By Gerald Howard
I lose track of what happened, when.... as I get older. Naw, I just have a bad memory, but somewhere around '93/'94 someone asked me to move them to Cleveland, Ohio. So with the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, I accepted.
I packed up a truck with some furniture and a buckethead (an employee) and headed towards Cleveland. Of couse I told Grandad of my plan and it was fine with him. The job went fine so my next stop was Grandad's place. As I neared 841 Linn Dr.
I thought I'd stop anywhere convienent to pick up beer so Grandad, the buckethead and I could have a lit'l sump'n, sump'n to sip on. As I entered the store, to my surprise there was Grandad! It was quite a coincidence but feasible because I was in his neighborhood. So in my playfulness as Grandad was at the register, I drunkertly stumbled close enough to ask if I could borrow some money. I hid my identity but as soon as he realized it was me we hugged and cracked up.
The next day in my anxiousness to start heading back to Georgia, Grandad slowed me enough to insist that he take me somewhere to show me something. I had no idea what he had in mind, but I agreed anyway.
We entered a funiture store that wasn't too far away from the apartment. To my surprise Grandad had picked out a huge picture/murial that fit perfectly on the blank wall in the entrance of my new house. It was perfect because it was a black and glass art piece of a baby grand, in a black frame picture. The perfect size for that particular wall and even matched the theme of the atmosphere I was trying to present.
No one could have hit the nail on the head any better. The picture will be on that was as long as I live in the house. Thanks Grandad!
Mr. Grandad
By Kevin Howard
It’s the summer of 1981 and I’m traveling around the country, visiting old friends and making new ones. Spending three days in Toronto at the Caribana Festival, I make a right turn on I-86 and make a beeline to Cleveland to see Grandad.
“Hey Mr. Grandad, are ya still kicking?” Outside to greet me, “Yeah, Son, I’m still above ground.”
Grandad is living in the worst part of Cleveland. Half of the housing in the area is dilapidated and boarded up and the other half should be. Unemployment is higher than the crack-head talking shit on the corner.
“You gotta let me hit the shower Grandad. I need to wash this road off of me.” Always humming, “You go hit those pits, Son. I’ll get the wife to fire up the pots.”
A diehard fan of the Cleveland Indians, we sit and watch the game. Flipping to the sport page of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, “Looks like another year of dwelling in the cellar, Grandad.”
Rocking in his favorite chair, Grandad explains his loyalty. “Son, I’ve been with the same team through the good years and the bad. Your team should be like a wife, for better or worse. No matter how fat and out of shape they get, you gotta stick with-em.”
His comment draws a retort from the kitchen, “Same thing goes for you, boyfriend,” his wife says.
“Let us know when you get settled out in Seattle, and we’ll come for a visit.” Unlike other parts of the clan, if Grandad says he’s coming for a visit, he’s showing up.
“For now, I’ve got to get back to Seattle and register for school. With fifteen months left to knock off for this degree, soon I’ll be officially ‘edu-mac-ated’.”
Grandad chuckles, “Son, with all this traveling that you're doing, I’m sure that something is sticking. In my day, I’ve known a few people with a lot of book sense, but little common sense. If you don’t have a formal education, then ya got use your brain!” Grandad’s never steered any of us wrong. Grabbing his hat, “Let’s take the car up the street to the garage and get everything checked.” Always the guardian angel, Grandad picks up the tab.
“Grandad, you don’t have to do that.” Letting me save grace, “Ya can’t take it with ya’, Son.”
Hough Riots: 1966
By Arnett Howard
Grandad and I drove to Cleveland where he was living during the summer of 1966. The song Sunny by Bobby Hebb was hot on the Soul and Top Forty charts that summer and the day we arrived in Cleveland was the day the Hough Riots started.
From Wikipedia; “On July 18, 1966, at dusk, someone posted a sign outside the 79'ers bar, situated on the southeast corner of E.79th Street and Hough Avenue. The sign read, "No Water For Niggers". Adding to the volatility of the situation, the bar manager and a hired hand, both white, patrolled the front of the bar, armed with shotguns. An African American woman described as a "prostitute" was seeking money for charity. An altercation occurred and she was told to leave.
Later, a Black man entered the building and bought a bottle of wine. When he asked for a glass of water, he was told that blacks were not being served. Soon after, a crowd of about 50 people gathered outside. The Cleveland Police Department arrived, in force, to defuse the situation. The presence of the CPD only intensified the crowd's anger. As angry crowds gathered over a twenty-three block area, chants of "Black Power" were followed by the throwing of rocks and molotov cocktails, bringing more than three hundred police and firemen.
Racial tension was high between Cleveland's police and African American community. The arrival of police precipitated gunfire, as well as brick-throwing by angry residents. The police shot out some street lights and asked drivers to turn off their car lights to limit possible targets by snipers.
Joyce Arnett, a black 26-year-old mother of three, was shot dead when she called from a window, as she was trying to get permission to go home and check on her children.
The next day, Ohio governor James A. Rhodes activated 1,600 local members of the National Guard, but they did not arrive in Cleveland until 11:00 p.m. The Hough area became quiet after the troops were deployed. An attempt by Cleveland mayor Ralph S. Locher to limit potential violence by closing local bars and taverns at 6:00 p.m. did not succeed. Arsonists attacked abandoned houses and commercial buildings.” The riots and isolated burings lasted for six days.
Grandad lived near the intersection of 119th and Kinsman Avenues in an apartment. He was working then, but I can’t remember where. He was still driving his 1957 Plymouth Savoy.
I remember being fifteen then and walking all over the neighborhood, which was very close to Shaker Heights, an upscale Cleveland suburban community. I recall someone asking me if I was going to burn something and I responded, “Of course not.”
After a time with Grandad, I took the Greyhound bus back to Columbus and Plain City.
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