A Place Called Desire

the forgotten community

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The Christmas Fruitcake

The Christmas Fruitcake made its appearance at my childhood home every year. It was my Dad’s tradition, and he kept it going well into his senior years. Now that I think back, I can’t remember when the production stopped. All I remember is that it traveled from uptown New Orleans to downtown Desire. I do know one thing for sure, and I hated them. I can remember making Schwegmann’s runs with him to get his ingredients. It was all done from scratch, from flour and brown sugar to plastic containers that held the jellied and dried fruit and unshelled nuts. While I watched the steps he took (note nothing was written down), it encompassed hours. It was just a given that on this day, if you wanted to eat at the only table in the house, you should make plans before production started. The ingredients covered the whole table. There was a metal grinder (I wish I had held on to that) that he hooked to the edge of the table and would meticulously combine his ingredients. It all ended up in the roasting pan and mixed together, poured into disposable metal loaf pans, and baked. The aroma stayed around longer than the fruitcakes. They were handed out to welcome hands. It’s amazing how relatives from both sides of the family would show up, all leaving out with a loaf. I remember a few being shipped to California one year to one of his uptown New Orleans friends who had relocated. No dollars ever changed hands: just fruitcakes and warm holiday best wishes.

We take so much for granted in life, assuming it will be present forever. At this moment, on this day, during this Christmas season, I would give anything for a slice of fruitcake. Not just any fruitcake. It has to be Smitty’s.

Happy Holidays❤️

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Memories of Desire – The Record Truck

record_truck

Summertime in Desire. The memories are many of the three months we were out of school and enjoying each day. We were fortunate to live in a home that was always filled with different genres of music. From my Dad’s love of Jazz (one of his favorites was Count Basie) to my Mom’s obsession with keeping up with the “Jet” Magazine’s Soul Brothers Top 20 List or the songs she heard on WBOK, my siblings and I were all up on the music of the times. One way Mom acquired her collection of top 45s was from the record trucks that rode through the streets of Desire.

Dad had to punch the clock before the sun rose, so Mom rode the public transportation bus to work each morning. Because she was not a quiet dresser, we would be involved in her preparation to leave the house. Checking to make sure her outfit was on point, waking one of us or all of us to get a second opinion, grabbing an umbrella if it looked like rain or for the heat if the bus was off schedule, making sure she had a bus token in hand and “NOOOO, please don’t turn off the fan!” Before central air conditioners in homes, gigantic Reed fans were most popular in the 50s and 60’s across the south. It blew comfortable, cool air at night and circulated hot air during the day. We counted our blessings that we had one to get us through the hot months of New Orleans’ summers, even if it was primarily used to get us through the steamy nights. When you heard the fan motor winding down, you knew it was time to start the date, or if you chose to lay in bed a little longer, it was understood that there was a chance of drowning in your sweat. Before she made it to the front door to exit, we were told what was expected of us that day. From hanging clothes on the clothesline, making sure that we checked the mailbox, then calling her at work to relay what had been delivered that day, to dropping shoes off at the Holmes’ Shoe Repair across the tracks, we were kept busy. One recurring chore on that list was “if the record truck passes before I make it home, check to see if he has…there’s money in the can.”

sons_of_desire

The waiting game began as the clock ticked, and finally, we could hear the sounds of Motown, Stax, Tamla, Atlanta, and Columbia, to name a few, in the distance. We would then make our way to the front porch to ensure we didn’t miss the purchase. Back in the day, Eddie 3 Way and Walt Boatner record trucks ruled the streets of Desire. Inching at a slow rate of speed (I can’t imagine today someone riding our pot-holed city streets in an open van sitting on a stool spinning 45s) with no skipped beats blaring from the speakers. 

“RECORD MAN!” “RECORD TRUCK!” “STOP!” Folks would line up, some with paper notes containing the 45s they wanted to purchase. Others were prepared to hum instrumentals. Then some would give a sampling of the vocals of a song they did not know the name of. Some that were unsure of themselves vocally would speak the lyrics. A sample was played, and the purchase was made. There was a sense of pride as you walked away with the coveted 45, and sometimes there was a bit of envy as that song could be heard from your home throughout the neighborhood. It was all fun because today was your day, and tomorrow would be someone else’s.  

top 45s

Later in the day, Mom would return from work, and when that 45 was handed over to her, we knew our evening would be filled with music. It was great when it was a 45 that was a 2-sided hit. Sides A & B would be alternated, as in the photo (Soul Brothers Top 20 List of January 29, 1970, courtesy of “JET Magazine”), “Going in Circles” by the Friends of Distinction was #1. The flip side was “Grazing in the Grass,” a hit that reminds me of my childhood summers and the record truck. 

Our home had an RCA High Fidelity Record Player with a record changer, so the new purchase was usually added to the stack of other recently purchased 45s with a few oldies but goodies added for good measure. Assignment completed. Mom was happy, and so were we. 

Leslie Smith Everage

#APLACECALLEDDESIRE

 

 

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The Ladies’ Tammany Social & Aid Club

Fourth Sunday of January

“Be it known, that on this sixth day of March, 1946…the name and title of said corporation shall be ‘THE LADIES’ TAMMANY SOCIAL AND AID CLUB.” From the Charter, Constitution and By-Laws as stated on page 1.

Momma’s Charter, Constitution, and By-Laws of The Ladies’ Tammany Social & Aid Club, Member’s Badge, and Memorial from the Times-Picayune April 1991.

Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs are an integral slice of African-American culture in New Orleans. These organizations were created for fellowship and for financial support to bury properly the free people of color and the deceased African slaves. Many currently know of the pleasure clubs “coming out” on any given Sunday from October to March. I “came out” with many elderly women, including Lettie “Momma” Jones Boseman, my grandmother, every fourth Sunday in January for over 30 years of my life. The Ladies’ of Tammany Social and Aid Club allowed me to enter into this culture each year through the anniversary service. Unlike the colorful outfits and umbrellas of the traditional second line members, the tools of trade for the Ladies’ of Tammany were bibles, their Sunday best attire, and hats, or crowns as I love to call them. Instead of celebrating in the streets of New Orleans, they praised God from the pews of churches throughout the city. Article XII-Section 2 states,” two years Baptist, third-year Methodist, and the same Church not under four years. Failing to attend each member shall be fine One Dollar ($1.00).” Our fourth Sunday in January took us all over the city to places of worship in our Community of Desire to far on the other side of town. As a youngster, I considered myself Catholic, Baptist, and Methodist because of these anniversary services and understood that God was the common denominator.

I relished that I got to spend the entire Sunday with Momma alone. Alone, that is, with a hundred or so other elderly ladies in their church finery. I inherited this date with Momma from my older cousin Iris after she became high school age. Before Iris, my youngest aunt Louvenia (Beanie) would be Momma’s companion. I was conveniently located around the corner, so I was summoned into duty. My oldest male cousin, Kenneth, began as our driver, and in later years, Devance III would take on the chauffeur job. It’s funny to think back at how Momma would give a time to pick us up because there was no guarantee the church office would be accessible to make a telephone call for a pickup. It’s incredible how she could calculate how long she believed the service would last by the minister that would be presiding. As I aged, married, and began driving, Momma would open her purse, which was always filled with peppermints for the service. She would hand me $2.00 to gas up the Chevette to get us to and from church. She, of course, insisted that I take it. I always assured her I would stop on my way home to purchase the gas. Back then, it was still ridiculous to ask for $2.00 worth of gas to fill up a car, even a compact Chevrolet Chevette. She was unaware of it, but I would just put the $2.00 in the collection when the “sisters” passed the basket around.

I was always so proud of Momma because she was such a cool servant of God during service. The preacher preached, the choir singing, and as the other members were falling out in the pews, somehow Momma never did. If she “got the spirit,” she was great knowing how to hold on to it. If you did not get anything out of the service spiritually to warm your soul, the snacks in the church’s kitchen surely warmed your stomach. I would sit in church wondering what goodies the old ladies of the refreshment committee were preparing. I would feel guilty as my thoughts left the minister’s preaching and landed in the kitchen. The aroma usually would find its way into the church, and it was challenging to stay focused. The pound cakes were always fantastic, and Momma always managed to sneak a piece into her pocketbook for later. It amazed me how fast she could wrap a piece of cake and slip it into her purse without anyone noticing.

Debra Smith and Tiffany Smith Williams visit Momma after attending church service at St. Philip the Apostle. On our way to the Ladies’ of Tammany Anniversary Service. Fourth Sunday of January 1981.

At the end of each fourth Sunday of January, Momma would always thank me and would speak of the following year’s anniversary service. I guess it was her way of informing me not to make any plans for that day. “If I am still around” was her favorite line. The first year she became ill, maybe two years before her death at the beautiful age of 87, was the first time we had missed Tammany. I am sure her membership spanned over 50 years, maybe more. The first, fourth Sunday of January, after she went on to glory, reality hit, and of course, that was the hardest one. This Sunday and quality time with my beloved grandmother had become routine for me for so many years. Lettie “Momma” Jones Boseman was a loyal and faithful member until her death. Momma and The Ladies” Auxiliary of Tammany and the fourth Sunday of January will live in my memory and heart forever.

#APLACECALLEDDESIRE

THE LADIES’ TAMMANY SOCIAL AND AID CLUB

 

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BEG, BORROW, BUT DON’T STEAL!

Many families in the Desire Housing Project had large numbers of children. The largest apartment consisted of four bedrooms, one bathroom, one kitchen and one living room. Many families slept two, or more to a room. It was not unheard of for kids to sleep two or three in one bed. That’s just the way it was. There was no teasing or gossiping about people’s sleeping arrangements. It was the norm for us.

Another thing that was normal was borrowing. There was no company supplying loans until the next payday. There were few food banks. There were no, or few food vouchers issued by the government. However, there was the next door neighbor. Or the downstairs neighbor. Or, if necessary, the neighbor across the driveway. Because, inevitably, there would be a shortage. Sometimes, there was too much week left at the end of the money. The groceries purchased from the nearby Schwegmann’s had just run out.

kitchen flour sugar

Usually, it was the rice, sugar, flour, or even grits. I guess those were staples in the homes of families with five, or more, children. Those were items that would stretch meals and make mundane meals taste a lot better. Very few families were immune from the inevitable, perpetual shortage of some staple. Even though there were many trips to the corner grocery store in between weekly shopping, sometimes there was just not enough money to purchase food, or credit to be extended to buy them.

Neighbor privilege was a necessity. Grace was always available somewhere. Generosity ruled the hearts of many in our neighborhood, courtyards, and driveways. Some households were more fortunate than others, having two incomes, or maybe staggered pay periods. Whatever the source of the availability, someone had something to share.

Many nights while watching our favorite television program, we were disturbed by a knock on the door by one of the kids from a family needing to complete a meal with something from a neighbor’s pantry. Or there were those days when we wanted to bake a cake and my brother had used the last of the margarine! How could we finish dessert without it? No worries! Someone would save the day! It never failed!

Maybe it’s time to say, ‘ thank you,’ to the neighbors who cared enough about other children to give out of their hearts, their cupboards, and their purses to make sure children did not go hungry. They taught us valuable lessons that stuck with us through a lifetime. It gave us so much reassurance that someone cared about us. That , even though we had to, in the words of some, ‘beg and borrow,’ we did not have to steal to eat.

Winnifred  Magee