by Andrea N. Jones
Picture it– the year was 1976, the same year as the great Bicentennial.
I was a toddler and my mother had just divorced my father. She ended up buying a sweet, brand new, silver Pontiac Firebird with red vinyl interior. She, my older sister Rhonda and I would be mobbin' around the streets of Oakland, day and night. I never minded that it was a two-door and I had to crawl my way to my back buckle seat. What I did mind was getting in on hot summer days because the interior would feel hotter than the sun and my little brown legs would sweat then stick to my seat.
It was always so cool when my mom would pick Rhonda and me up from the roller rink or the movies at the Eastmont Mall. Our friends loved packing in, we didn't grow up on car seats and seat belts, you dig?
My mom worked hard 5 days a week at Southern Pacific, starting out as a Switchboard Operator and moving up to Accounts. We were living for the weekend. Mom would bump The Commodores, Earth, Wind & Fire, Teddy Pendergrass, Rick James or Parliament as we'd make our way up to the Oakland Hills to an affluent community up Skyline Drive, past the Oakland Zoo (Knowland Zoo then) and visit her brother, my Uncle Jimmy, his wife Aunt Connie and my cousins James Jr., Darryl, Tommy and Roxanne. We would PAAARTA!
Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Connie were our black Ozzie & Harriet. They were wholesome but not stuck up. We'd be met at the door with some light barking by their German Shepard Keno as if he were the court announcer. People still smoked indoors back then and us kids didn't do all that fake coughing and carrying on these brats do today. No, no, no. Liquor and beer flowed but no one there ever struck me as being drunk. To this day, I've never tasted cleaner, fresher comfort food in all my life than that prepared by my Aunt Connie's hands. I swear she sprinkled magic over her dishes.
The whole gang would be there, even my dad and his new wife, what seemed like every weekend. Uncle Chester, my grandmother's ginger-headed brother was always there with a sweet smelling cigar between his lips and a toothy smile. He was a prominent dry cleaner and a past Ebony Magazine Who's Who who's Operatic and Barbershop Quartet baritone voice could make a grown man cry. His son Ricky would be in tow, my quietest cousin, a good boy who was all eyes and dark, shaggy hair. The Raiders game would be on. Those were the Madden years and we were kicking ass! At night we'd watch that dirty, old Englishman Benny Hill until I fell asleep and woke up in my bed down the hill at my mom's home on 75th & Mac Arthur to a brand new day.
Those were the days. That Firebird wasn't just a car, it was a statement. It was my mom telling the world that she, Linda Jones, was free, fly af and was not afraid to flaunt her and her girls around in sporty style. Now with 45 years passed all of our relatives that made The Town warm and cozy have since passed or moved away. I thank GOD for all the rich memories I have of them and the endearing love of family that lives in my mind through memory. Without those layers of easy living and peaceful joy, I would not be the strong, irreverent black woman I am today. Thank you! #vroomvroom #flatlanddiva #califia
No comments:
Post a Comment