Oh, well, that's the way it goes sometimes.
But that isn't really what this post is about. The book has opened up some very dear memories.
In 1963 when I was 21 years old my first husband and I along with my toddler, Cathy, moved to our little house on Park Street. As we were moving in a black man came around the corner and asked us if he could help us bring things in. It was our neighbor Walter Jackson. His wife, Helen, had died a few years before and he always wished we could have met her. He just loved to have some people of his own and it was so nice to have him. Some people called him Jack, others Walter, but I always called him Mr. Jackson and so did my girls........except for times they slipped and called him Grandpa! My girls adored him, he was always there if I was late getting home, he'd have them come over, push them up to his table and give them a snack. He took care of injured birds for me, stayed up late so he could brush the snow off my car, even came in and cleaned my house till it glistened when I had to work late at Christmastime at the flower shop. He grew a garden so he could take care of it and I could have all the vegetables I wanted. And I know he wrung his hands and prayed for me when Phil and I had problems. He was the best neighbor and friend I will ever have.
Mr. Jackson was first of all in his heart a cowboy, then a railroader, a precinct committeeman, and a Methodist - I think in that order. I'll write another post on his very interesting life soon.
My point is, I never was a racist. How could I be with him as an example of love? Diane
