Bless Harold's heart for giving the idea of this blog title to me.
His name will be the only real name to appear in this bookblog...as I would probably be run out of town otherwise.
And who could I blame? Because I am going to open some eyes, reveal the unrevealed, and shake some dust off the feet of those liars, connivers and surly, burly, filth that lived in these abodes of style.
Noted for its beautiful line of 100-year-old oak trees, I hesitate to begin this blog.
For one, just how many towns are lined with 100-year-old oaks which for the most part have been manipulated by city workers to resemble toothpicks?
And let us not forget the destruction by property owners doing the same, as they wanted to grow the lush green carpets of grass needing to be cut twice a week.
Stupidly, they were providing yaaardwork for the city's yaaardmen. Many of these yaaardmen were the same ones recently released from prison looking for yaaardwork and houses vulnerable and ripe for the picking.
I know, as I had one of those homes being picked.
But again, I digress...as I wanted to speak about the inhabitants and their lives on this once majestic avenue.
It used to be that the only way to live at one of these addresses was to inherit it and many did and do still.
However, with the loss of the long time industrial base, bankruptcy of big plantations and some smaller businesses, let alone the politics of corruption; its no wonder why many of the once stately homes are now for sale.
Many of the sellers have moved away to better opportunities, retirement, but most likely, because of higher taxes and NO representation.
Yes, things have truly changed in the nearly fifty years of living here.
The original street was laid out with huge antebellum homes occupying 5 acre plots.
After the WWI and the Great Depression, city fathers, in order to build and grow the northern end of town, divided the five acre plots into fourths.
The town had to grow, thus "Along The Side Streets" completes the rest of the story.
For it was some of these Nair-do-wells on the side streets that brought incredible diverse life to the "elite".
It was not optional for the elite of whether they give parties or not. They were, in fact, required to provide a "stage" from which Nair-do-well devotees provided them entertainment.
Under their breath, it was known that the elite actually called the devotees, "Worshipers of Wealth."
It was after all, the carpetbaggers lot in life to "bring culture to their fellow man" in the Mississippi Delta.
I first heard that statement in the late 70's, from a Wannabee.
Although married to a filthy rich entrepreneur, she had as much class as my right index toe. Sure, she attended Sweet Brier College...on a scholarship, duh.
But, back in the early 50's that was saying something. Her family, as she so boldly spoke,"Were sharecroppers in South Carolina and she and Dick met in New York at the Met with a friend's introduction."
Oh please! They brought culture to the Delta? Yeah right!
What she did bring into Delta society was the first inter-racial parties, which raised many an eyebrow.
Speculation had it that she was seeing a very influential black man and she would do anything to please him. She would display her affection by supposedly, and "covertly", touching him at her parties.
But again, I get ahead of myself...so back to the Boulevard...as she did not reside on that street on any occasion.
However, I was raised in a newer elitist neighborhood just 3 blocks away.
Initially, all I knew about that street was that it was the only one on our side of town that had sidewalks which were a treat for us kids to ride our bicycle down.
Beginning at the beginning of the street, the first house belonged to one of the founding families of this fair village.
An impressive and stately old white house sat on the corner which courted a magnificent staircase at the front and center, which once climbed, you saw a grand porch giving shelter to marvelous old Boston ferns, white rockers, gliders and swings all flounced with fluffy pillows and such.
Painted green, the porch floor was hidden by giant azaleas brought from southern Georgia many years before. The deep green paint never would provide clues to the horrific hidden deed.
The side porch, facing the river, was screened in with rockers and old Hunter ceiling fans that stirred the heat on hot summer nights.
It was at this very front door, that the Johnstown's favorite son shot himself to death. He had suffered from deep depression most of his life. However, active within the community, it still came as a great shock to hear he had done this dastardly deed.
Some speculated that he had been murdered with the gun placed in his hand, but no one could imagine by whom or why.
As time passed, Peter was discovered to live a distinctively different lifestyle. His many trips to Memphis offered him a variety of treats. None served him better than the establishment of Fannies.
A standard fare at Fannies were the He-Shes and Peter had been introduced by this lifestyle in a weird way. For his 16th birthday, his father, an infamous Judge, sent Peter with his brother to be deflowered.
Excited about his birthday surprise, Peter thought he was going to get a real prostitute and he did. Miss Sonya was one of his uncle's favorites. He kept telling Peter "she" would do anything, and "she" did.
When Peter realized what was up, he first enjoyed his new experience. It was not until he returned home, and wanting to take his pleasures to his girlfriend, Jesse, did he wake up.
He and Jesse had fooled around, maybe making it to third base. When approached with his desires, she wanted nothing to do with his "pleasure".
Although Jesse loved Peter, she broke up with him. Her friends and family shocked at the end of their high school romance, Jesse told them what had happened. Good girls didn't perform that way sexually. Tales spread quickly and soon Peter was off limits to every decent girl.
Depressed, Peter returned to Memphis often, seeking more and more, becoming defiant in his desires. No one saw it coming, not even his father.
Knowing he had been the cause of his son's suicide, he hit the bottle and died a year later of a heart attack.
