Posts
Moving
to Chelsea
Back in 1960 when I was thirteen years old, my
family moved from Henryetta, Oklahoma to Chelsea, Oklahoma. It was an impressionable age for a kid to
start over in a different town and a new school. Fortunately for me there was someone in
Chelsea who helped make the transition a lot smoother than it might otherwise
have been. This is the story of how I
met Ernest Boyd Perkins, my original friend in Chelsea.
My Dad, Everett Middleton, was an auto
mechanic. Business had been slow at
Progressive Chevrolet in Henryetta where he worked. One cold winter day in January, 1960, Boyd
Perkins, the Chevrolet dealer from Chelsea, stopped by Progressive to visit
with mechanics in the shop. He was
looking for a good mechanic and was willing to pay the standard mechanic’s
commission rate but would guarantee a minimum of $75.00 a week to the right
man. Not long after Boyd Perkins’ visit,
Dad earned a paltry $45.00 pay and began to wonder what the future would hold
for him there in Henryetta. After a couple
weeks of mulling over the possibility of moving his family 100 miles away from
the long time family center, Dad decided to drive up to Chelsea and find out
whether that job was still available. He
was only forty years old but had five children; two older girls, Joyce and
Geraldine, off in college at Northeastern in Tahlequah, my fifteen year old
sister, Sandra, eight year old Elaine, and me.
On a Saturday morning in late February, Dad, Mom (Berneice),
Sandra, Elaine, and I traveled up U.S. Highway 75 to Tulsa and along Route 66
to Claremore in our dark green 1952 Chevrolet Deluxe sedan. Heading north out of Claremore past Sequoyah
and Foyil, the landscape changed to a stark brown prairie bordered on the east
and west by leafless gray trees covering craggy hills. The earlier anticipation and curiosity of visiting
this place called Chelsea seemed to dampen as we drove further out into this
unfamiliar countryside. At last we
topped that now familiar grade where the two lane road opened up to a four lane
highway with a wide center median of grass.
So this was Chelsea! Not nearly
as big as Henryetta (Henryetta was a town of 5,000 population ), Chelsea had a
population of about 1,500. The main
highway, Route 66, ran parallel to the Frisco railroad along the east side of
the business district. At the town’s
only stop light at 6th Street, we made the left turn onto the main drag heading
west over the railroad tracks and two or three blocks to where the Perkins
Chevrolet dealership was located on the north side of the street, on the
northeast corner of 6th and Vine.
Parking in an angle parking space near the front of
the dealership, Dad left us in the car and walked into the front entrance of
the place to try and find Boyd Perkins.
He returned a short while later and we headed back down Route 66 toward
Henryetta. Apparently there was not an
immediate need for a mechanic at Perkins Chevrolet. That was a disappointment for Dad but
somewhat of a relief for the hometown family.
Later that year, in early June, Mr. Perkins
contacted Dad and asked to meet him in Tulsa in a parking lot at 51st
and Peoria. Naturally, Everett would not
go there alone. So around 6:00 PM, “quitting
time” at Progressive Chevrolet, Mom, Sandra, Elaine, and I were waiting outside
along 3rd Street near Trudgeon, when Dad got off work. He climbed in behind the wheel of that Chevrolet
Deluxe, six cylinder sedan with a two speed powerglide transmission and drove
us up the Beeline, U.S. Highway 75, to Tulsa.
It was well past dinner time when we pulled into the parking lot and
found Mr. Perkins there sitting alone in a beautiful red and white 1959
Chevrolet Impala four door hardtop sedan.
In what I would come to know as his characteristically grand style, Boyd
Perkins climbed out of his car and greeted all of us eloquently, repeating our
names, shaking our hands and inviting us to join him in an adjacent cafeteria
for dinner on him. This was indeed a
special treat for us as we rarely ate outside our home at 701 West Jefferson
Street in Henryetta. Needless to say,
Mr. Perkins was impressed with Dad’s experience and the character of a man who
was proud to bring his poorly dressed family along to a job interview. The job was offered and accepted then and
there.
So, for the remainder of that summer, Dad worked in
Chelsea, taking a room in the Chelsea Hotel, just south across 6th street
from Perkins Chevrolet. I don’t recall
who it was who helped Dad haul his tools to Chelsea. It was likely my older cousin, Howard Joe
Middleton. But Dad was left there in
Chelsea without a car. Imagine our
surprise the following Friday night when a big 1958 Chevrolet with duel
headlights pulled into our driveway just after dark. It was Dad driving a nice used car from the
Perkins Chevrolet used car lot. Again, Mr.
Boyd Perkins showed his generosity by initiating this practice which allowed
Dad to drive home each weekend to be with the family. We never knew what sort of cool car he might
drive week to week.
The next
morning after he had driven that 1958 Chevy home for the first time, I went out
on the dirt driveway to take a closer look at the car parked in the shade of
the big elm tree there. For the first
time, I saw the impressive mascot of the Chelsea Green Dragons football team in
the form of a sticker on the back window of the vehicle. A feeling of wonder and inspiration came over
me as I looked at that novel logo and imagined what it might be like to be one
of them.
In August, the last week before Labor Day Weekend,
Dad invited me to return with him to Chelsea on Sunday night. What a great feeling it was to head north out
of Henryetta with Dad. Two hours later,
we arrived in Chelsea to find the streets quiet, practically empty. His room at the Chelsea Hotel was on the top
floor in the southwest corner. He told
me how much he liked that corner room because of the nice breezes that swept
across the bed at night when all the windows were open. Of course the rooms at the Chelsea Hotel were
not air conditioned and the bathroom was a shared one down the hall. Air conditioning was a luxury in those days
and we had never had air conditioning at home.
In fact we didn’t have a telephone in our home in Henryetta. If we needed to make a call we went next door
to Aunt Mildred’s house. And the subject
of a telephone would present itself later on in Chelsea as another example of
Mr. Perkins’ relationship with my Dad.
That first Monday morning in Chelsea was another
seminal moment in my introduction to the culture of the town. All summer long, Dad had come back to
Henryetta with stories of life in Chelsea.
One of his favorite stories to relate concerned having breakfast at Ed
South’s Café. Dad would talk in great
detail about watching Mr. South slice off generous portions of smoked ham and
flop them onto the grill as he prepared Dad’s favorite ham and eggs with
biscuits and gravy. These accounts had
made us all envious of the breakfasts he enjoyed there each morning. He spoke of the exquisite quality and flavor
of the ham, letting us know how much he had savored the meals in this unique
cafe. So it was with a great sense of
anticipation, I walked the block and a half along the sidewalk with Dad that
morning in late August awaiting the sights and sounds of Ed South’s Café.
The café and
bakery was located in a typical old business building next door to a pool
hall. Inside, the aroma of meats cooking
and freshly brewed coffee filled the drab room.
Dad and I found a couple of spots at the counter on tall stools between
other customers. At tables were other patrons,
mostly men, some dressed in overalls appearing to be farmers. At another table
was a big guy in boots and a western hat whom I imagined to be a rancher or
rodeo cowboy. Behind the counter,
wearing a white apron and a paper hat was the Ed South of Dad’s familiar
stories, working at the sizzling grill, pressing sausage patties before
flipping them over with a large metal spatula.
Eventually Mr. South turned to us and with an unenthusiastic “Good
morning, what’ll it be?”, asked for our breakfast order. Ham and eggs of course, with biscuits and
gravy was our predictable response. Mom
had served me coffee for breakfast with plenty of cream and sugar ever since I
could remember so naturally I wanted coffee, too. The food that morning lived up to the billing
Dad had promoted for weeks.
The place appeared to serve a multitude of
purposes. Over on the west wall, near an
alley side door, were a couple of pinball machines with which I would later
become familiar. And at a counter at the
north end of the cluttered room were offered a variety of items for sale,
including snacks and cigars. The latter
would also prove to be of some significance during my time in this town.
As was his custom, Dad embarrassed me by introducing
me to Mr. South anyone with whom he may have made even the most casual
acquaintance over the summer. It was
many years later that I came to understand and appreciate how important it was
for him to have a son and to share a close relationship with me. His father’s sudden death at an early age
when Dad was only ten years old left a void that remained always present though
never a source for pity or remorse in him.
Full of ham and a true believer in Ed South’s
cuisine, I accompanied Dad back up the main street of town past Vandeveer Rexall
Drug, Maupin’s Clothing, Lowery’s Furniture, Ben Franklins, Leroy’s Barber
Shop, and Milam Petroluem to Perkins Chevrolet.
We entered into a small area that seemed way too small to be a new car showroom. Instead, the room had the feel of a parts
store. A contoured L-shaped parts
counter dominated the room with active parts bins behind it giving the place
that familiar and pleasing smell to which I had become accustomed while
accompanying Dad on many a late night at the dealership in Henryetta. Colorful
brochures and picture displays were situated around the showroom among casual
seating. Of special interest to me were
the water fountain, salted peanut and gumball machines.
Suddenly, a sharp voice pierced the silence. “Everett, is this that boy you’ve been
telling us about?” Shaken from my trance
of taking in this new place, I turned and came face to face with Mattie
Perkins, an attractive middle aged lady with dark hair and make up to match her
energetic voice. “James Everett, your
daddy has told me all about you and your four sisters. Welcome to Chelsea, son.” I took her outstretched hand and felt the
warmth and strength of a woman of true compassion and character. I could tell by the way she greeted me and
Dad that morning that we were wanted here, that this could be a place to start
again. “I’ll call Ernest Boyd”, she
said, “I want you to meet our son. He’s about your age.”
From the back office area came Boyd Perkins with his
gallant walk and prominent demeanor, “Well, it’s about time you boys showed
up. We get started early around here
young man.” He put his big hand on my
shoulder and walked with Dad and me out to the shop. It was a classic auto service shop. New cars were inside being prepared for show
as well as cars in stalls apparently being serviced or repaired. There were two big doors along the west wall
of the building and a body repair shop at the back along the alley.
After a brief tour, Mr Perkins said, “James, I have
to get back to my office, but I want you to know how happy we are to have
Everett here with us. In the past two
months I have seen what a good man your father is and he is the best mechanic
we have had. Chelsea is a good
town. I think you will like it here.”
I walked over to where Dad was talking to a couple
of men. As always, he was eager to
introduce me. First was Cletus
Coffey. He was a big friendly guy, a
mechanic from Coweta, Oklahoma who had only started work a couple weeks before.
The cool thing about Cletus was that he
had a 1938 Chevy that he was restoring and had installed a Chevy V-8 engine in
it. Next up, Dad introduced me to Dewey
Layton, the auto body repairman. Dewey
was a very friendly guy, easy to talk to.
Finally, Dad introduced me to Sylvester Riley, a
black man, who had worked at the dealership for many years. Mr. Riley, known to most as Syl, performed
many functions including vehicle service, washing, and new car
preparation. His was the only black
family in town at that time. Dad had
spoken highly of Sylvester and I could sense that it was very important to Dad
that I meet him. During the next six years, I was fortunate to know Mr. Riley,
his brother, his son Willard, and a rural community north of Chelsea, affording
me the opportunity to appreciate the common truths of humanity and begin my
personal journey toward better racial and cultural understanding.
No sooner had I shaken hands with Syl, when a short
stocky kid came riding into the shop on a bicycle. Simultaneously, Mattie Perkins came into the
shop and called me over to where she stood with the bicycle guy. “James”, she said, “I want you to meet Ernest
Boyd. He is 12 years old and will be in
the 7th grade this year. Why
don’t you go to the ball park with Ernest Boyd.
He is going to meet some boys there.”
Ernie and I shook hands. He had a friendly smile that made me feel at
ease with him right away. He told me
that some guys were going to meet at the football field to play some touch
football. School would be starting next
week and football practice would start as well.
Everyone was excited about that and wanted to get a head start. “Here, hop up on my handlebars and I’ll give
you a ride to the football field. It’s
not too far.” Before I could straddle
the front wheel, put my feet on the ends of the axle and sit up on the handle
bars, there was a loud blast of horn honking from the street beside the
shop. I turned to see a large red 1959
Ford farm truck stopped in the street.
Behind the wheel was a young kid who looked to be about our age. He was calling to Ernie. Dangling from his outstretched hand was a
pair of football shoes. “Hey Ernie, I
got some new cleats!” he said enthusiastically.
“Oh hey Larry”, Ernie hollered back as he got off the bike and parked it
on the kick stand.
I followed Ernie out into the street to where “Larry”
sat in the idling truck. I was impressed
by the size of that truck and wondered how this kid could be driving at such a
young age.
“I’m on my way to the football field.” He shouted
down from the cab. “Are you going
Ernie?”
“Yes, we’ll meet you there.” Ernie replied. “Larry, I want you to meet James. He is moving to town. He will be in 8th grade.” “James, this is Larry Delozier. His dad is a rancher. They live out on Highway 28 north of town”. Larry reached down from the cab and shook my
outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet
you James. Are you going out for
football?”
“Yeah, I think so” I replied.
“Ok”, Larry said, “See you guys down there”, as he
drove away in the truck waving and looking like he had been driving for years.
Through the remaining years of my life, Ernie
Perkins was an important character in memories of all things Chelsea; all
things involving cars, motorcycles, beer, and our shared family and girlfriend experiences. All through junior high and high school,
occasional visits as adults in Tulsa and his home place in Liberty Mounds we
considered ourselves close and lasting friends.
We didn’t see each often but when we did it was as if it had only been a
week or so since the last meeting. Our
last talk was by phone last year. We
talked until the battery died on one phone then connected on another phone and
ran that battery down. So much to talk
about; so many memories of Chelsea in the 1960s.
And so it was with sadness that I read today that
Ernie had passed away yesterday. He will
live on in my memory.
James
Middleton
April
11, 2018
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