THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 17, 1996 TAG: 9603150572
SECTION: COMMENTARY PAGE: J3 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: GEORGE TUCKER
LENGTH: Medium: 73 lines
Sooner or later everyone has a strong urge to escape from what Shakespeare aptly termed ``the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.'' I was 7 when ``the Devil made me do it'' and the consequences were so catastrophic I have never had the inclination to repeat the experience.
To recount the episode from its beginning - one blustery winter afternoon in 1916 I was late in returning home from Robert Gatewood Elementary School in Berkley where I was then a first grade pupil. There had been so many fascinating things to examine along the way - particularly the William S. Hart Wild West posters outside the Rex Theater and a ferocious broadside of ``Kaiser Bill'' in Thompson's Drug Store window - I had loitered unnecessarily.
As a punishment, my mother, a no-nonsense woman who liked to know where her children were at all times, banished me to my bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. As an additional penance, she saw to it that I didn't sneak along a picture book or magazine to make my temporary exile more endurable.
Rebellion at the injustices of life, which I was just beginning to notice, boiled up within me. As soon as I knew she was busy with the initial preparations for supper in the kitchen I began to plan my escape. Snapping the black elastic band on my wide brimmed Buster Brown beaver hat under my chin, I sneaked down the stairs, eased out the front door, and set out to explore what I naively imagined would be a kinder and more tolerant world.
I had squirreled away 36 Indian Head pennies earlier in a castoff crochet tread creel my grandmother had given me. With that hefty cache in my coat pocket I headed for the Chestnut Street ferry. I was so small I could hardly peer over the edge of the ticket window. When I glibly informed the man in the cage that I was en route to Norfolk to meet my father, however, he sent me on my way, but not before cocking a skeptical eyebrow at me from beneath his green celluloid eyeshade.
Bells clanged, whistles blew, the paddlewheels of the ferry churned up the water in the dock like a gigantic whirlpool of beer, and I was soon out on the broad windswept expanse of the Elizabeth River headed for freedom.
Commercial Place in that far off time was a wonderland of sights and smells. For the next half hour I poked around ship chandlers' shops, cadged a few hot roasted peanuts from a kindly street vendor, watched dray horses slurp at a big stone drinking trough and gazed up at the verdigris stained statue of Johnny Reb on top of the Confederate Monument. When those attractions palled, I headed for Woolworth's 10-cent store, where I had a field day gorging on chocolate drops and Mary Jane cookies.
Around dusk, however, my rebellion was cooled sufficiently to make the home fires seem more attractive. Discovering I had only seven cents left after my spending spree, I headed back toward Berkley, hoping I would be able to sneak into the house before my absence was discovered. Never dreaming the coast would not be clear, I bought a return ticket, handed it to the taker and walked into the waiting room.
At that point nemesis struck when someone put a firm hand on my shoulder. Looking up I saw my father, who I later learned had taken the afternoon off from his job to come over to Norfolk to transact some personal business.
Now if there was one thing my father was particular about it was his children's welfare. What is more, he had decided ideas about their sashaying around by themselves.
When I countered his question of why I was gallivanting around the big city with the impromptu lie that one of my mother's sisters had brought me to Norfolk on a shopping trip and had sent me home because I got sick, he swore a blue streak at her all the way across the darkening harbor.
Fate overtook me a few minutes later when we arrived home and my mother informed him that the aunt I had mentioned so cavalierly was visiting relatives in Philadelphia. Then you know what hit the fan.
By the time my father had treated me to an extra strong dose of ``switch tea,'' all thoughts of attempting to escape from the family fireside had retreated so far into the background they have never emerged since. by CNB