Black History - !967 - The Integration of Samuel Wolfson High School

 I am a native of Jacksonville, Florida, and grew up in the all-white Lakewood/San Jose neighborhoods in the Southside of hhtown. In the 1950s and 1960s, I saw the ugliness of "White Only" signs in the A&P Grocery, Union Terminal Train Station, and the Greyhound Bus Station, to name a few. In May Cohen’s Department store in downtown Jacksonville, the basement had a café/snack bar specifically for black patrons (appropriately or instead inappropriately) named the “Polly Pepper Cafe.” As pathetic as that was, this was life in Jacksonville. At age five or six, I witnessed crosses burning at a Klan rally in a big open field on the corner of Bowden Road and Philips Highway as my family drove home from a day at the beach. I didn’t even know or come in contact with black children until I was a senior in high school and attended high school music activities such as All-City Band and the Jacksonville Youth Orchestra. These honor bands were integrated and included students from both all-black and all-white schools in Jacksonville. 

With my not-uncommon upbringing in mind, you can imagine the impact the integration of Samuel W. Wolfson High School had on me. I never had a black friend growing up and had no contact with any black adults except for an older man named Earl, who carried groceries at the A&P in Lakewood Shopping Center. Earl was probably in his mid-fifties and sometimes gave me a piggyback ride to our car while carrying my mother’s groceries. My mother would hand me several dimes to provide Earl with as a tip. Imagine how demeaning that must have been for a hardworking adult black man. Having grown up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and educated in integrated public schools, one would think my parents would have been more tolerant than they were. Sadly, I grew up hearing common racial epithets used frequently with no thought whatsoever. 

In 1967, Wolfson High School was one of Jacksonville’s largest and newest schools, with over 500 students in our graduating class. Jerome Gamble walked into my homeroom class and took the empty seat next to me. You could have easily heard a pin drop. When he entered the classroom on that first day of the school year, he didn’t say a word, and neither did anyone else. Jerome was there all by himself to integrate the school. He did it singularly. Just him. Why did they send only one young man to integrate i this large school? Jerome Pittman Gamble was the only black student in one of the largest schools in Jacksonville. He was an inspiring kid who had maturity and purpose. Jerome was always well dressed, wearing a white shirt and tie, while the other male students wore button-down oxford cloth shirts.   He was a quiet kid with close-cropped hair and a beautiful smile. His purpose was meaningful, and Jerome handled it with poise and determination. He was a leader and an activist who should be recognized for his accomplishments. Jerome graduated with the Wolfson High School Class of 1967. Sadly, Jerome died sometime in the early 1970s. I often think about him, wondering what his life’s work would have been and what other efforts he would have made on behalf of civil rights. His place in our city’s civil rights history is as significant as the brave men and women who integrated local lunch counters and stood their ground against segregation all over town. Jerome didn’t deal with it, just on hot Saturday afternoons. He dealt with it every day that entire school year. This was an admirable accomplishment for a young man. It was especially admirable because he did it all by himself.

A Nine Eleven Story

 

The 20th Anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center is one month away. I imagine everyone has a tale for that day and remembers where they were as it goes. The attacks shocked the world. Everyone knows how and what happened, so I will not delve into a history lesson. Instead, I will tell you where I was when it happened, and that is a worthy tale. 

I had a doctor’s appointment at 9:00 AM in the downtown Howard Building at Baptist Hospital. I was there to get the results of my echocardiogram from two weeks earlier. I wasn’t particularly concerned about the results and arrived at Dr. Paul Dillahunt’s office early with knitting in hand. I had stopped by the coffee shop for a quick breakfast and was ready to arrive early and wait. 

And wait, I did. I had been escorted to a small exam room with dated wooden paneling and was waiting for the doctor on an exam table. I would have preferred a chair. 9:00 AM came and went, and I sat left to wonder where the doctor was and how he could be delayed at that hour. 9:30 AM also came and went. Had someone suddenly taken ill? Was the doctor called away from the office for emergency surgery? Should I open the door and ask someone, “Did you forget me?: After all, that had been the case one Christmas Eve when I was left in my GP’s waiting room as the office Christmas Luncheon began behind that glass receptionist’s window. I heard the revelry begin and tapped on the window to ask, “Did you forget about me?”

But the cardiologist’s office was dead silent with no party hats. At 9:45 AM, I was beginning to sweat and getting angry at having been left in the exam room for forty-five minutes with no sign of the staff updating me that the doctor would be with me shortly.

Finally, the obligatory tap on the door came, and in walked the doctor. He didn’t say, “Sorry I kept you waiting.” or even, “Hello, Mrs. King.” What he said when he opened the door was. “Are you a praying person?” I looked at him with surprise and wonder and responded, “Well, I don’t know...Should I be?” I felt like I had turned pale, and he seemed troubled. What I wasn’t aware of was that he had been watching the 9/11 attack on TV and was shaken by what he saw. I did not know what had happened and suspected I might have a severe heart problem. 

Dr. Dillahunt came to his senses and realized what he had asked me, and began to apologize profusely for his question about whether I prayed or not. I listened closely as he told me a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. I was unaware that it had been a calculated attack at that point or that the 2nd tower was involved. Finally, he choked out the words explaining that this had nothing to do with me. I was glad to hear that.

With positive results from my echocardiogram, I left the doctor’s office and headed back to my office, driving on empty streets with no one around. Everyone was glued to a TV except for me.

Years later, I saw Dr. Dillahunt again. This time, he arrived at my exam room on time and politely introduced himself as if we had never met. I said to him laughingly, “Oh, we’ve met...you don’t remember me? I was the patient waiting on you for 45 minutes while you watched the 9/11 attack, and you asked me if I was a “praying person.” He, of course, remembered me and apologized once again. He said, “I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of that story.” My response to him was, “Me too! “

My Travels

 Italy: When I was sixteen, my church youth group visited the Lakewood Methodist Church one Sunday night, and it was there that I met Myra Houston for the first time. We sat and talked that evening and made plans to get together. Myra and I became the best of friends for many years. She was why I attended South Georgia College in Douglas, Georgia. Myra was a year older than I and presented herself as a kooky unconventional thinker who didn’t want to be at church that evening. It was the beginning of a forty-year friendship that was plagued with many highs and unfortunate lows. With long red hair, very fair freckled skin, and the body of a young boy, we made plans that evening to meet after school. I spent a lot of time at Myra’s house, laughing at her jokes and discussing everything there was to discuss. I loved her.

After two years at SGC, Myra went to FSU to study Education and Archeology. Many weekends, I took the train from Jacksonville’s old train station to Tallahassee to visit her. We talked on the phone and wrote letters for years. 

In 1975, Myra and I began planning my trip to Italy. She was attending FSU’s extension school in Florence, teaching and working at an archeological dig. The Etruscan artifacts found at the dig site were stored in a once bombed-out church where Myra set up housekeeping in the Narthex of the church. She slept in a sleeping bag and had a bucket nearby. The church walls were moldy, and several days a week, Myra would shower at a nearby pensione. She probably could have had a room at the pensione but would have rather had the money to spend on other things. So ours would not be a luxurious, relaxing vacation.

Myra’s letters detailed how and when I would make the trip. In 1976, the mail from Italy to Jacksonville took several weeks. It was a slow process. A big problem was trying to read her illegible handwriting. She planned for me to travel to see her in Florence when the weather would be perfect and she was out of school. I planned to go alone on this adventure, but Pam, who worked on another floor in my building, asked if she could go with me at the last minute. Having a companion to travel with seemed like the smart thing to do, so I agreed. This was not a “smart thing to do” because I hardly knew her. I made it clear to her that this trip would see no valets to carry her bags, no casinos or romantic balcony interludes, no need for hot curlers, and no high heels or lipstick. She was told and agreed to our planned method of travel, which would include hitch-hiking, dirty city buses, squat toilets, taxis, trains, shared hostel toilets, sleeping on cold, moldy church floors, and no Ranch Salad Dressing. She understood this. Still, she seemed to forget everything I had explained the minute we left Jacksonville for Miami to catch our flight. Since she insisted on driving her car to Miami, she planned to pick up an old AT&T boyfriend at 5:30 PM when he got off work and go to the Miami airport from downtown, where he would drop us off for the 6:00 PM flight to Nassau. That was our first argument, and we hadn’t even boarded the plane. My travel companion was also an extremely picky eater and a rabid complainer. She complained about every single thing before we even left the country. Traveling with her was a bad mistake. Because this was my first time traveling outside the country, I feared the unknown and lacked confidence. If there had been a window, I could have jumped out of myself or, better yet, pushed her out; I would have. I will pretend for this story that she wasn’t even with me.

With a $50.00 “Eurrail Pass,” a great suggestion from Myra, I could travel the European train system for thirty days without purchasing another ticket. Today, the rail pass costs over $500 and is limited to ten days. I was to arrive in Florence, Italy, after traveling from Luxembourg by rail and changing trains in Milan. So far, so good. I arrived in Luxembourg through Nassau, Bahamas. The least expensive way to Italy was called “The Bahama Hop to Europe.” A small six-seat plane left Miami International Airport at 6 PM and headed for Nassau, where I boarded the flight to Luxembourg. The aircraft to Luxembourg made one stop-over in Shannon, Ireland. After arriving in Luxembourg, I caught a city bus to the train station to catch the train to Milan. For the overnight trip in a 1st Class car, the seats on either side of the compartment are pulled together at the footrest to form a bed. I had all of my documents pinned to the inside of my bra along with my Travelers Cheques, so someone would have to strip me naked to rob me. A full moon revealed the beautiful French or Swiss Alps (?) with snow-covered peaks. Occasional stops and conductors asking for credentials at each border didn’t bother me. I would go right back to sleep. This train was not a bullet train like they have today. It was more like a cheaper version of the Orient Express.

The trip from Luxembourg was perfect. It was daylight when I arrived in Milan, and it was there that I was introduced to squat toilets in the ladies’ room. They were a challenge with jeans on. A layer of soot covered everything in the train station. The Milan station looked like it could have been 1943. After a brief time to stretch my legs, I boarded the train to Florence for the last leg of the trip. I arrived on time and was supposed to meet Myra at 4 PM on the steps of the Duomo. Myra didn’t show. I found a nice hotel room on the second floor above Gucci’s of Firenze. I had a great dinner of wine and lasagna at a hole-in-the-wall eatery, and after a much-needed shower, I went to bed early.

                                                                                       Myra and I in Rome

I was able to call Myra, who had the day mixed up, and we met up the following day. She had our next few days planned, and we began seeing the most incredible collections of art and sculpture that I could never have imagined. Myra had student passes for the Uffizi Gallery, The Accademia Gallery, The Pitti Palace, and the Boboli Gardens. Over the next several days, I soaked in all of the Michelangelo and Botticelli that Florence had to offer. We shopped for gold jewelry and ate at small out of the way restaurants that offered incredible food for very little money. The Italian Lire was at its low, so our money went far. I enjoyed espresso and pastries for breakfast, funky bottled drinks not sold in the US, and experienced the true wonder and amazement that plopping yourself down in another culture awards you.

We took a train to a small town outside of Florence and visited a family from the college who had befriended Myra. We saw “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest” in Italian. Moviegoers sat on the backs of the seats, chatting with friends and relatives. It was not like the dark, quiet movie houses here. We went to a huge once year Flea Market and a religious festival in Arezzo. We ate well, and I walked until the soles came off of my Earth Shoes. I sat barefoot in a shoe repair shop while waiting to have them repaired. We went on a picnic after shopping for olives, cheese, and wine before taking in the sights of the countryside. I had my picture taken in a field of poppies and ate lunch in a restaurant at a monastery. I hitch-hiked on the interstate highway. I have forgotten where we were headed on that leg of the adventure. I remember the man and woman who picked us up were driving a Mercedes.

I remember that the train trip to Rome and the Vatican seemed short. I had my needlepoint with me and Myra’s tutorials on what we would see in Rome, made for a great trip, not to mention her wild laughter and sharp wit. We walked the streets at night and met with Myra’s friends for food, drink, and lively conversation. I saw the ruins of the Forum, The Coliseum, The Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, The Pantheon, and the balcony where Mussolini spoke to the masses. Polizia was posted on most corners with machine guns due to political unrest that I never figured out. I went to a glove shop and was fitted for gloves by the shop owner. She washed AND dried my hands and powdered them lightly. I still love the driving-style gloves I bought. They are soft brown leather with a crochet top and a wrist snap. They will always be my favorite gloves. In addition, I bought some hand-painted block drawings of butterflies for my mom from a street painter. We spent several days in Rome to see St. Peter’s, The Sistine Chapel, and the Vatican Museum. I loved the Vatican Book Store and Gift Shop, but seeing St. Peters and the Pieta was the most memorable. Only about five and a half feet tall, the Pieta moved me to tears.

I visited at least nine iconic cathedrals but couldn’t tell you where they were. I walked around the beautiful piazzas and sat under an umbrella in the Piazza del Campo at an outdoor café in Siena. My travel advice to whoever reads my book is to keep a trip journal while traveling. In fifty years, you will not remember every detail. I wish I had kept better notes.

I left Jacksonville with only a small duffle. I packed two pairs of jeans, five shirts, a comb, a brush, and personal items. The bottles of shampoo and perfume were almost empty and ready to toss upon leaving Italy. I had one bra and ten pairs of panties. Whenever we checked out of a hotel or hostel, I left my panties in the trash. Halfway through the trip, I ditched one pair of jeans. After wearing the same pair of jeans for a week, they were more than ready to toss. I threw away my shirts every other day, and by the time I left for home, I had enough room for the books I had bought, a large chunk of white chocolate, a new leather purse, gloves, and several other souvenirs. All went as planned, but the time went by too fast, and upon leaving Italy, I knew that someday I would go back. After all, I did throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain to guarantee my return to Rome.                            

After two weeks of listening to Pam complain about dirty streets, the wrong kind of toilet paper, weird food, no Dr. Pepper, and no appreciation of anything she dragged herself along to see, I said goodbye to her at the airport in Rome and boarded my plane alone. I explained that I’d had enough of her whining and complaining, and she was on her own from then on. I did not want to drive back to Jacksonville with her, see her, or hear her voice again. I know that sounds cold and harsh, but you would have had to have been there to understand.

After I got off the plane in Miami, I headed for customs, where I was detained briefly for a more detailed search of my clothing and bag. After being asked how long I had been gone, the customs inspector asked me why I had so little and no clothes. I explained to him that I had read in a book about “Vagabonding” through Italy and that I had thrown my old clothes away over the two weeks so I would have room for my souvenir books, a big hunk of chocolate and the other things I had collected on my trip. He laughed and said that was a first for him. He also said he would suggest that method of travel to his younger sister and wrote down the name of the “Vagabonding” book. Then, after listening to me, he said I could leave.

At that point, I had to stop and breathe because I was shaking, my heart was pounding, and the movie “Midnight Express” had not even been filmed. He scared me to death. It was late in the evening, so I grabbed a sandwich and bought a ticket from Miami to Jacksonville for $40.00, scheduled to leave in the morning. I had ten dollars left in my pocket. I wandered around the Miami airport and met a girl from Nicaragua who was also waiting for a morning flight. She was carrying a huge box containing a set of china. She said there was nothing like it in the town where she lived.  After agreeing to guard her dishes while she went to the restroom and found something to eat, I was her friend for life. I used the box to prop up my weary feet, take off my shoes, and nap.

I could write volumes about my trip, as some things are as clear today as they were 46 years ago. I still have a few photos taken with my new at the time Kodak 110 camera and a few souvenirs from my trip. Most importantly, I remember two weeks of joyous discovery, friendship, incredible art, and magnificent architecture. I was walking cobbled streets and sharing meals that compared to nothing I have had since. Myra lives in Hollywood, Florida, and I have seen her through the years many times. She has always been and remains an enigma to me. The thing she gave me was a gift from the heart. My trip was something that only came along once in a lifetime. The total cost of my trip to Italy was $695.00.

Peru:  My trip to Florence and Rome would rank number one on my list because, as my first trip, it made me want to travel to other places. In 2005, I took Spanish at Florida Junior College and loved it. My professor, Enrique Barquinero, was a native of Lima, Peru. He was a great teacher with degrees in Romance Languages, Law, and Medicine. Being the oldest in a class of twenty-year-old students, Enrique called upon me to help other students solve a few problems. I visited him in his office, and it was there that he told me about his plans to take the class to Peru for immersion in the Spanish language. The trip counted as a credit for the fourth and last class in the Spanish curriculum. He wanted me to go. At first, I said probably not. I used a cane then, and going to a third-world country would require serious thought. My health was fine, but my mobility was not. The rescue squad in Jacksonville was superior to any hospital in Cuzco, Peru. Nevertheless, Enrique convinced me to take advantage of the trip and assured me that any medical care I needed would not be a problem and he would see that I could get any help if needed.

I’ve never been away for an entire month. Packing was a challenge. We would attend classes at The Universidad Nacional de San Antonio de Abad daily. The weather would be hot during the day and cold at night. Dressing very plainly with no jewelry or “bling” was required. The idea is that we do not attract unnecessary attention to ourselves.

Lon would not discuss the trip with me and was adamant that I not go. I had decided that an opportunity like this would only come once in my life, and I would take advantage of it. I did. Sometimes you have a gut feeling that a seemingly impossible adventure would work out, and were I to continue on my path of aggressive muscle weakness, it was now, or it was never.

After many travel immunizations and searching for the perfect piece of luggage, I was set to go. The trip to Lima and transfer to the flight to Cusco went without incident. Traveling from sea level to a city with over 11,000 feet would be the first obstacle I would have to deal with. 11,000 plus feet is not a little altitude. It was a lot of altitude. I felt rather ooky upon arrival in Lima, where we would catch the plane to Cuzco. In the United States, consuming coca leaf tea is against the law. It is used to wean people off of cocaine and as a remedy for altitude sickness. You know what they say, “When in Rome, do as the Peruanos do. “…. and so I did. It was a pleasant enough cup of tea, but after ingesting the forbidden, I began conversing with a man who wasn’t there. My roommate, Debbie Cook, asked me who I was talking to. I could not respond with an answer that made sense, so Coca leaf tea and I parted ways for my stay in Cusco.

One of the many highlights of my trip was, of course, the people I met. I was never shy to converse in Spanish, but many of the people I tried to talk to spoke Quechua or one of fifty other dialects in the region. In addition, I enjoyed an excursion to the mountains to watch Peruvian women process, dye, spin, and knit their own yarn. This day trip was my favorite. The native women fascinated me with their knitting skills. However, nothing in my entire life prepared me for the extraordinary and all-consuming beauty of Machu Picchu. The fifty-mile train trip on the Hiram Bingham Express, appropriately named after the American who led the expedition that uncovered the lost Incan city in 1912, was a harrowing mountain ride followed by a zigzagged bus ride up a narrow road on the edge of the mountainside.

                                                                                 The Road to Machu Picchu

                                                      My Favorite Shade  of Blue - The Color of the Peruvian Sky

                                                                             Debbie Cook & Tancy Campbell

The nearest city, Aguas Calientes, was to be our home base for the three days we held passes to the park. After arriving in Aguas Calientes, I fell on a boardwalk and was told by our doctor to stay “home” the first day. My friends returned that afternoon with the news that it would be nearly impossible to navigate the stone steps I would have to climb to get to the top of the Incan city as I had planned. Being the incredible people they were, Tancy Campbell and Debbie Cook made it their next mission to see that I didn’t miss out and gave me an arm to hang on to and hands to hold while walking the steps to the top. They lifted my legs more than once to make it up the uneven steps. I felt like I had reached heaven from the top of the park. In the clouds with the dark blue Peruvian sky above my head, it was heaven. I was grateful to have two friends that made navigating the park possible. It was exhilarating and a day I will never forget.

                                                                                       The Top  of the City

                                                                       Beautiful Machu Picchu 2005

After thirty days, I was eighteen pounds lighter. I don’t regret or take for granted what I experienced. The food was unremarkable, and many other students were sick for much of the trip. Following the rules given to me by the health department in Gainesville paid off for me. I enjoyed the museums, churches, and festivals in Cusco. I stayed in town when the group went on excursions designed for the young and strong. I went to textile co-ops and fabulous flea markets and visited the home of one of the hotel employees who befriended me. Her family took me to their church, where I, with my bleached blonde hair, really stood out among the dark-haired, dark-skinned congregation.

The dirt on the streets, the pain I was experiencing, and nearly getting hit by a car was tiresome. The high from seeing Machu Picchu stayed with me, but I was ready to return home. I was concerned in a motherly way about the reckless and stupid behavior of my young fellow travelers. After hearing the news that my roommate’s father had suffered a heart attack, I offered to fly back with her three days earlier than planned. I hated to see her make the trip alone. I planned to avoid altitude sickness traveling to Peru but failed to prepare for the descent to sea level and had a confusing, nauseating, and delirious return trip. Debbie thought I should have gone to a hospital, but when you are in that state, you are oblivious to your behavior. Once I was home and comfortably sleeping in my recliner, the problem cleared. I was so happy to be home.

Paris, France:  Lon’s sister, Laurie, was planning a trip to Paris, and I offered to go with her to carry her luggage. I was joking since Laurie, and I had never had a close relationship. Nevertheless, she asked me if I wanted to go to Paris with her, so I jumped at the chance and flew with her several weeks later to Paris, where we were to meet up with her husband, Dan, who was already there working with his European sales rep. I was skeptical about getting along with the very hard to get along with Laurie, but we managed to have a very good trip. Our love-hate relationship was, at very best cordial on the flight to France. A three-day trip would be so short that I figured I could get along with anyone for three days, even Laurie.

                                                                                        Mona, Of Course.

After the overnight flight to Paris, we took a short nap after we checked in at our hotel. We took a train into town, wandered around Paris’ central shopping district, and had dinner on our first day there. On the second day, I spent all day at the Louvre while Laurie met up with Dan to go to a jewelry convention. Having no interest in the Louvre, Laurie went her way, and I went mine. This was probably the best thing to do because going to Paris and not to the Louvre didn’t seem right. How could anyone NOT WANT to see the Louvre? I did manage to get her to go with me to see the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I wanted to see the Rose Window. That evening, Laurie, Dan, Nigel, and I took a dinner cruise down the Seine. It was a lively evening of entertainment and good food, and seeing Parisian landmarks along the river lit up was breathtaking. We walked to the Eiffel Tower afterward for a brief look and to take a few photos.

                                                                                         A Snowy Day at The Louvre

                                                                        The Rose Window inside Notre Dame

Paris in two days wasn’t enough for me, and a few years later, I returned with a friend from high school. By this time, I was using my rolling walker, and I must say that Paris treats disabled older people wonderfully. The museums offered free tickets and a museum docent who tagged along behind me in case I needed help. On the flight to Paris, my friend and I were bumped up to First Class seating. This was something I never thought I would experience in MY lifetime. The steward handed me a Mimosa while helping me remove my winter coat. With enough leg room for a pro basketball player and a seat with fifteen different adjustments, the entire dinner served on china made me feel like a small bag of peanuts, and a drink in a plastic cup was never going to thrill me as it once did. What a treat this was. Gail and I stayed a week and did as much as two old heavy-set women could. We stayed downtown and walked from our boutique hotel to shop and sight-see. We took a short tour by bus of the city and visited the Louvre each day to see Mona, Venus, and Nike. We went to the D’Orsay Museum to see Vincent and so much more. We took an evening river cruise and saw the Eiffel Tower during the day and at night. We visited Notre Dame to see Joan of Arc. My second trip to Paris was so much more rewarding. I do love Paris…even in cold January.  

I love to travel, and I am not satisfied that I am finished with travel. However, I can only dream of seeing Ireland, England, and Spain. In addition, I would love to go to New York City again. I was there for a weekend in the mid-1970s and had a ball. I missed the Statue of Liberty due to fog but saw a Broadway play, rode the New York Subway, and saw a few famous stores. I even made it to the ‘must-see” Metropolitan Museum Gift Shop.

As of this writing, my passport hasn’t expired. Who knows what will come my way again?

                                                                               Me - On The Champs-Élysées in Paris

Poetry

 I enjoy trying to make words rhyme and it makes me smile if I’m present when my poem is read. The poem for Jimmy Carter was probably never seen by him as it was posted on the Carter Center Facebook page. But then, one just never knows, does one.

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Quilts I Have Made
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I think that I shall never see
A quilt so lovely made by me
To give to you with love and care
As something to remember Claire.

I don’t have plans just yet to go
But think about it as I sew,
You know each stitch by my machine
Gives happiness to me not often seen.

To me and mine I hope you will
Take care of my happiness that still
Confounds me always in ways unknown
The delight of quilts that I have sewn.

The fabrics old that I have saved
Are favorites, still no less I crave
To purchase beauty by the yard
Unless - I lose my debit card.

So if you have a quilt I’ve made
The favor never needs repaid,
My happiness lies in the fact unknown
That all your love I have been shown.
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A Birthday Poem for Olivia
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Our Olivia is quite a girl.
With long brown hair that has no curl.
She’s talented, pretty and very smart
Unfortunately, she’s known to fart.

She loves to write, she draws, she sews
She leaves a paper trail everywhere she goes.
And so Olivia turns 10 today. A cake, balloons
Just cannot say how much she’s loved each and every day.

So here’s to you our precious one
Your infectious smile outshines the sun.
Happy Birthday to you and many more
Let’s blow this barn and head for the store.
Love, Grandma
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A Birthday Poem for Kathryne
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Oh Kathryne, Oh dear Kathryne
What will I write for you?
A poem is not difficult 
Because that’s what I do.

You are such a special person
Changing every year
It leads me just to wonder
How I was blessed to have you near.

Your special sense of humor
Reminds me of myself
Along with your chin and attitude
We did not come off the shelf.

You play the flute and love to joke
And always with a flare
Of devilishness you got from me
It’s soooo not hard to compare.

You and I are much alike
Our problems and our cares.
Not to mention loving popcorn
And our fine straight Fleming hair.

So be yourself with pride and joy
Because you are so dear
And make this year a happy one
Remembering I am always here.
Happy Birthday
I Love You,
Aunt Claire
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A Birthday Poem for Neil
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On this day of your sixty-second year,
I made you something different.
Two books of pics of Mom and Dad
As rare as R-12 refrigerant.

I don’t intend to cause you tears
Nor want you to be sad,
I made them so you could get a lift
On a day that was extra bad.

While in your chair with drink in hand
And needing a happy thought,
You can pull these out for a quick short look
At something that can’t be bought.

For a Mom and Dad who both worked hard
To be there just for us
And teach us both how to be so close
And not to fight and fuss.

For this I am so grateful 
And I know it’s very rare
To have a loving brother like you
Who I know is always there.
Happy Birthday!
 I  Love You,
Claire
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A Get Well Poem For Anita Carwile
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A Saturday call made across the Florida line.
I had to get a good address to avoid a postal fine$$. 
I spoke to Ed, he sounded good; his voice was clear and strong.
“That’s great”, he said. “A Band CD?  Hurry and send it on!” 

I had good news! The music’s back!  A Top Ten HIT, I’m told!
Don’t tell Anita, she’ll be surprised and to her shock will hold
A symphonic surprise from her dear duPont friends,
The ones who are REALLY OLD!!

There’ll be cannons, cornets, french horns and flutes.
You’ll hear Jackson and Zelt, Space and Gresham to boot!
But Ed said, “Calm down, Claire. Anita’s not here.”
“She’s been at the hospital - our very worst fear.”

I couldn’t believe it, such a terrible thought.
How could our bassoon player have been hit by a truck?
Is she mending? She is. Is she smiling? She would.
Thank goodness her care and her doctors are good.

I could tell in Ed’s voice he was feeling so blessed.
First for Anita and then he confessed 
Their family was special, very close, very strong. 
They all loved Anita, a great wife, friend and Mom.

So what could I do, a stranger to her?
Me a young 7th grader, those years just a blur.
I remember Anita from Spring Concerts at Pru!
I was passing out programs, because I was new.

All the girls wore their formals for concerts in Spring.
Something pastel -no uniform- A BEAUTIFUL THING! 
The girls looked so lovely, and handsome was Swor
I hoped one day I would wear one - it not falling to the floor!

So that’s how I remember Anita - tall with her bassoon.
I’m giving her this poem wishing her please GET WELL SOON. 
I want her to keep smiling and work at getting strong,
Anita, I’m hoping that your progress is coming right along..

We only have in common our years in the band.
We’re spread around the country, so we can’t hold your hand,
Just think of me as one of many old friends dear and true
And keep close this poem ‘till you’re back good as new!
Claire King – dupont Band ‘64-65
Jacksonville, FL
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A Birthday Poem for Julie Ann Greer
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I once met a girl named Julie
Who was a really great roommate, truly.
She was kind and sincere and always a dear
A good friend in that long ago year.

These birthday wishes in fact a day late,
Hope to find that you had a great date
Beginning with a walk in the warm Tampa air
And ending with a poem just for you from Claire.
Your South Georgia Roommate,
Claire
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A Goofy Birthday Poem from your friend Claire.
 (Sorry about the being old part…it rhymed)
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It’s like it happened yesterday
On a dark, not stormy night
A parking lot in Georgia
Looking for a boy nowhere in sight.

It began a life long friendship
My answer on that night
Was “No, he’s not my brother!”
Thank heaven there was no fight.

I always think of Patti when
I hear Neil Diamond sing
About some “ Red, Red Wine” 
And that “Kentucky Woman” thing.

That year was oh so wonderful
That dorm away from home
I recollect some drinking 
Quite excessive, truth be known.

One weekend you spent a lifetime
Dying fabric for a play.
A big black mess if I recall 
I opted not to stay.

Those days I drove to visit you
The beach seemed really far
I envied your beaded curtains
And the fact you had a car.

You still look the same to me
With that wavy long blond hair.
I’m happy I am still in touch 
Old friends these days are rare.

Enough of fifty years ago 
My original intent only was
To wish my hippie girlfriend
A birthday and a buzz.

A happy day I hope you have 
With weather not too cold.
Just know that I still love you
Even though you’re very OLD.
With Love From Your Friend,
Claire
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A Get Well Poem For Jimmie Carter
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Dear President Carter,
With pen in hand I am sending to you
A message of love and support,
That you may live in comfort and care
And good news to us you’ll report.

I am saddened to hear of your illness.
There is certainly not an easy path ahead.
I want you to know what you mean to me
These words cannot go unsaid.

The good works and loving deeds that drive you
Will always over shadow your regrets.
You can reflect on one extraordinary life
Having earned my undying respect.

I will close with a wish for close family
And friends that will always be near.
Know that your books and cherished poems
In my heart will remain so dear.
Claire King
Jacksonville, Florida
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A Birthday Poem for Teddy Pruett
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I have a ‘old’ friend named Teddy
Who is strong and smart and ready
To sit down and sew
Or give it a go
Creating always a quilt that’s quite heady!

Her wit is unmatched (from chickens it’s hatched)
She’d have penned her own book it would seem.
A goal she should set to sit down and get
What most likely would take a full ream.

She’s too far away to in person just say
Happy Birthday – have fun on this day.
So instead of a beer to wish her good cheer
I’m sending a poem making clear
That I love you a lot and that’s all I’ve got
Happy Birthday to Teddy, my dear.
Love,
Claire

                                                                                         The Fillmore Floral