"Sweet Georgia Brown"

 

 

            I am not a sports fan by any stretch of the imagination, even though I play at being interested in the local Philly sports clubs for the sake of my son who loves them all.  I do listen, I learn and I cheer, but other than that my enthusiasm for sports is very limited at best.  However, there is one team that I completely enjoy; The Harlem Globetrotters.  My son, the aforementioned sports fanatic, gave me and my husband tickets to see them at the Wells Fargo Center recently.  The team entered the court like they have for the many years that they have been in existence; to the tune of “Sweet Georgia Brown.”  The game was also played much like it had been for so many years, yet somehow it has not grown stale.  They were fun and funny and one was female.  That in and of itself is important; you’ve come a long way baby, now you are playing with the big boys and holding your own to boot.  She was wonderful and the icing on the cake was that she had once played, and incidentally graduated from my Alma Mater, Temple University.  However, the advances of women and Temple grads are far from my mind. 

            My dad was also not a big sports fan though in his later years he would discuss the Philly’s with Chris, and he would sit and watch the game on a Sunday afternoon or Monday evening.  Mostly, though, he was scouring the stands for a glimpse of his sports fan grandson cheering for Howie’s Homies, or raising the red for the Phils althogether.  There were some Sundays when I was growing up that Dad and I would watch basketball, the Globetrotters to be exact.  It was in the years that Meadowlark Lemon was the captain of the team, and this lanky African American man made magic with a basketball.  From their trademark dance with the ball around the opposing team to the twirling and dribbling and shooting the Trotters were a fascinating bunch of athletes and magicians melded into one.  We laughed, and commented at how much fun they were to watch.

            It was with this fun in mind that Dad decided to take us to see them.  I believe that we saw the Globetrotters in the arena in Philadelphia sometime in the early part of the 1960’s.  The place was jammed with people spanning age and diversity but all united in anticipation for a good show.  As the arena began to hush down from the cacophony of talk, laughs, and hoots, the whistling tune of “Sweet Georgia Brown” resonated from some hidden sound system and the tall men dressed in red white and blue entered the house.   As they moved on to the court and dribbled balls in a circular motion a circus like announcer began his spiel.  “ANNND now introduuuuucing the HAAAAAARRRLLLLEEEEEMMMM Globetrotterrrrrrrrrrrssssssssssssssssss.”  The show had begun.  The opposing team, in those days, the Nationals, were also introduced, but not with such fanfare or flair as the Globetrotters.  Each man was named and each did his specialty with the basketball, then the game began. 

            The game was played with precision but it was also a complete show of ability and grace.  There were times when a teammate would appear on top of the basket, or dribble a ball while sliding on his side under another player.  The magic moved quickly with breaks to bring unsuspecting audience members onto the court to “play” a bit of ball with the Trotters.  Everyone chosen agreed with good humor and enough humility to allow the showmen their tricks.  Dad and I seemed to enjoy it the most as we cheered and laughed and he pointed out the different antics on the court.  It was a wonderful day, and the beginning of many more Sunday afternoons sitting on the couch and reminiscing as the team played on the small screen.   It was also the reason why, many years later I took my own three small children to see the infamous Globetrotters. 

            As I sat watching the new team perform, I couldn’t help but remember those days with Dad.  Big Easy, the present captain, was agile and fun with his deep hahahah laugh and the lady player exciting, but there in the back of my mind I was a little girl again watching a sports game with my dad.  Dad has been gone almost three years now and Meadowlark Lemon is in his eighties, my sons are grown and on their own, yet somehow watching the Haaaaaarrrrrrrrleeeeeemmmmmmmmmmmm  Globetrotters has made time stand still and simply put, made me want to whistle “Sweet Georgia Brown,” with the biggest smile and the tiniest tear. 

 

 

Butch's Auction

 

In today’s world, little girls are sometimes shot, or kidnapped or whatever.  It is important then for the parent to be constantly vigilant concerning them.  It was really not always that way.  There was a time when such atrocities, though maybe committed from time to time, as the boy in the box can attest, were not the thing of headlines and constant news.  There was a time when it was okay for little girls to manipulate their way through a large store without fear or suspicion.  In those days exploration of an environment was safer for a child, but still the security and warmth of family mattered. 

Growing up in a safe, suburban community was the ideal of the last century, mid-century to be exact.  In the 1950’s and ‘60’s a child of a certain age could walk to the corner store, walk to her friend’s home or even move around a mart without worry or concern.  This was such the case with me.  Every Friday night, my parents would observe their weekly ritual by going to Butch’s Auction/mart to buy the needed food for a growing family.  While I was not quite of an age to be left home alone for that extended time, I was allowed to stroll through the store, meeting up with a parent from time to time and then going off again.  Of course, I had to tell them where I would be, but that was not a problem because they would have guessed anyway. 

Butch’s was the quintessential farmer’s market of the day.  It stretched out for what seemed the length of several blocks with dirty floors and rows of booths or stands where people hawked produce, meats, junk and a variety of other necessary and unnecessary items for sale.  There was a very distinct odor to the place; it had the mixed aromas of cooking grease, fresh vegetables, old tires, and sweets.  It was certainly a cacophony of scents that teased the taste buds and roamed off into the air once again.  The sounds of Butch’s also mingled like an out of tune chorus consisting of altos, sopranos, tenors and bases and other varying voices without the benefit of a maestro to untangle the melee of resonances reverberating throughout the mart.  There was a book stand, where my mother always gravitated, the meat stand where my dad placed his order to be picked up before leaving and at the end of both aisles one and two the infamous toy area where my sister and I generally meandered.  I knew where each interesting booth was situated, and I knew where my parents would be as well.  Often I chose to avoid those areas, but other times I would chose to visit them for a brief minute of begging and nagging for a new Barbie Doll. 

Sometimes I would amble along with my older sister, sometimes I marched on alone strictly to my own tune, but I would always head for one of two places.  First, most assuredly was the toy section where I would seek out the aforementioned Barbie Doll that I would eventually earn the money for and buy.  Next, would be the ice cream stand at the end of aisle one, where I would use the dime I had been given for either a soft serve chocolate cone or an orange ice.  In some cases, I could calculate when Dad would arrive there and con my way into a hot dog and orange aid.  It was heaven. 

Towards the end of the evening, I always knew where Dad would be, either at the meat counter or in the auction hall.  Many times after scoping out the desired doll, while licking the wonderful treat, I would head to the largest room at the very end of the mart to see what my father was up to.  Usually, his eyeballs with more stuff than he needed or wanted but it was always fun nonetheless.   Dad often purchased tools which he would use, or junk which he would not use.  He loved the game though, and the song of the auctioneer was music to his ears, “Goingoncegoingtwicegoingthree…Bang it belongs to the gentleman in the back.”   I believe that he purchased his beloved Anniversary clock at one such auction, but I am not sure if it was Butch’s or not.  Most likely though.  That was his crowning glory, he loved clocks, but I digress. 

It was fun to sit with Dad while he listened to the auction and watched the people buying and selling the things of Americana; the items cast off by one and coveted by another. The benches were hard and the auction was always crowded.  Once I spied him, I would squeeze in past the other ardent auction lovers excusing myself as I stepped on one toe after the other, to the seat next to him.  The people, mostly portly men and women and a few buttoned up children, would move and sway to the undistinguishable syllables from the front and at times raise their hands into the air.  The boundaries of the room were jammed with old brown furniture, piles of yellowish boxes and plastic whatnots from floor to ceiling.  The room was always hot and sticky no matter the weather outside and the odor of cigarette or cigar smoke and old dinner wafted from the rafters and back down to the hordes of folk transfixed by the auctioneer.  

Dad would explain to me what the gavel bearing man was saying and point out different items in the gallery.  He would show me the items that he was interested in and often exclaimed that he only needed one, not the twelve dozen offered.  So he would hold his bid for another item, perhaps one that would bring him joy.  When I would exclaim that there was something of interest to me, he would look over the treasure and decide if it were of any value or not.  Most often what I liked was not valuable or really any good.  I listened to him because I understood that he knew if this was a thing to be considered or if it would disintegrate into uselessness before the wrapper was taken away.  There weren’t many things that I wanted from that auction or many that I actually got but there was one perfect thing; sitting, nestled close to my dad and enjoying a Friday evening.