3rd Avenue West

Rickwood Field; Birmingham

When Chicago’s Comiskey Park was demolished in 1991, Birmingham’s Rickwood Field, built in 1910, became the oldest professional baseball park in the United States (www.rickwood.com). The history of the storied baseball field in what is now a less-traveled section of Birmingham’s West End will be revealed to a wider audience on June 20, 2024, when Rickwood hosts Major League Baseball’s nationally televised tribute to the Negro Leagues with a regular season game between the San Francisco Giants and the St. Louis Cardinals. Birmingham native and Hall of Famer Willie Mays, who began his professional baseball career as a Birmingham Black Baron in 1948, will be the honoree.

In the years of segregation, the Birmingham Black Barons shared Rickwood with the Birmingham Barons. Even for those who are not big baseball fans, lists of the ballplayers who played at Rickwood – either as members of the local teams or with exhibitions or traveling teams – is impressive to the point of being daunting. In addition to Willie Mays, there are Hank Aaron, Vida Blue, Ty Cobb, Piper Davis, Dizzy Dean, Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig, “Shoeless Joe” Jackson, Mickey Mantle, Stan Musial, Satchell Paige, Jackie Robinson, Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, and so many more. When Birmingham native Charlie O. Finley owned the Oakland A’s, his 1967 minor league Birmingham A’s roster boasted Dave Duncan, Rollie Fingers, Reggie Jackson, Tony LaRussa, and Joe Rudi.

The Birmingham Barons’ current home is Regions Field in downtown but they play a throwback game at Rickwood every season. Rickwood is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. A very active Friends of Rickwood organization has worked for decades to nurture and refurbish the baseball park, which remains a facility for a local college and Birmingham city schools. Major League Baseball has chipped in with upgrades over the past year, since the Negro Leagues salute was announced. Sneak peeks indicate that the changes and upgrades have not diminished the essential character of the proud structure or its infield. I can still imagine my dad as a teenager riding his bicycle from Ensley to Rickwood to sell concessions in the stands. From Rickwood Field, one can see 3rd Avenue West.

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When I was a kid, Birmingham was still a center of heavy industry and factory-life was going strong in areas like the U.S. Steel works in Fairfield and Ensley and other industrial sites. Because of shift work, the commercial areas of these places were twenty-four-hour districts.

To a young boy, the bustle and energy of western Birmingham was exciting. I had grandparents in Ensley and Fairfield Highlands and lived in the Green Acres community from second to eighth grade; much of my growing up years was spent in those areas.

In those days before the interstate, 3rd Avenue West was the central thoroughfare of west Birmingham. Going east on 3rd Avenue West, it became 3rd Avenue North and went downtown into the theatre district. Going west, it became Bessemer Super Highway. Bessemer Super Highway was originally modelled on the German autobahn and was destined to be the first controlled-access highway in the United States. Funding dried up in the Depression, but the four-lane with wide medians was still impressive for its time.

I particularly remember a row of motels including a Wigwam Village Motor Court, a chain featuring teepee-shaped cabins around a central teepee main building. My parents bowled at the Holiday Bowl and Alabama’s first Holiday Inn was along that stretch.

Occasionally, we would hear about a “gas war” up on the highway. Gas stations would start competing for the lowest prices and cars would line up to take advantage as long as it lasted. I can remember gas getting as low as ten cents a gallon before a filling station owner blinked and gas prices began to make their way back up to the average price of 31 cents a gallon.

5 Points West Shopping City was a sprawling shopping center with a large variety of shopping options. My mother has particularly fond memories of New Williams and Parisian department stores at the site. A Parisian saleslady would lay aside boys’ clothes that she thought Mother might like to consider for me.

Across from the shopping center was the Alabama State Fairgrounds. In those days it was a real fall state fair with agricultural exhibitions, a grandstand, and a large midway with carnival rides. Kiddieland Park was the small amusement park on the southwest corner of the fairgrounds. Fair Park Drive-In Theatre was at the other end and the Birmingham International Raceway occupied the grandstand area. The Birmingham Crossplex, an athletic facility, occupies the space now.

There were other favorites along 3rd Avenue like El Charro, a Mexican restaurant in a time before there were Mexican restaurants and fast-food joints everywhere. Spinning Wheel was a local chain of ice cream drive-ins. It was close by Lowe’s Skating Rink, a popular spot where my parents had dated. Carnaggio’s had traditional Italian. A unique dining choice where my family was regular was Porter’s Cafeteria, a meat and three on a balcony overlooking a drugstore.

Those places always felt special to me.

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Memory gets burnished with time. And, as time erases remnants, younger generations who were not first-hand witnesses are strained to give credibility to those memories. That’s true of many areas in Birmingham’s West End. Much of the news from 3rd Avenue West is negative these days, but there are still places of pride and plenty of good memories in the western part of town. Rickwood Field’s upcoming moment in the spotlight should help to revive memories of that area’s importance to local history. Perhaps, also, it might inspire further positive development.

Fireball: A New Play by Norman McMillan

I recently interviewed writer Norman McMillan about Fireball, his new play for a solo actor based on the autobiography of Hazel Lindsey by Lindsey and Julia McMillan Walker. We discussed adaptation and challenges of the playwriting process. You can read the Alabama Writers’ Forum interview here.

An Interview with Playwright Norman McMillan

Calm

 A friend sent a brief message to me last week. It was “a wish for calm.” He knows that I am going through a challenging time as a caregiver and I can think of no better wish than for calm to wash over me and the person I’m assisting. I responded that I perhaps should wish for “stoicism” also.

In times like these, the day-to-day distractions become ever more dear. Keeping the backyard bird feeders filled has become a veritable obsession that pays off, on occasion, with dozens of birds crowding two feeders, the ground, and a birdbath. Hummingbird feeders hang ready but there have only been a few sightings here in mid-April. Docile mourning doves predominate. When I come out to refresh the feeders, I see the doves sitting in the branches of the trees beyond the fence, watching and softly cooing.

The cardinals seem to prefer to visit in early morning and dusk. Two cardinal couples are around daily, and occasionally others will join in.

Spring happened fast this year. Suddenly, everything was green and lush. There has been no time to work in the flower beds, but perennials have popped up and winter pansies are hanging on until warmer weather settles in for the season. Easter came along faster than the Easter lilies this year. My mother has two patches of Easter lilies that look like they don’t plan to bloom for a while. The winter view down into Oxmoor Valley is now hidden by the curtain of green.

My life-long monitoring of the bird activity was heightened by the months of pandemic. Indeed, my whole endurance of another home-bound time of life was prepared, perhaps, by the pandemic experience. One of the few online sites that I follow is “Diary of a Gen-X Traveler” in which a midwestern couple shares their experiences as European travelers – primarily in Greece and Italy. During the pandemic, they shared adventures hiking and walking around places near their home in Iowa. The freshness of those takes on everyday things made the pandemic posts as interesting to me as the spectacular continental sights that they usually shared.

More recently, I look forward to three weekly posts by Garrison Keillor on his “Garrison Keillor and Friends” website. At eighty going on eighty-one, Keillor seems to be awestruck by his age. He has become assertively cheerful in extolling daily life in Manhattan and in his travels for solo performances across the United States. A proud Democrat, he finds common bonds across party lines and beyond the trivia of the “red state / blue state” dichotomy. His is a fresh wisdom nurtured through years of astute empathy and observation and he never fails to make me smile and sometimes laugh heartily.

My endurance of the news of the day has finally waned and whole days go by without the television being turned on. I keep up, more or less, in magazines and online and try to stave off the existential dread that will dominate the rest of the year. Reading is, as always, my favorite escape and even if I read about troubling things, there is solace in sitting with a book or magazine close at hand.

In addition to calm stoicism, I strive also for “comfort and joy” – a favorite phrase from “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” a favorite Christmas song. Really, who could wish for more in their life than to have comfort and joy? Just to be clear, I don’t base my life on upbeat Christmas carol lyrics; another favorite Christmas lyric is Christina Rosetti’s “In the Bleak Midwinter,” which paints a cold and grim picture of the nativity.

Today, the tidings of joy make way for the promise of summer and hope for calm, peace, and justice to come.

Searching for Home Waters

” ‘Poetics of place’ is a phrase used by Michael K. Steinberg in his captivating book, Searching for Home Waters: A Brook Trout Pilgrimage. The phrase references a morning spent on Vermont’s Robert Frost Interpretive Trail, but it applies to Steinberg’s very personal pursuit for habitats of the brook trout on the east coast of North America. His quest encompasses diverse waterways encountered over four years of fishing from the southern Appalachians of north Georgia to Canada’s Labrador region.” 

Steinberg’s book is a pleasurable read whether or not you’re an angler or an environmentalist. My recent review for Alabama Writers’ Forum may whet the appetite for an important and understated search for a special kind of “home.”

Searching for Home Waters

Woke

The hyacinths in my mother’s flower garden woke last week. The crocuses have almost finished their blooming for the year. The harbingers of daffodils and tulips are beginning to break through and will be fully woke soon.

I added a label to my LinkedIn profile last week. Along with “Essayist | Editor | Retired Educator” I have added “Woke Liberal.” There are state-wide elections here in Alabama, along with the scary presidential election cycle we’re enduring in the United States. As I watch the ads for state-wide elections, it seems that the Republicans are out to extinguish “woke” liberals, etc. so I seem to be in their NRA-loving sights. As they scramble to establish their bona fides with the previous insurrectionist U.S. president, I shudder.

One ad for a candidate for chief justice of the state Supreme Court brags that “If you like Trump’s judges, you’ll love” him. I say Thanks for the warning. Another, by a candidate for a spot on the state school board, features the voice of an apoplectic woman having the vapors because her son came home from school with a Black Lives Matter book. A candidate for reelection to the state’s Public Service Commission makes a thinly-veiled promise to continue her tradition of letting the big utility lobbies have their way with her, including photos of “woke” Hollywood celebrities to, I guess, make her point. Still another says that “Republicans can trust” her; apparently, the rest of us cannot.

Some of these candidates will be elected and their bigotry makes me want to be even more “woke” than I already am. Since the label “woke” began to break into the mainstream as a common adjective for progressively-minded people, I haven’t always been able to fully play along. On occasion, presented with a challenging new idea, I have been known to quip that “I’m not sure that I’m that ‘woke’ yet.” (For example, I am not woke enough to turn down pork barbecue.) Yet, as books get targeted, immigrants get dehumanized, women’s control over their own bodies is increasingly threatened, education is tyrannized, health care is ridiculed, “diversity, equity, and inclusion” is not considered a worthy goal, and Capitol insurrectionists are called “hostages” and “patriots,” I am leaning more than ever to the increasingly saner “woke” points of view.

For a group of politicians that claim to be for “less government,” these politicians seem determined to interfere with our private lives and most personal decisions.

No matter how much we love Alabama, it is our legacy to be regularly embarrassed on the national stage by our elected politicians. The recent atrocity put to paper by the current duly elected chief justice of our Supreme Court is jaw-dropping, even by our standards. Who votes for these people? I’m not aware of many people who do vote for them, but those candidates seem to get elected, anyway. I guess I don’t get around much anymore.

And then there’s Sen. Katie Britt.

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When I named this journal “Professional Southerner” a decade ago, it was intended as a riff on a gibe I received while living in the Midwest in the ‘90s. There, I seemed to be the go-to person for all things Southern. Somebody referred to me as “our professional Southerner.” Those gibers were the ones who breathlessly reported that, as a Southerner, I had to see the new movie Forrest Gump – that I would love it. I did see it; to their dismay, I didn’t love it that much.

I read a book recently that referred to the keepers of the “Lost Cause” mythology as “professional southerners.” Hopefully, anyone who knows me or reads what I have to say knows that I am not an advocate for the “Lost Cause” version of the Civil War. A while ago, I read a quote from Alabama writer Rick Bragg saying, “I never wanted to be a professional Southerner … but at the same time, I’ve never been more proud to be anything but a Southern writer.” I, too, never intend to be a spokesperson for my region – it is too diverse for anyone to take that mantle. But I like to express my views and experiences. And I’m Southern.

Truth be told, “Professional Southerner” was supposed to be an escape from the stressors of everyday life, but events – both personal, social, and political – have made it necessary to speak up on occasion and this current election cycle makes it more urgent than usual to take a stand.

In the meantime, I watch the birds in the backyard feeders, prepare the hummingbird feeders for their impending return, and tend the garden. And I vote. Even if the options are slim pickings, I look for the less threatening, non-Republican choice.

“Woke” is akin to springtime – opening oneself to the clear light of day, to new ideas, to new challenges, to new solutions. “Woke” = Not Asleep at the Wheel.

New Books and Reviews – Poetry and Biography

Alabama Writers’ Forum has just posted my two latest reviews. Circulation is poet Ken Autrey’s exploration of larger truths beyond familiar surfaces.

Circulation

Odyssey of a Wandering Mind is Jennifer Horne’s biography of Sara Mayfield, a twentieth century writer who overcame significant personal challenges to live a “fully felt and deeply experienced” life.

Odyssey of a Wandering Mind

Tolstoy Park

 I have long suspected that readers often find the right book at just the right time. I was aware of The Poet of Tolstoy Park (Ballantine Books, 2005) by Sonny Brewer from the time of its publication and just never got around to reading it. I finally read it recently and found it the perfect read at this stage of life. I might not have appreciated it quite as much back in 2005.

The Poet of Tolstoy Park is a contemplative and philosophical novel. In the mid-1920s, a man named Henry Stuart, living in Idaho, learns that he has a short time to live. His doctor tells him that he suffers from an advanced state of non-contagious tuberculosis, suggesting that his final days might be easier if he moves to a more hospitable climate. After considering a move to California, Stuart hears about the utopian single-tax colony of Fairhope, Alabama, divests himself of most of his possessions – including his shoes, and moves sight unseen to ten acres in Montrose, a small community just up the road from Fairhope. His two sons and best friend, left behind in Idaho, think he’s crazy.

Stuart, dying, in his mid-sixties, and alone, embarks on a stoic existence and finds the Fairhope community to be kind and willing to assist. His ten acres have no house, only a barn in disrepair, and Stuart and his new-found Fairhope friend, Peter Stedman, create a suitable room in a corner of the barn. Stuart, inspired by the abodes of Native Americans and the nests of birds, plans to build a small round hut – a masonry dome, really – as his final home. The novel painstakingly describes Stuart’s method of building his house – he insists on doing it alone – as he pours concrete blocks and scavenges bricks from a ruin on the bay.

Brewer’s narrative excels in the quiet moments and the details of a life in nature. His descriptions of Henry Stuart’s methodical thought and process in the construction of his hurricane-proof abode make for reflection and calm, as do the minute details of Stuart’s life. The narrative is deliberate, but I found myself eager to keep reading – to see what would come next. The very decent people that Stuart meets and befriends along the way are finely and distinctly drawn; I hope they are based on real people, each one.

A former seminarian who eschews organized churchgoing, Stuart follows the philosophy of Henry George, who was an influence on many in the early twentieth century, including the founders of Fairhope and the great Russian author Leo Tolstoy. Stuart is an acolyte of the writings of Tolstoy, especially his nonfiction essays, and names his Montrose home “Tolstoy Park” in his honor.

Henry Stuart’s aim is to keep his terminal illness a secret from the Fairhope community, but secrets are hard to keep in a small tight-knit town – especially if the subject is a disheveled, unshaven, barefoot newcomer in his sixties. When Stuart admits to his friend Peter that “I am supposed to die,” Peter’s response is “Well, hell, I reckon so! Me, too.” Henry Stuart has chosen his place and way of dying and living and local gossip makes him withdraw into increased solitude to complete his tasks with minimal intrusion.

Suffice it to say, Mr. Stuart does not die on the doctor’s schedule.

As we used to say in third grade book reports, “If you want to know more, you’ll have to read the book.” I hope you will; it’s a very good one, with valuable lessons for living.

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Henry Stuart was a real person and the basics of Sonny Brewer’s fictional narrative are essentially true. During his time in Fairhope, the retired professor became a fixture in the area, occasionally giving talks to the community – barefoot and sharing his far-reaching interests and philosophies. He welcomed visitors to his “hermit house” over the years; his guest book had well over a thousand signatures. The great civil liberties attorney Clarence Darrow, a regular visitor to Fairhope, reportedly signed the book half a dozen times.

Present-day visitors are still able to sign a guest book in the house that Henry built. The house is still there. It is listed on the National Register of Historic Places now, and is surrounded by a parking lot in a nondescript office complex off a busy highway. The rest of Stuart’s ten acres have been developed, but the hut at Tolstoy Park is always open to visitors. Author Sonny Brewer leased the space from the current owner of the property and did repairs. He stayed there while he was writing part of the novel.

It is a strangely efficient round house, fourteen feet in diameter, with an ancient tree standing beside it still, and with no corners to gather clutter. The house is built slightly into the ground and there are a door and six windows. Two skylights are at the top of the dome. The furnishings are simple, with places for writing, reading, and contemplation. There’s a wood stove. To save space, Henry Stuart hung his bed off the ground and used a ladder to crawl up and in. Today, there are mementoes of the original owner scattered about.

It is still a quiet, calm, and spiritual place, despite the encroachment of the growing community around it. When you visit, stand in the middle of the room and hum, or sing, or just say Hallelujah, to take advantage of the sublime acoustics. Take a moment to honor Henry Stuart, and to thank Sonny Brewer for bringing him and his story to a larger audience.

Africatown

The Clotilda, the last known ship to illegally transport kidnapped and enslaved Africans to American shores, was set afire just above Mobile Bay in 1860. Since the African trans-Atlantic slave trade had been outlawed since 1808, the ship was destroyed so it could not be used as evidence of the illegal crossing. The Africans onboard had been transferred to a riverboat before the abandoned schooner was burned and scuttled. Despite this, the perpetrators of the crime were boastful about the activity, which had been undertaken as part of a bet, and the story of the Clotilda was well-known in the area. The story became legend and, because of the lack of evidence, some considered it a myth.

The Civil War followed and some of the Africans from the Clotilda, who were technically free at the war’s conclusion, eventually founded Africatown on the west bank of the Mobile River. Africatown is distinctive for being founded by Africans who had recently arrived on American shores and maintained their customs, language, and traditions in the running of the community. The African natives were, on occasion, denigrated by the descendants of earlier Africans who had spent their entire lives in America.

Africatown still survives and descendants of the founders remain active there. The community, however, was split by a highway, hemmed in, and poisoned by industrial pollution, and now has about 2,000 residents.

Meanwhile, the remains of the Clotilda lay at the bottom of the Mobile-Tensaw River Delta. Ben Raines, an Alabama environmentalist and journalist with keen knowledge of the Mobile-Tensaw Delta, organized expeditions to find the remains of the Clotilda in an area that has the remains of a number of ship wrecks. In 2019, the Alabama Historical Commission confirmed that the remains found by a Raines expedition were those of the Clotilda. After almost 160 years in the waters, some of the ship is still partially intact. There is ongoing research into how best to preserve what is left. Fascinating documentation of the history of the Clotilda and its recent discovery may be found in The Last Slave Ship: The True Story of How Clotilda Was Found, Her Descendants, and an Extraordinary Reckoning (Simon and Schuster, 2022) by Ben Raines.

Due in part to Raines’s discovery and to ongoing efforts by Africatown residents and descendants, the Africatown community is attracting attention once again and revitalization plans are in the works. The History Museum of Mobile has opened a fourth space, the Africatown Heritage House, in the community. “Clotilda: The Exhibition” is currently on display at the Heritage House (www.clotilda.com).

I traveled to Africatown for the first time recently. I went to see the powerful exhibit which presents timelines, documentation, and artifacts from the life of the founders of the community. Included are artifacts of their captivity, trans-Atlantic crossing, American enslavement, founding of the community, and a hopeful vision for the future. Among the soundscapes of the exhibit is the sound of water. The sound of lapping waters permeates the exhibition, always there, like the treacherous waters of the Atlantic crossing and the brackish Delta waters that preserved the evidence of the Clotilda and its cargo. The remains of the Clotilda itself are not that far away, still at rest in the Mobile River.

Oluale Kazoola, later known as “Cudjoe Lewis,” was an original inhabitant and landowner of Africatown. It was thought that he was the last living survivor of the captives of the Clotilda, but two other survivors were later located. Writer Zora Neale Hurston spent time in Africatown and with Kazoola, and recorded and filmed him. Her manuscript, Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo,” documenting her conversations with Kazoola, was finally published in 2018. Snippets of Kazoola’s story, in his own words, are interspersed throughout the exhibition with the audio guide that each visitor carries through the rooms.

After leaving the Heritage House exhibit, a drive around Africatown gives evidence of what is being done, what still needs to be done. Among the houses – vintage or newer, abandoned or proudly occupied, unkempt or carefully maintained, there were two that stood out for me. One was a tiny shotgun house, one of my favorite vernacular styles, and the other was boldly adorned with an image of the African continent against a red, black, and green field. Both appealed to my inner-William Christenberry.

Back at the noisy highway that transects Africatown stands the community’s spiritual center, Union Missionary Baptist Church, with a bust of Kazoola mounted in front. Across the highway, not exempt from the clamor of factory traffic, is the peaceful Africatown cemetery with remains of the original settlers and their descendants. The site of an upcoming Africatown Welcome Center is just across the road.

I knew much of the story of Africatown and the Clotilda from readings and documentaries, but it is an inspiration to actually be in Africatown, the home of such courage. This community, forged by people forcibly removed from their home, illustrates the power and conviction to create a new home in an often hostile foreign land. The community, the Africatown Heritage House, the church, and the burial ground remain as symbols and reminders of an unfaltering spirit.