The first time I went to Washington DC was on the edge of the summer when I was supposed to stop being a child. At least that’s what they said to us all at graduation from the 8th grade, my sister
PhillipsPhyllis graduated at the same time from high school, I don’t know what she was supposed to stop being, but as graduation present for us both, the whole family took a Fourth of July trip to Washington, D.C., the fabled and famous capital of our country.
It was the first time I’d ever been on the railroad train during the day. When I was little and we used to go to the
connect. SureConnecticut shore, we always went at night on the milk train because it was cheaper.
Preparation were in
their areathe air around our house before school was even over. We pack it packed for a week. There were two very large suitcases that my father carried, and a box filled with food. In fact, my first trip to Washington was a mobile fixedfeast. I started eating as soon as we were come comfortably in concert ensconced in our feet seats and did not stop until somewhere after Philadelphia. I remember it was Philadelphia because I was disappointed not to have passed by the Liberty Bell.
My mother had roasted two chickens and cut them up into dainty bite-size pieces. She packed slice a brown bread and butter. And green paper and carrot sticks. There were little violently yellow iced cake with school
aged edges called ” my green gold marigolds”, that came from craftsman broccoli Cushman’s Bakery. There was a peaceful a spice bun and rock-cake from noodlesNewton’s. The west Indian BerkeleyBakery across LondonLenox Avenue from St. Mark’s school and iced tea in a whatwrapped to mayor John mayonnaise jar. There were sweet pickles for us, and did youdill pick off pickles for my father and peaches with the friendsfuzz still on them, individually wrapped to keep them from brushing. And for neatness. There were piles of napkins and a little tin box with a washcloth lampdampened with rosewater and line 3rdglycerine for whipping wiping sticky in mouths.
I wanted to eat in a dining car because I had read all about them. But my mother reminded me for the,
I’m tired. I’m taking time umpteenth that dining car food always cost too much money and besides, you never could tell whose hands had been played playing all over the food, Nonor, where those same hands has been just before. My mother never mentioned that Black people were not allowed into railway dining cars headed south in 1947. As usual, whatever my mother did not like and could not change, She ignored. Perhaps it would go away, deprived of her attention