An Auspicious Beginning
An Auspicious Beginning
I was born a “service brat”. When people used to ask where I was from, I would simply say, “I’m a service brat”. It was some time before I realized just how unusual my beginnings really were. My mother was purveyor of the facts...and who would know better than she?
The wee morning hours of Friday, the 5th of April, 1946…
“Where are we goin’, lady?” the cabbie asked.
“Madison County Hospital. Oh, hurry! Please hurry!”
“There’s a closer hospital, lady.”
“No. It has to be Madison County. Please hurry. Please.”
“We’re on the way. Just stay calm. I know the fastest route.”
Earlier, my mother had called her sister, Peg, for assistance. Peg had previously told her she would be happy to come if needed; but, when it was imminent and my mother called in dire need, Peg was drunk and messing around with some guy other than her husband. Apparently, she was quite brazen about it and my mother, almost Victorian in her beliefs, did not take it well. She only spoke to her sister once more after that, some twelve years later. Periodically, Peg would call or write, but to no avail. My mother was never big on forgiveness.
Anyway, I was some days early to arrive. My mother told me so. My parents lived in College Park, an area of northeastern St. Louis, for the time being. My father, just recently re-enlisted in the Air Force, was attending some short term reclassification training and was due back home late the next day. He had been a 37 mission bomber pilot in the European theatre of the Army Air Corp during WWII; and, when the need for bomber pilots was eliminated by the end of the war, was offered a chance to become a “regular” (as opposed to being an “active reservist”) at the non-commissioned officer (NCO) rank of Master Sergeant. This was quite a cut from being an officer, a Major; and like many other returning GIs, he had stars in his eyes and saw a world of opportunity waiting; so he turned down that career military opportunity for what would be an ill-fated Lance franchise (vending and over-the-counter crackers, cookies and candies). Despite a lot of work and long hours, Tom’s was much better established and better supported product line and quickly made it apparent his future had to change; so he re-enlisted, but now as a Staff Sergeant. Times were a little lean.
My mother and father had decided that I would be born in the same hospital as they, Madison County Hospital. Don’t know why it seemed so important to them, since neither wanted to spend their lives in Granite City. It was a steel and coal town and was reputed to be one of the three dirtiest cities in the nation. I have since seen gray snow falling there, so I believe it. The rain is dirty. The homes are drab and dirty. It is a dingy town. I’ve often thought that to be appropriate payback for being a “segregated” city. For many, many years, blacks were unofficially forbidden from residing in Granite City. Oh, they could work there; but there was a "sundown law", whether legal or merely operational, I do not know. I have often wondered how their presence in or influence on the area could possibly have been a negative one, for it was no credit to those who were allowed to live there.
The fastest route to Madison County Hospital from College Park was over the old McKinley bridge and through Venice to Granite City. The bridge belonged to Venice, Illinois and was a toll bridge. Cab drivers who utilized the bridge frequently would buy an annual pass so they wouldn’t have to stop and have the correct change. Just as a side note, the original Route 66 utilized the McKinley bridge. It has since been closed.
“Are you okay, lady? Are you okay?” the cab driver inquired impatiently.
“You have to hurry. Please hurry.” Her pains were coming fast now. I was on the way.
“We’ll make it lady. We’ll make it. We’re on the bridge now. Just stay calm and try to breathe deep.”
Just then, as Fate would have it, an accident occurred on the bridge ahead of them. Traffic in both lanes came to an immediate standstill. The driver jumped out of the cab and ran ahead to peruse the situation. When he returned, he jumped into the back seat, repositioned my mother and said, “Lady, we’re not gonna make it. There’s a bad accident. Please don’t worry. I’ve had to deliver three of my own five kids. You have to do what I say. Listen to me. Listen to me. Hold my hat. Now, breathe…breathe hard. Push. Push.” Apparently in desperation, my mother did as told. She tore that hat up pretty good. He wrapped me in “swaddling newspapers” and, when the accident was cleared, delivered the two of us to Madison County Hospital, where they made my mother comfortable and they foot-printed me, making me an official new born. The cab driver was required to leave his name and address and phone number....and his hat....or what was left of it.
My father arrived about noon and was overjoyed to have a son. I was named after he and his father, so I am “the third”. He and my mother both wanted to thank the cab driver again for his contribution. The cabbie had left a business card that included his phone number. He was an independent cab driver named Jesse McCauley. My father called, then drove to his home and talked with him at some length. Three of Jesse’s five children were sons, all over 12, and all wanted my father to tell of his flight experiences in WWII. They were enthralled with the mere thought of flying in an airplane, let alone piloting one. None had ever flown before. When he left their home, my father had a plan, a plan to thank them all for what their father had done. My father was a very outgoing guy and made friends easily. He had done favors for all kinds of people while in the Army Air Corp. He arranged for the three sons and their father to not only sit in the cockpits of both a P51 fighter and a B24 bomber, but arranged a flight for the entire group in the bomber. The P51 fighter was a single seater and could not accommodate riders. The boys and their father were duly impressed and appreciative of the experience. I have no doubt they remembered the occasion, if not my father. While in the air, each had gotten to sit in the copilot’s seat and take the controls for a couple of minutes. Jesse visited us at our apartment just a few days later. He took a picture of me for his scrapbook and wrote down some information.
Thirty-seven years later, in 1983, when he was seventy-five years old, Jesse McCauley managed to find and contact my parents. I happened to be visiting them at the time of his call. He had been reminiscing about his cabbie career and ran across my picture with some information he had written on the back. He asked my mother how I turned out. My mother was most surprised and very cordial. After a lengthy discussion that included some laughs, she eventually asked him for his address. My father also spoke to him for a bit. Later that day, my mother was in one of the bedrooms rummaging through a box of her past. She pulled out Mr. McCauley’s hat…or what was left of it. I had no idea she had even kept it. She wrote a nice note and placed it in a nicely wrapped box with the remains of the hat. I saw her cry some happy tears. She put the wrapped box in a plain cardboard box and asked my father to mail it to Mr. McCauley. He asked, “Have you been crying? Who the Hell is Mr. McCauley?” She just smiled through tears. Suddenly, he said, "Oh, yeah." and left for the post office.
So, I was born on the McKinley Bridge between Missouri and Illinois. Sadly, my folks picked Illinois as my place of birth. I say sadly because I am most ashamed of the socio-political evolution of the state of Illinois....one of the most corrupt states of the Union. “Honest Abe” Lincoln has most assuredly rolled over in his grave.
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