and told him to unwrap it. His smile was beautiful and you could sense the pure joy and appreciation he felt. Dad asked him if he liked the gloves and Mr. Taylor responded, “Only a person who did not like gloves wouldn’t like these.”

I graduated and moved on, never really seeing much of Mr. Taylor before he passed away, but I will always remember him and the mutual respect we all showed as neighbors.

- Craig