Ahead, two policemen escorted an unkempt man wearing tattered britches and a dirty shirt toward their official automobile. I looked at Mrs. Claxton, questioning his crime.
“A vagrant.”
“Because he’s poor, ma’am?”
“It’s a crime to be poor here, chile.”
There had been many such living through the Depression, and not just in Kaintuck but across the country. My patrons, like the small schoolboy Henry, who’d starved and perished along with his whole family. It struck me that the law would’ve had to jail all of Troublesome, and I shook my head at the idea of being shackled in ball and chains because of being hungry, poor.
We came to a giant yard full of children, and I paused at the iron fence to watch. “A playground just for young’uns,” I whispered in awe and pressed a palm to my belly, wishing such a place for the babe, worrying if my child would even have the chance to take a first breath.
“That’s our public park and playground. During the summers, it fills up early.”
“Only read about these in the newspapers. Weren’t nothing like it for the young’uns in Troublesome.”
“Yes, but we did have the forests and creeks,” she reminded.
The girls wore store-bought summer dresses, ruffled anklet socks poking out of patent leather shoes, and skipped past boys in short trousers and shirts. Several stood on the ladder of a tall slide, waiting for a turn to speed down the slick metal ride. A group of boys shot marbles on a square patch of concrete. Still others climbed on connected iron bars, crawled across, swung, and dangled upside down. Laughter rang out, and I turned toward the swings. A boy and girl swung in harmony as they drove their legs, trying to climb faster and faster to the sky.The swing set’s poles lifted terrifyingly off the ground, and the young’uns shrieked happily and pumped their lil limbs harder.
Behind us, a horn honked.
Mrs. Claxton waved to the people in the automobile before turning back to me.
“You sure know a lot of folks, ma’am.”
“We’re all close down here in this small part of the city.”
After they’d passed, the librarian said, “This must be your first time in Louisville. I was the same way when we arrived from Fishtrap. Only now the horse and buggies are long gone, replaced by noisy motor cars and more people.”
“I’ve only been to Lexington and Knoxville. But everyone pointed and gawked at me. Here, they don’t even notice,” I said, astonished.
“A good thing. And you’re in for a treat. If you think this is busy, wait till you see our bustling Walnut Street.” She looked over the playground approvingly and moved us along.
Again, I paused and pulled to the rumbles of tires shuddering under my feet. I looked down at the concrete.
“That’s the siren call of our business district, Walnut Street,” she teased and stamped a foot. “But we’ll need to save that for later and take the shortcuts.”
We waited at a stoplight, and I noticed a big blue steel box on the corner that had the word LETTERS on it. I tried to recall if I’d ever seen it before in any pictures, but couldn’t remember.
Mrs. Claxton saw me staring and asked, “Are these in Troublesome yet?”
“Ain’t heard of any getting installed.”
“They’re on street corners all over Louisville. It’s where you mail your letters.” She stepped off the sidewalk, ready to cross.
I looked back over my shoulder several times at the spectacle, wondering what Postmaster Bill back home would think about having them all over the hills, studying on how he would keep the raccoons and other critters from nesting in them.
Thirty minutes later we stopped in front of the stately library, the Western Colored Branch. It was a massive square building with handsome stone masonry and decorative columns of brick between large windows.
Inside the double doors, I read the sign above two other doors:Knowledge Is Power.
“Here we are,” she announced proudly. “Over there to the left, Cussy, is the newspaper alcove, my office, and the children’s room.”
“It’s a beautiful library.” I crossed to a shelf that held a silver trophy.
“Now that”—she pointed—“is from Kentucky’s first Negro poet, Joseph Cotter. He used to have an annual storytelling contest for the young people. After he passed, we continued the tradition.”
“Right nice tradition, ma’am.”
