Visit With Uncle Henry

   In August I plan on writing a blog about my trip with my grandmother in 1946. We accompanied my grandfather's body, by train, to Missouri where he was to be buried.  The Visit with Uncle Henry occurred during that trip. It has been on my mind, so I thought I would share it now.

   Gramma made a point of calling Uncle Henry Johnson to arrange a visit.  Uncle Henry was an elderly (80ish), black man, a widower, who lived in the segregated "Negro" part of Nevada, Missouri. He had been born a slave, and as a child, worked in the fields. After the Civil War and Emancipation, he went to work as a porter on the Missouri Pacific Railroad. That had been his life's work.  Uncle Henry knew everyone in town. He had been a good friend of Gramma and Grampa. How that happened I don't know. After they left Missouri and settled in California Uncle Henry kept in contact with them until he died. He would send little notes of interest about people in Nevada and often sent newspaper clippings of events he thought would be of interest to Gramma and Grampa, including of course, obituaries.

   Gramma and I received plenty of stares when we walked down the street to Uncle Henry's house. Not many white folks had cause to be in that part of town. Remember, this was 1946. Uncle Henry's little wood frame house was neat as a pin. He had invited us to dinner, his own cooking, a fried chicken with all the fixin's. I was in for a lesson. Being from California, even though blacks there were still fairly segregated by neighborhoods, it was a whole different atmosphere.

   Uncle Henry seated us at his perfectly set dining table and served us. Then he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a dish towel draped over his arm. I asked if he were going to join us. He looked shocked and said it wasn't his place. I almost cried. There was a big lump in my throat. This was a new experience, an uncomfortable one.

   After dinner Gramma and Uncle Henry chatted away about people they knew, alive and dead. A spinet piano stood against the wall in the living room. Uncle Henry's wife had played it. Gramma had told me to bring some music with me on the trip so that, when possible, I could practice, and also "perform." I even had some popular sheet music. The movie, State Fair was out then and I took a couple of songs along. Gramma knew Uncle Henry liked music, so I took the songs along to play and sing for him. I wasn't taking singing lessons yet. They didn't begin until I started college. I was not quite fifteen when we made the Missouri journey, just after my freshman year in high school. I had sung in the children's choir at St. Cecilia's Parochial School and loved to sing.

   Uncle Henry enjoyed the recital and then took out music of his own for me to look at. At least I think he did. I had a book of Stephen Foster songs, but I don't remember taking that with me! Anyway, Uncle Henry had a favorite Stephen Foster song, "Old Black Joe," and asked me to play and sing it for him, which I did. Today's black Americans consider Stephen Foster's songs, like just about everything southern, as racist; but Uncle Henry didn't, I guess.  He had tears in his eyes when I finished, and thanked me for the song. It meant a lot to him.  I can imagine why. It was history to him.  Here are the words:

                                            Gone are the days when my heart was young and gay.
                                            Gone are my friends from the cotton fields away.
                                            Gone from the earth to a better land I know.
                                            I hear their gentle voices calling, "Old Black Joe."
                                            I'm coming. I'm coming. For my head is bending low.
                                            I hear their gentle voices calling, "Old Black Joe."

   Uncle Henry lived into his 90s. Gramma commented often after his death that she missed that fond connection with her home town and the thoughtfulness of a dear old friend.

6/20/12