I have
often been asked if I could go back to a period in my life when would it be? My
answer has always been the days that I spent in Port Arthur, Texas. And though I
lived there only as a child, from birth to ten years of age, it was a time that
I cherished most. People often say my reasoning is because in childhood there
is innocence. And, in innocence there is
joy. But it is something more. Port Arthur was a small town that instilled in
me a foundation of who I have become. It was like yesterday that I played in its
streets feeling invincible.
Often
times, I feel fortunate to be born in a small town like Port Arthur. The small
city was large enough to be put on the map, but small to enough to call home. What
I remember most about it is how people knew their neighbors. When I say ‘knew'
their neighbors, I do not mean it was a ‘hi’ or ‘bye’. People
conversed , ate, and played together. They shared their troubled days and their good days.
There was enjoyment in knowing your next door neighbors. We were all one big family trying to
make it in little town America the best way we knew how. This feeling made
me feel complacent as a child. I never felt lost in the crowd.
What was striking, too, in my
memory of the day, was Port Arthur’s lay out.
The setting was like a scene right out of Huckleberry Fin. It’s probably why I felt so readily
connected to the children’s books I read. Homes had long porches to sit on in
the evenings, a big yard to invite a neighbor to play baseball,
and an alley running in the back of it. The gravel road connecting backyards was a place to be off the
street and explore. No one had fences.
How many times had I gone back there to admire the beautiful back yards of my
neighbors with their rose gardens, vegetable gardens, and flowered trees? How
many times was I given the opportunity to take in the beauty of another’s work?
And though neighbor’s yards were open to us, we all knew our limits. The alley
was a public road. People’s back yards were not. Nevertheless, I always felt the
maintained yards were kept up for me, too.
There was a pride in enjoying what the bigger family had.
I could never forget, too, the pecan
trees that canopied my back yard. To me, as a child, their limbs reached the
sky and provided the most splendid food a child could snack on. I remember
being impatient for their meat, picking raw nuts and peeling them. The result
was a green stain which tinted my hands for weeks. But it was that green stain, once, that
prevented a ruler slap on the hand from an incensed teacher. She must have felt
sympathy for the little girl with the jade colored hands that could have easily
been mistaken for a faded bruise. Till
this day, a green pecan can soar me back to the day, the place, and the incident.
It will forever be a splendid memory within me.
And then there was the autumn
gathering of the ripened ones. The
memory is so vivid as if it happened yesterday. My mother would lay a sheet
beneath the trees, tap the limbs gently with a towering cane, and then it would
be our turn. We would gather the pecans and put them in sacks. Later, she would
use these pecans to make the best baklava in the world! How can I forget the
taste of fresh pecans, sugar, with a touch of rose water rolled in crispy
buttered phyllo dough that melted in my child mouth? And though, it has been decades since that
time, I still crave its taste. I can still smell its aroma. The sights and the scents coming from my
mother’s small kitchen will be forever imprinted delightfully in the spaces of
my heart.
And then there was Rose Hill Park. Within walking distance of my home, it was the
most comforting spot a child could visit with their parent. The sprawling park
had swing sets, baseball fields for minor league teams, a canal that a young person
could sit upon granite rocks to watch the tug boats go by and a bridge to cross
the other side. It was much later that I understood the historical background
of that canal. Jean Lafitte, the French Pirate, was said to have traded there.
And there are rumors of hidden treasures still there. The treasures that I received
from the canal are all priceless memories. Bike riding near the canals road way,
hearing ghost stories of lovers who drowned there and the childhood fears
associated with it, rolling down the green hills and
dreaming. A child could forever daydream about the mysterious places the ships
passing the canal sailed to. For a moment in time, they could be there. Yet, my
most inspiring memory of Rose Hill Park was Rose Hill Manor, a historical gem
sitting atop its grounds, adjacent to the canal.
Rose Hill Manor was a mansion built
in 1906 by Rome Woodworth, who would later become the mayor of Port Arthur, and
whose family, in 1948, would bequeath the estate to the people of the city.
I always felt that the house, with its turn of the 20th century
look, spiral staircase, wooden floors and old fashioned verandas, belonged to
me. Wasn’t I one
of them? And the lesson I learned from the estate givers was my ultimate
treasure that I took from Rose Hill Park, and its entirety. A human’s legacy,
I learned early on, lasted an eternity when it was shared with others. Mr. Woodworth and his family shared their home with others. Kindness
and generosity are timeless characteristics. I will always be thankful for
their fine gift. My fondest memories were from that gift.
And yes, it was my innocence that
made me love those days. I was innocent to the truths in life. I had yet to concern over, who I was or what
role I was to play in life. I had yet to
care about, my looks or imperfections. I had yet to worry about life other than
what was inside my street, my little town that I belonged to. Life was simple
then. Living in Port Arthur made more simple. That moment in time will always be a place of
my most wonderful memories. It set the
foundation for who I’ve become. I will never be one to be lost in the crowd.
