Walter Gene Richardson
Growing up in the south was very difficult for Blacks in the 60’s and 70’s and for “Black Mothers” things were especially hard. To this, I can bear witness, for my dear mother was single and had, not one or two kids, but eight children to teach, feed, and care for which left no time for a fulltime job or even a decent part-time job. During my childhood, I only remember my mother doing domestic work on Saturdays for a white lady named Ms. Combs and cooking at a “greasy spoon” in a location called The Block in Goldsboro, NC. Whatever the need was for her family, my mother, Nancy Mae Richardson, made it happen. From walking numerous blocks or miles to ensure her family received a monthly ration of commodity food, to walking several miles at 4:00 a.m. to the Salvation Army to make sure she was able to get us toys for Christmas. Man, I still remember that government cheese, yellow grits, thick peanut butter, luncheon meat, and the beef that she doctored up with onions and poured over rice. All I can say was, “delicious.” So much love was put into each and every meal that was prepared for us daily. I can never remember not having a homecooked meal or going hungry. We prayed and ate together every day. Now days, kids are lucky to get a homecooked meal 3 times a week.
As we grew up, we moved a lot due to all kinds of circumstances that only my mother
knew the reasons why and we never asked why because “back-then” you didn’t question your mother or elders. For me, I know we moved around six times between the ages of five and 14. I have very fond memories of one of our houses that was referred to as a “shotgun house” (when you open the front and back door, you can see completely through the house) on Griffin Street where we, as kids, first learned to be in the house by the time the streetlights came on. I played with a friend who lived across the street directly in front of us named Dan Bullock who later at the age of 14 years old, joined the United States Marine Corps and became The Youngest American killed in the Vietnam War. An American Hero.
At the age of eight, I started my first job at a car wash. The gentleman that I worked for was a WWII veteran and a tank gunner and he would tell my friend Chester and I a lot of really interesting stories about his time serving our great country. At the car wash, we had a lot of customers who were stationed at Seymour Johnson AFB in Goldsboro, who often talked to us about their jobs in the Air Force. The soldiers were very impressionable to us and they drove nice cars and tipped us well. Yep. We looked forward to seeing them drive up and I always paid attention to how neatly the airmen dressed. The job at the car wash gave me the opportunity to buy my school clothes and to even pay my mother (yes, my mother) each week to not have to wash dishes during my assigned week. Yea
buddy. I had an assigned week to wash dishes. All chores were assigned by the week. We had a mother like Florida Evans on Good Times You know it; I was JJ. Education, discipline, work, and respect was taught throughout our childhood. Well, after a new owner took over the car wash, I started pumping gas at what we called a filling station and worked at a grocery store. Imagine driving up to a gas station today and someone walked up to your car to pump your gas. You probably would drive off or assume the person was crazy. Wow! How things have changed. All the jobs I had were rewarding, kept me off the streets, and prepared me for greater accomplishments.
During the summer I would save all my money I made from my various jobs and my
mom would allow me to ride the bus to Columbus, Georgia to spend the summer with two of my favorite cousins, Mark and Julius Herring, who lived on base at Fort Benning, GA. During the bus trips at stopovers in Fayetteville, NC, I would see Military Police walking around the bus station with local police. They sported SPIT-shined jump boots with white laces MP ,brassard, white scarf with their unit patch, and their presence was one of authority. You talk about Sharp! My cousin’s father, Uncle JC (Julius Caesar Herron), my mentor, was a soldier and an instructor at the United States Army Airborne School. He always stood tall and looked like a distinguished soldier. While visiting, we would often go to Fryar Field to watch military students jump from planes. Uncle JC was an Airborne Ranger, Pathfinder, Air Mobile, Combat Infantry Badge and had been a member of the 555th Parachute Infantry Battalion, nicknamed The Triple Nickles, an all-black, airborne unit of the United States Army. (Airborne! All The Way!) Again, I was paying attention to my surroundings. During my junior year of high school, I knew that college was not for me. I wanted to serve my country in the United States Army. HOOOAH! I graduated from Goldsboro High School on a Monday evening and was on my way to the Military Reception Station on the following Sunday. From training units of Fort Jackson, SC, to Fort Gordon, GA, to my first assignment with the 139th Military Police Company, and to my last assignment as an All American with HSB, 2nd Bn, 321 st AFAR, 82 nd Airborne Division my military journey was finally complete.
I had the job that I had sought for many years. A life with so much support and camaraderie.
So many brothers and sisters who were from similar backgrounds had made the same trip.
This was not the greatest life, yet it was far from the poverty level that my mother had to struggle through to support her eight children. The US Army gave me the opportunity to assist my family and take some of the burden off my mother. Always READY! WILLING! ABLE!
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