The 9th Street (A True Story): Chapter 2

2^ND CHAPTER: 2^ND VERSE…

 “If you do not know where you came from, it can be argued you have no past and no plans for a future.”  _____________Unknown

 

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS, A THOUSAND QUESTIONS

I am standing in the front row, fourth from the right.  I was five years old. It was the year of the flood (1951), which changed part of the demographic on 9^th Street and forced several families to seek higher ground.

It was a long time ago and in another sense it was yesterday. The conformity is as apparent as our differences, delineated only by the color of our stripes. Can you tell which ones are rich?  Which ones are in the middle and which ones are not?  Do you know the name of power? There are thirty-three children in this photograph, and I think I knew then I’d never make it playing by their rules. Although, there were times that I was one with them—this was one such time. It is indeed a strange world. But we can’t stop here—this is the hope-filled, starting point. And look at all of those precious, freshly scrubbed faces—- I wonder how many are still standing in lines.

Every now and then life gets really complicated and you have absolutely no one to talk to, no-one to explain it all, no one is your friend and you sink into an abyss with the swagger of a fool.

 

9^th Street was a place without a written record. It was one block out of a thousand and unlike any other because it grew out of the carnal and perpetual seeds of sin, sex and economic necessity.  It was a corridor of candor, not because of its unstained purity, but rather because of the true expression of what it was. You see the truth is the only virtue in our universe more dangerous than ignorance.  It is the mirror of human nature without a filter, i.e.’ the player always gets paid.’  Absolute truth is cleansing, but only after you’ve done something you had to do.  It’s a life sentence without parole, or death by hanging, and if spoken in a court room, or uttered in passion, it is often a sentence of aloneness.

I’m a fly on the wall, a nigga in the hall, a cockroach running for cover—I’m just another brother. ______________________W. E. Self

 

It all starts with the father…and allow me to tell you about mine. He hammered into each one of his eight sons the following mantra: “I’m the only man I want you to be afraid of in this world—because that will save your life.” Although a man of few words, he would often say:  “Everyone’s life is the moral to their story.”  And nearly everybody who has ever met or knew Nolan Self got who and what he was.

If there is any truth about fathers and sons perhaps it is this:  the only real value between them is what they feel for and teach each other. It is one relationship that begins and ends with the immediate cognition that you give a damn.  At the risk of sounding redundant, my father was hard but honest, direct but disciplined. He might say, “In this world there ain’t much sympathy for a nigga—so don’t be one. Always carry yourself like a man because the world gives its blessings to real men; men willing to carry their own manhood intact.  And skin color, social status, money, or age— has nothing to do with what it means to be a man, which is a flesh and blood example of moral discipline—and the constant reaching for its hook.

East 9^th Street was just another place for this social-economic ritual acted out by players and ladies of leisure, johns and squares; driven by power, profit, greed and of course survival.  The powerful few and various government officials were never blind to what was happening in plain sight, but instead turned a blind eye, metaphorically shook hands and sealed the deal that allowed 9^th Street to flourish. “Those people should be accepting of their place.” 

They, who the hell are they? They are a voracious wildfire that burns so hot and bright it destroys anything and everything in its way.  Frankly, “they” don’t have to acknowledge or deny anything that was never granted. In this world no man can give another his freedom—real-equity must be taken by any means necessary because freedom and death are ideas that can not be watered down.  Despite the facts denial always played a role, especially in Junction City. Nearly everybody was breaking somebody’s rules—because we were all just trying to be free of something, and ‘get over’. But in the broader paradigm—the boys making the rules were breaking them first and probably more often.  The point is there isn’t a more honest way to say what needs to be said. “Black, White, all their history, shiny, shameful, or heroic, are kindred, conjoined like arms and legs upon a single torso and our lives intertwine in much the same way—for better or for worse.

I guess the best place to start is Fort Riley, Kansas. I’ll ask you: How many young men, (18-26), get drafted into the U. S, Army and are returned to their home town for basic training? Needless to say the irony escaped me at 19, but it was an unforgettable experience. The illuminating thing about being powerless is that you get a bird’s eye of what it felt like to be invisible. But I didn’t know what invisibility really meant, or how crippling it could be once it enters the bone marrow.

After graduation I realized that my experience in the U.S. Army was basic life training. It paralleled my father’s lessons, and fleshed out the meaning of too little, too late, and if I’d only known better.

December 1965.  It is late at night. I am still hunting for myself.  The large skeletal barracks was filled with the unique sounds of sleeping men contrasted by an eerie silence. I idled on the second floor. The barracks flanked Custer Road. I looked across the street at the movie theater. It was cold and snowing outside. The wind was belligerent.  I flicked my cigarette ashes into a tin coffee can and read the marquee “Bunny Lake is Missing.” Maybe those words were an allegory.  I was only 19, and incapable of gleaning very much from anything. I was totally unaware and I couldn’t even imagine what lay ahead. Even Ray Charles could see that.

I returned home after basic as if I’d never left. Two and a half miles from my front door ain’t much of a journey.  And 704 West 13^th Street hadn’t changed, but a button had been pushed. 1966 was the beginning of a social, economic and political slunga-funga for lack of a better word. Highway 61 had already sold out, Martin King, Stokely Carmichael and Muhammad Ali’s sound bites were televised live, the hippie culture sprouted wings, and feminism and the civil rights movement signaled the beginning of the end of blind obedience.

The Black culture in Junction City was a strange brew of too little money, too many mumbles and not enough maybe. There were (apparently) too few men with ideas and too many that had given them up for a j-o-b.

Black women were a thorny and constant reminder for change, along with the religious community who made noise, but failed to close ranks. Consequently, there was no defining core other than frustration, isolation, and the need for us to get all the way up. On the other hand, the entrenchment of 9^th Street and its culture were a constant because strong black men and women needn’t look anyplace else for their well-being. They took what the streets gave and everything the law allowed because their empowerment depended on economic freedom. Clearly, we hadn’t put our best minds to a resolution. This was further defined by our unique situation as a conquered sub-state so to speak.  Because if you got off the reservation and weren’t shopping (spending money), doing Colored Night at the skating rink or a movie you were ushered back to the neighborhood.  We were surrounded and held captive in spite of the pledge of allegiance and the promises inherent in those so-called inalienable rights.

I hit 9^th Street in a new pair of Stacey Adams. I wore a double wide Knox, cocked east, a skinny-ass tie and bright white shirt under a money-green suede suit with a belt in the back. As I look back, I thought it was cool, I thought I was very cool—you know, in the way it makes you feel good and preserves self respect, but I didn’t see what was coming.  My first trip back to the Block was in the dead of winter. My daddy always said, “Keep the devil in front of you, Bill.”  Of course he didn’t explain the difference between the white devil and black devil, neither of which are to be confused with night and day. However, they are both more addicted to power and pussy than you might think.

By the spring of 1966, I had completed basic training. However, I was still waiting to attend A I.T. (advanced individual training) at Fort Eustis, Virginia.

Fortunately, and thanks to Nolan and Wilma, I owned a 1964 and ½ maroon-colored Mustang and the radio worked. In addition, I had this unforgettable scent stuck in my nostrils. Her name was Katie, and she said one of the coolest things a woman has ever said to me: “When I think of you, the bottoms of my feet burn—slowly.”  She was cheerleader pretty with a body by the Goddess of Victory. Katie was the first black cheerleader at Manhattan High School, which is a distinction because we had never walked on this street before, and the black community in Junction City had made demands for one of their own a year earlier. Her name was Sharon Russell, which sure as hell doesn’t sound like much of a victory today, but we walked together. To be honest we’ve come a long way, but not far enough, because the ruling class has left an indelible impression upon our souls whether we are a willing to admit it or not.

The familiar sound of crickets could be heard above the car engine. A sweet, gentle breeze was stirring the low over-hanging branches. I enjoyed the moving art and the pale yellow glow of fireflies fluttering in the twilight. Katie flicked on the radio and settled back into the bucket seat filled with two separate intermingling energies. I parked and she waited. It was early evening on a Friday night. The weather was ideal. Katie’s energy swelled with the sounds of “Blowing in the Wind,” which followed me out of the car.

I had pulled up in front a  little club, the name escapes me now, and was just going to slide in and grab a couple of beers to go.

Edges are everywhere and they are not always visible. On the other hand recognizing when you’re on the edge can also be misread.  I entered the small club alone.

The sweet gentle breeze stopped at the door. The music inside was all Muddy Waters. I could see a few bodies pressed together through the fog and the music had a palpable power. I went to the bar and ordered two cans of beer to go. I did not sit down. The bartender said, “In a minute.”

My sixth sense was on point—only a few blackened shapes moved in the background. It was dark. The music dominated the mood and the dozen or so people were consumed by their own spheres. I should have left immediately, but I waited for the beer instead. What’s around the corner is very hard to know—then I heard two men arguing. Suddenly a scuffle broke out. A hair-raising scream followed, and the place jumped.

The perfect Friday had turned into one unforgettable–that’s when a black sergeant in his dress greens stumbled out of the darkness clutching a red hole in his chest. It was really ugly. He was bleeding heavily. Apparently an artery had been severed. I thought I said: “Help this man,” but it wasn’t possible. All the saliva left my mouth and what courage I thought I had went with it. The sergeant slumped to the floor. He was dying right there in front of me, and no-one came to his rescue or moved, as a paralyzing wave of fear and nausea flooded the club—checking everyone.

The sound of death rattled in his chest. It was as if he had forgotten how to cough and was no longer able to huck-up the mucus and blood pouring into his throat.  His eyes rolled wide—conveying unspeakable fear. The rattle grew darker, deeper, and deadlier. He gasped as the sounds of death seemed to mesh with the music metaphorically, “I’m a mann…”  The killer challenged everyone with his craziness and this absurdity. “Does anyone else want some of this?”  It was rhetorical. There were no takers.

He thrust the bloody shank into the air. The large, serrated knife glistened in the dark—like rat’s eyes caught in the light. It was an in-your-face display of desperation expressed with unforgivable violence. The sergeant shuddered and his life ended with the Muddy Water’s number. I was frozen in that moment as if captured in a Polaroid. Instantly, the killer struck the top of the bar with the heel of the knife. I jumped. My adrenaline surged. I was close enough to reach out and do something. I could smell this man. But in that straining moment I did nothing but look the other way. Ever have a bloodstained hunting knife waved in your face?

The killer’s name was known to everyone. He had a dark and dangerous history. I stood—stone still–clinging to the edge. “Motha fawker call me a taxi cab!”  He demanded in a voice as remorseless and as absurd as his earlier remark. The bartender yanked the receiver from the wall and starting dialing reflexively. It was a moment of disbelief.  I refused to accept the plain truth—it was too bizarre—too vivid.  It was like getting hit in the face with a brick, and then handing the brick back to the person who had just struck you. The killer bolted before the cab arrived. I followed him outside but this time the fire flies were invisible, the crickets silent, and the sweet breeze—no more. It was a moment ransomed and then held captive by the fetters of fear. I knew the killer.

I do not know whatever happened to him, or if justice was served, or if this episode became just another ‘nigga-story’ with an unhappy ending. Regrettably, I told no one other than Katie and made no contribution other than silence. I did, however, awaken from my bullshit dream, and accepted the fact that I would never be free of fear.

Two weeks later I left Fort Riley and Junction City. It was good-bye to a whole lot of step-in-it, step-out-of-it shit and hello to a new beginning. I was excited and looking forward to my Advanced Individual Training at the US Army Transportation School in Fort Eustis, Virginia. Finally, I was thrust into another world.

THE WISDOM OF J’PIOUS

J’Pious is pronounced (J pe’us)

My eyes came to rest on the naked branches over-hanging his home. Snow was clinging to the saddleback roof. Icicles melted in symmetrical crystals from the eaves edge. The sun and J’pious were rising together and the seminal light was bright.  The snow-plowed streets ran in black concrete grids perpendicular to white. And I watched. I didn’t really understand what I was seeing. There was no discernible plot, no details other than the slow ascent of the sun, J’pious, their mutual warmth and the natural formation of morning starting – all over again.

This man and the sun were advancing without notoriety or disgrace.  I waited for J’pious to speak his wisdom, his special encouragement to me. It was that voice, his truth, and all those cold mornings in prison, with the internal relentless pain – outside the prison walls it was raining, inside thoughts of going insane. Suddenly, the branches trembled slightly the icicles glistened his words twin powers of sunshine and rain. “Everything that I see is beyond sorrow, beyond time, beyond things”—he said—“look with insight and you’ll understand you don’t always get what you want in this life.”

 Ω

The 9th Street (A True Story)

I must warn the reader the following text is an excerpt from an up-coming book. It may be considered harsh by some, mild by others, but it is truthful by the writer’s standard.

Black and white shared the burden and benefit of 9th Street, and after its demise, they shared polar opposite memories. Life is a journey with many curves and switchbacks, but it is a road that no one can turn back. Once the ground is covered and the clock has clicked the pain, memories remain, but the moment is gone forever.

Bill Self, Third (aka Hurdie Charles), and Larry Self

I hadn’t seen “Q” since the day we laid my brother, Mark, to rest in the Fall of 2000. Consequently, we had some catching up to do. I was also interested in hearing more about his incredible, checkered past. We were standing in the basement of his up-scale, two-story, limestone and brick home, watching his pet Iguana dine on a generous mixture of greens.

“Still Bill,” he said sarcastically. “You’re about a curious ass Negro, asking me all these mother fuckin questions!”

“I’m a writer, Q. I’m curious by definition brother. I’m seeking the truth or at least a piece of it,” I said.

“Alright Negro…some truth…we were in the middle of a major drug transaction…with a dumb ass Caucasian. He couldn’t figure out what the fuck this fine white girl was doing with me, but…there she was, lying half naked across the motel bed, as white as a lily between a bag of money and two kilos of coke…she was all the way down with me. I hated the way he looked at me and then her…so I told the bitch, either shoot that mother fucker, or shoot me! I knew she wasn’t gonna shoot me…she loved me!”

Life anywhere and everywhere can be characterized as easy and hard, complicated and simple, and life in Junction City , Kansas is no different, nor is forgetting about it. However, the dichotomy of this big little city is perhaps best defined by the struggle to survive waged between the strong and the stronger.

“Tell me about the pimp life brother. What did you like about it and what did you hate?”

Q looked at me in that intensely cool, but incredulous way of his before he uttered a word. “I got tired of fuckin’ them hoes, Bill.  I used to hide from them mother fuckers until it was time to get paid. Fuckin is hard work – you ever see a fat player?”

Junction City, Kansas , is a town of bold truths and under-recorded histories. It is a town of loud talk, hushed-up secrets, greased palms, hard gavels, and cold jail cells, which were occasionally used for deflection rather than punishment because the “cheddar” was large and the needs were real.

In writing about 9th Street we must begin within the fogging memory of the truth. Whose truth—you might ask? Well, until this moment, there were very few writings about 9th Street, and fewer still written by Black folk, let alone colored people uncoerced. But everybody knew on both sides of the social-economic divide what was really bought, sold and shared there. Everybody knew that it wasn’t just black, and it wasn’t watered down. 9th Street showed the industry, laissez-faire mental acuity and strength of black men and women doing business for all the right reasons—profit. It is a fact that money chases money into criminality, which explains the deep roots of corruption endemic in every society. Sadly, there are very few real images of this unforgettable and outrageous place, little to no statistics, no testimonials, and all of what happened on “the block” has been wiped out and paved over.

I think Martin Luther King Jr. said it best:

“Freedom is the gift of clarity we receive for knowing the truth.”

 Jesus Christ said it supremely:

“Ye shall know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Well, hearing the truth and living the truth are two distinctly different endeavors. This leads us to one man’s recall of an untold story about 9th Street which is a little like daybreak—because it is illuminating and powerful.

Fort Riley and Junction City are connected at the hip for a variety of necessary reasons. Fort Riley was named in honor of General Bennett C. Riley, who led the first military excursion along the Santa Fe Trail . Fort Riley , established in 1853, was designed to provide safe passage for travelers and commerce over the Oregon , Santa Fe and California trails. It has been home to George Armstrong Custer, Lt. General George Patton, to the current day Director of the CIA, and former Commander US forces Afghanistan , David Howard Petraeus.

But it was on the eve of World War II that my father’s story began at Fort Riley and his lively times in Junction City . It was the smell of leather and sweat and the taste of dust that permeated the young horse soldier’s world. Nolan Self broke his first mount at Camp Funston , and served his country on three continents through two wars. The obvious truth does not suggest that every soldier had freedom on his mind and victory in his heart—because that idea is absurd if not naive. But rather, it was his second class relegation that told another story because the army my father joined was segregated and ostensibly black. However, the truth can’t alter the flamboyant and sometimes contradictory history of 9th Street and the plenary commitment of Fort Riley , and Junction City to it, and the roles the shakers and the makers played, because a whole lot of money found its way there.

Imagine that it is a Saturday night. It is August 1963. It is hot. It is late at night. And it is a pay day weekend. 9th street is popping. Your eyes are wide open. You’re walking along 9th Street at an even pace, your heart rate quickens with each step. The hookers flash, wink and blink like neon, to a backdrop of soul music, johns, pimps, players, soldiers, locals and darkness. Young women stroll along the roadway with the scent of Saturday night running headlong from café to curbside with their carnal assets as plain to see as the truth. The dark sky of midnight has fallen on 9th Street leaving the edges glowing in a purple haze.

The following text is an excerpt from the book, “Sweet Boy in the Knee Nigh.” They are the words of my father, Nolan Self, who was born in Leesville , Louisiana , nearly 100 years ago. He was stationed at Fort Riley in 1941, as a latter-day buffalo soldier in the famous 10th Cavalry Regiment. He began his military journey there and his remarkable and historic life will probably end there. What follows are his own words and impressions of the culture on 9th Street .

1st Chapter: 1st Verse…

What are you going to say at the end of the day? When the moon rises slowly and the clouds float away.

9th street runs in an east west orientation and intersects with Main Street , the primary arterial connecting Junction City north and south. The infamous business end of 9th Street began a few scant blocks (more or less) east of Main Street , (which is actually Washington Street , but most in Junction City referred to it as Main Street ).

Nolan Self: “9th Street was the main attraction and the source of nightlife for locals and soldiers alike. 9th Street ran a mere two blocks, but the money flowed all the way to the big banks. Of course, wherever money flows there is opportunity. Particularly on pay day weekends, pimps, prostitutes, gamblers, and players would come to town from as far away as Texas and Oklahoma .

The first black-owned business was the Delissa Lounge Night Club, owned by Charley Griffin, and across the street the Satellite Café and Tyson’s restaurant and liquor store. Mr. Tyson was a small, dark complexioned man, with hooded eyes and a clean shaven head. He drove a purple Cadillac during the early sixties and had a knack for making money. The business next door to Tyson’s was Tilly’s Café, which was a front for gambling and various entertainments–a pool hall, craps and other stuff under the table. Like the thorns in the crown of Jesus Christ there was a lot of pain on 9th Street , but it was also a source of economic power and black independence.

James Gilliam was the richest black man in Junction City . He made a fortune on 9th Street . All the white folks knew this and encouraged it because he kept his money in their banks. He drove a beautiful Packard convertible. Mrs. Gilliam was a music teacher, and James also took care of his sister. But his wife was a church going woman.

She made sweet potato pies about the size of a coffee saucer that would melt in your mouth. Providing fresh pie to keep black folks gambling always seemed to work.

To show you what kind of a man he was, Gilliam had a standing order with the florist to furnish flowers to the Church of God on East 3rd Street every Sunday Morning.

The liquor store was owned by Clyde Barber and run by Jewel, a big breasted, golden brown woman. Across the street was D. O.’s Place. D. O. was the only name I knew him as, and the only Muslim I ever knew in Junction City . He was considered a dangerous man, and prayed five times a day. He’d been in the ‘Big House’ and he didn’t take no shit. D.O.’s Place was just a hole-in-the-wall, but a moneymaker, and he was a classy man. He drove a Dodge and carried a pistol on his person all the time. He did most of the talking, but we never really discussed anything of substance.

He would just be kind to me. D.O. was high-brown and red complexioned, wide and short, about 5’9” weighed about 200 pounds and was a straight shooter. He was married to a very attractive lady, but I never saw her on 9th Street . I liked and respected him.

In his joint, he had a shoe shine parlor and sold whiskey. He’d say (whenever I’d come by), “Self, go in there and take you a drink brother.” I had to do this to show I wasn’t better than they were, but I really wasn’t much of a drinker. I’d drive by in my little (city owned) red, truck down 9th Street and the players and moneymakers would say, “Self, come in here!” The next business next door to D.O.’s was the Black and White Cab Company.”

To paint an accurate picture of 9th Street through the fog of 50 years is difficult because integrity degrades over time. And the image is subjected to forgetfulness and obscurity due to selective memories and the gloss of denial. But the questions that it does answer are: the principle players had the intellectual capability to thread their way alongside different cultures flowing into and out of the income streams generated by 9th Street. From revenue sharing, to pay-offs, from intolerance to proliferation, and sex for sale, to hard-boiled cynicism, doing what was necessary to put food on the table, and the pre-judgments and hypocrisy were relentless. Nonetheless, my father has done well in painting his own masterpiece.

“About Charley Griffin’s Café…now C.G. was the man. He was a short, pleasant looking man, with a half-smoked cigar always stuck between his teeth. He was a friendly man, but as sharp as a widow’s peak. During the Second World War the gambling in Junction City was strong, and the man made so much money he kept it in suitcases by denominations. Ten’s and twenties in one suitcase, fifties in another and hundreds—well you get the picture. There was a pump house (whore house) next door to Charley Griffin’s and before the war in 1941, it had lots of women as you would expect. I was a young soldier boy then. In 1941, you had your choice between white girls and black girls. I got me a woman that night in 1941 that I will never forget. She was much older—about 35 or so, and she says to me, “Young soldier, when the last time you had some pussy? You ain’t had none lately cause you wearing me out!” I was surprised–$20.00 for all night–and I had her all night. I got off it and then I’d get right back on it. She was a good looking brown skinned woman, and it makes me laugh now, because I was from Pine Bluff , Arkansas and never had a full grown, older woman before.

Next door to Charley’s was L.C.’s which was a pool hall—it was a clean place—a real nice pool hall—three tables to play on and only a nickel a game to shoot.

During the weekends, 9th Street would attract 1,000 people and on military paydays, twice that many people or more were on “The Block” as it was often called. The lights were so bright you could see the glow from Main Street ( Washington Street ). Gamblers from Missouri , Nebraska , Texas , and Oklahoma came to town to try their luck.”

In the struggle to be your own man there is a heavy price to pay. What and how much you give up is the key. What a man is willing to sacrifice gives him only a chance, there are no guarantees. I suppose if destiny plays a role, choice becomes a moot point. The truth is all men live within a world beyond their control. To triumph requires a unique discipline and character. They had to ask themselves – do you want to be your own man or someone else’s man? This was especially true then and it is true today.

“Quiet in the daytime, but come dark, everybody came out. All the whores were making money, and the cafes and clubs were jumping until near daybreak. It was a hell of a place. So many brothers were pimpin’ in them days I couldn’t keep track. Charley Stamps was a first class pimp, and a pretty good second baseman. We soldiered together. He always did well and drove Cadillac convertibles. Fat Jimmy was a pimp and he was funny, but dangerous. Casper and Fast Black were pimps. I didn’t have anything to do with that mess. But when I first got there I was young and wild.”

Now you got to know that it wasn’t just about colored follks. White folks who wanted a little action knew where to get it and how. They also knew that Clyde Barber was bellhop at the Lamar Hotel, and all the better class whores came through the Lamar Hotel. Bell hopping in them days was good money. After Clyde made enough money bell hopping he bought his own barbershop.

One night I was hopping bells and this white fella sez to me, “Porter, can you go down on 9th Street and get the blond haired girl for me?” I went there and told Rivers, “I need Blondie.” She was black with blond hair and real curvy. Big tits, big ass—just what the men like. Rivers brought her up in his cab with my whiskey and I took her to his room. He had a whole lot of money lying out on the table. He said to me, ”Take what you want, porter.” I wanted to take it all, but I couldn’t do that—so I took two twenties… figured that was worth my while, and slipped the bills deep into my pocket. This was during the early sixties and 9th Street was still going strong. During that time (because whores are such an important part of the hotel business) Bus Lamar (the owner of the Lamar Hotel) came by our house on 704 West 13th Street and said to me, “I need a bell hop tonight, Nolan.” I asked him, “How much money can I make?”

“Nolan you know bell-hopping. It’s really up to you.”

9th Street was also a source of information. One day Charely Stamps flags me down in the middle of 9th Street and tells me, “Nolan that blond headed boy of yours (Frank my 4th son), got arrested. He and Bubbles (McKinley Patterson) had acted a fool and they took your boy off to jail.” I immediately turned my truck around and headed for the city jail, but when I walked into the police station, Desk Sgt. Dirkee said, “It’s all taken care of Nolan. Take your boy home.”

Big John Higgins, a white man and the City Clerk, was a good man to me. When I got that job as Sanitation Supervisor for the city, some of the black folks were jealous and tried to do me in. But John Higgins stood by me. Higgins told them that I worked for him and that they worked for me. He told them in no uncertain terms that I was in charge. I did all the hiring and firing. I loved that town because I finally had earned a measure of respect on several fronts, but I still had to be careful.

Mark (my 6th son) shot a man after I moved to California and they took him to jail. His wife, Barbara, was still there (Junction City) and she said the judge told the jury. “I know that boy’s daddy and had his daddy been here he would not be in this trouble. I know his daddy,” he said, which impressed the jury and saved Mark from a stiffer sentence.

I’m 84 years old, Bill, (2002) and I’ve never seen the inside of a jail. I’ve always tried to do the right thing, but I really don’t understand some young people today. I don’t understand where I went wrong with two of my boys, (Nolan Self is the father of eight sons) but it don’t change it—because every man has got to carry his own mud in this world.

I don’t know why, I’ve always been a loner. I never liked a congregation. I like to do simple things. I like to dress well. I love music, I used to love to dance, but I’m too old for dancing now. I like to build things. I like to fish. I like to plant things in my garden. General Patton said “…when you do your best, what else is there?”

I made a lot of friends, but I don’t know why people liked me. To give you an example:

Von Quinn, a natural leader, but like me a loner. He was a very dangerous and sometimes volatile man, but young enough to be my son. He invited me to dinner at L.C.’s Pool Hall on a hot summer evening in 1970. Of course I went, and it was full of rough-assed brothers, pimps and players. The minute I came in Von got up and said, “Sarge is in the house and ain’t a mother fucker in here gonna act up tonight.” He was always respectfully in my corner. I don’t do a whole lot of talking, which always seemed to work for me, but I thanked him. He was like another son to me, and I will always love Von Quinn.”

My father came to Fort Riley via the U. S. Army in early 1941, and retired at Fort Riley in 1963. I graduated from Junction City Senior High School the following year in 1964. I was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1965. Ironically, my father and I both trained at Fort Riley. My father soldiered there in 1941 to 1943. I took my basic training at Fort Riley in 1965 during the Viet Nam War. I graduated from basic training on the same parade ground that my father rode on Funston (his cavalry mount) in a regimental ceremony before the start of the Second World War. In this real life journey of father and son, we have been bonded by the indelible brands of blood, war, Fort Riley and Junction City.

“Everything we think and believe is only probable…only a fool is certain. It must not be forgotten, Bill, that we have but one life to live and we are all defined by our own experiences and time on earth.” – Nolan Self