Jefferson Street
215 Jefferson Street
By 1945, Jock had transferred to St. Stephens School in Alexandria as Heather and I moved to Sidwell Friends in Washington, D. C. That year, our family had purchased a lovely, three-story, pre-Revolutionary Federal, brick house on Jefferson Street in Alexandria within view of the Potomac River. It was said that Thomas Jefferson had visited the house in the late eighteenth century when it must have had a direct view of the Potomac and, undoubtedly, surrounded by vast Virginia farmland. Thus, the name, Jefferson Street.
The backyard featured brick terraces, grape arbors, flower gardens, a number of apple, dogwood and locust trees, fragrant boxwood hedges, and a good amount of grass to be mown periodically. The entire property was surrounded by an eight-foot brick wall with a white picket fence along its front. There was a separate, two-car garage facing west on South Fairfax Street. Most of the newer houses in our area were, likewise, situated high on the ancient riverbank, perhaps a quarter-mile back from the Potomac. Our “new” house was an exquisite property.
Our 215 Jefferson Street home. Pre-revolutionary federal architecture. (photo source)
A New Me
As a seven year-old, I was beginning to feel myself coming alive. Even then I sensed this home was to become very special. For the first time I began to experience a free spirit within me. I noticed the country sky was fresh, clear and beautiful. I was beginning to grapple with my feelings, to sense my capabilities, and, for the first time, to discover real happiness within. I was beginning to push the edges of “my envelope”. One evening, I suddenly blurted out to my family over dinner that Virginia was my home. From then on and for as long as I can remember, whenever inquired, I would proudly refer to myself as a Virginian. Life was good.
New Staff
In 1945, Mom gathered us children in the kitchen to introduce Bertha to us for the first time. Her caring eyes, a deep genuine laugh and her warm demeanor caught my attention. Bertha was a large African-American woman who, we would later learn, had a very large family. In fact, it was said she had had 20 children. Mom informed us that Bertha would be helping with our house and cooking. In no time, she became a fixture among our family during the years we lived at Jefferson Street. It was said she bore 20 children. She loved to hug each of us every morning as she arrived for work. She exuded her unique southern personality. I recall well her habit of always humming to herself as she kept our home spotless.
Not long after Bertha‘s arrival, an old African-American man from Georgia appeared at our front door inquiring after Dad. His face reflected his many years of hard toil. But, his heart smiled. Indeed, I soon learned that “Uncle Bob” had worked for more than 50 years with various Edgar families in New Jersey, Georgia and Florida, but most often with Dad’s parents. He was considered by Dad as an Edgar family “retainer” meaning that he received a steady income regardless of when and where he worked. It seemed Mom and Dad needed help in redesigning and replanting our newly-acquired but unkempt garden. Uncle Bob would work for us as a gardener and handyman until we left for China.
We children were informed that Uncle Bob was at least 85 years old. That being the case, he may well have been born a slave perhaps in Florida. Wherever he tilled and planted in our backyard, shrubs, plants, bushes and flowers flourished. He seemed to know the names of every living thing on the property. I spent a lot of time with him during the years he tended our gardens.
Unusual Neighbors
Our house was sited on the north side of Jefferson Street facing south towards Jones Point where there was a wide swamp-like expanse with miles of floodplain covered in great part with near-impenetrable overgrowth along the west bank of the Potomac. South of us and back from the river above the floodplain were vast open fields as far as one could see. As I recall, other than a small, high-security, Naval research facility located all by itself on the Point there stood only two small, dilapidated houses.
New Pal
One of the two houses was a two bedroom, framed house standing alone directly across the street from our house. It’s occupants were a poor Southern family including a middle-aged woman, her divorced daughter and the latter’s 10-year old brother, David Grover. Other than David, there were no males living with the family, a situation I found disturbing as, in my world, all families had a father. A number of men came and went all times of day and night offering us children truck and motorcycle rides as they sought dates with David’s sister. Almost every evening on the stoop, beer was plentiful. Noisy hot rods, pick-up trucks, and souped-up motorcycles would visit the ramshackle house after working hours. I sensed none of the three family occupants held full-time jobs.
David, a couple of years or so older than Jock, did work part-time jobs covering two newspaper routes, one in the morning, the second in the evening. It became clear that financially only David supported his dysfunctional family even as he attended public school.
The second house was located around the corner, down South Lee Street halfway to the Naval research facility. The house had a dirt floor and was occupied by a poor African-American family consisting of several young boys about Jock’s age. Their tiny, unpainted shack had neither inside plumbing nor winter insulation that we could ascertain. Most of the time the family was barefooted.
New Found Friends
It wasn’t long before Jock and I befriended David Grover who, in time, would introduce us to two of the black boys living on South Lee Street.
David’s popularity and reputation around south Alexandria soon became apparent. Everyone admired and trusted him, a positive, industrious, and energetic young man always with a warm smile. Helping others was his way. He was a go-getter. In quick order, we five boys became fast friends. While riding bicycles, our closely knit group played all across Alexandria and throughout its immediate countryside. Whatever the social circumstance, we children saw ourselves as equals when playing together. However, when returning home unspoken rules came into play.
It wasn’t long before David introduced us to a Red Ryder BB gun. We felt that a weapon would help us as we foraged along the Potomac’s river bank. We were well aware of rabid or dangerous animals foraging along the wide, powerful river. And then there were snakes -- often poisonous cottonmouth, water moccasins and copperheads -- and feral animals that infested or frequented the watery floodplain. Each of us carried snake sticks to repel or catch all types of snakes and other strange critters. Other hazards included unsuspecting quicksand.
A year or more later, using my treasured Johnson & Smith catalog as reference, along with a good deal of my savings, unknown to my parents I purchased a pellet air pistol through the mails. With two weapons among our group, it was not long before several of us found occasions during which someone would be tempted to take a pot shot or two at one of us. Jock’s very first shot painfully struck my rear as I was seeking hasty refuge behind a tree. As the shot was so painful, I burst into tears in front of my compatriots. I simply didn’t understand why my brother would shoot me. It must have been just one of those things. Over the months, there were a few other such incidents, although the five of us quickly learned the high risks of shooting one another.
Unusual Pets
It wasn’t long before I decided to capture some snakes as pets. For some reason, at that age fear had not yet become part of my makeup. I simply was not afraid of snakes. In fact, I actually thought snakes would not strike me. On the other hand, my Black friends knew better and always steered clear of all snakes. I did not inform Jock of my plan. With some help from David, using snake sticks and a large burlap bag to transport the snakes safely, we managed to capture two small cottonmouths and a good-sized king snake. Poisonous copperheads were aggressive, clever, and particularly dangerous and are known to attack their quarry in pairs. We tried to avoid them.
The snakes we caught were secretly housed in the Edgar garage in a deep wooden crate covered with well-secured screening. I had to spend a considerable amount of time each day collecting food, ( small frogs, large dead flies, live insects, worms) for my new-found, slithery pets.
Somehow, Jock discovered my new serpentarium. It was one of those competitive, brother vs. brother times. He wasted little time telling our parents. Following a brief, to-the-point, discussion between father and son, I was instructed to dispose of the snakes promptly. All were dropped down a street drain not far from our garage. David informed me that by using the street drain, the snakes would be able to return to the wild safely.
Jock’s and my precarious relationship continued to cool while my own independence and confidence grew in wonderful ways.
Tragic Loss
Several years later, in 1951, on returning to Rome from school in Switzerland, Jock and I were informed that a tragedy had befallen at least two of our Alexandria playmates, including our special friend, David Grover. Word had been received by Mom from a family friend in Virginia. She sat down with Jock and me as she read aloud from the letter. Some months earlier, at least two of Jock’s and my Alexandria playmates, including David, had drowned in a tragic boating accident on the Potomac. The letter suggested at least four boys had constructed a makeshift raft somewhere along the river before the accident. We all knew the dangers and power of the mighty Potomac. But, they were just young boys searching for fun and adventure.
The description of their raft sounded very much like the one we five (including Jock and me) had constructed in the mid-1940s. Ours too had been made of river debris including rotten boards, broken tree branches, old cotton ropes and twine, all of which were lashed together around a couple of worn out inner tubes.
The letter went on to say that while four youngsters were out on the river, one of the black boys had fallen off the raft. David jumped into the river to help his friend.
David’s heroic rescue effort failed as both drowned. Following an official examination of the raft, it was determined it had been poorly constructed and was totally unseaworthy.
Everyone in our family knew “but for the grace of God”, Jock and I might have been on the raft that fateful day.
Jock and I were devastated by the news. I wept for days. Ours was not a happy family.
Etiquette
Prior to the 1960s, social graces played a more important role in America than today. Throughout most of the western world, educated society, most corporations, and military and government officers understood and adhered to clearly defined social parameters. Particularly in the U.S. Foreign Service, its officers had to become well-versed in diplomatic etiquette. While many social niceties have fallen by the wayside in recent years, throughout much of the world protocol and social graces still remain “de rigueur.”
I was around nine years-old when our parents decided it was time to introduce Jock and me to social graces.
One evening, Mom assigned to me the responsibility of setting our family’s dinner table. Likewise, various house-related responsibilities were assigned to us. It was about the time we received our first allotted allowances -- fifty cents a week to Jock and twenty-five cents for me.
Mom showed us how to set the evening dinner table with a fresh table cloth, linen napkins, silver settings, various glasses and the appropriate serving utensils.
As aspiring young gentlemen, Jock’s and my first training involved learning how to seat, and unseat, a lady properly at a table. Any technique less than perfect could result in a catastrophe.
It was fascinating to learn how to set a table properly. Fork(s) were placed to the left of the place mats and knife(s) and spoon(s) to the right. Knife blades were to face inward while butter knives were placed at the top of each place mat. In our case, a complete set of silverware consisted of about eight pieces. Each seat received a fresh, folded napkin on the left, sometimes placed under the fork, and every place setting was to have various stemmed glassware. Of course, silverware arrangements varied depending on the food being served.
Even seating arrangements at dinner had prescribed guidelines. In our family, Mom and Dad sat at either end of the table. Heather (our only sister) sat on Dad’s right, Jock (number one son) on Mom’s right, Tom to her left, and I to Dad’s left. During our meals, even the dogs knew where they were to stay, beyond the dining room door threshold.
When Mom arrived from the kitchen to join us for dinner, everyone rose from their seats as Jock took the honors of seating her.
All the children were expected to appear at dinner scrubbed and dressed appropriately. During meals, idle hands were to be kept in one’s lap and good posture was always rewarded.
At meals, intelligent conversation was encouraged. It wasn’t long before we four children were introduced to the techniques of conversation: ideas, events, and people. It wasn’t long before some of us even prepared in advance of dinner conversation. An encyclopedia was positioned not far from the dining table for reference purposes.
During weekends Dad often would invite one of us children to join him on a walk into town, some ten blocks away.
On some of our walks Dad would demonstrate how gentlemen should accompany ladies. He would show me how to walk on the curb-side of a lady the purpose being to serve as a buffer against passing traffic and the dirty streets. Dad went on to point out that when passing through a door, we should open it before her. When accompanying her up a flight of stairs, a gentleman should follow from behind though while walking downstairs, he should precede her.
On those occasions, I was shown how to walk with the male guest to my right, a position of respect. The junior-most person typically walked/stood to the left of the senior-most member. To me, these rules were fascinating. Subtly, I began practising my new lessons on both parents..
One morning returning home from town holding hands, I recall my father stopped to face me. He released his hand from mine. I was surprised and looked up at him. In a very calm voice Dad explained that a boy my age at some point has to learn to walk alongside a parent without having to hold hands. Somewhat embarrassed, and after a seemingly long pause of staring down at the sidewalk, I looked up and responded. “Daddy, holding hands is my way of expressing love.” There was a short silence as he looked down with a smile. At that very moment, I realized I was growing up.
Jock, Tom, Tony and Heather in front of our Jefferson Street home. Thanksgiving, 1949.
