If you're looking for a baking recipe, you are at the wrong place. I regret to inform you this message isn't taken from a cook book, but you are welcome to stay if you would like to read about a recipe on life.
Let me begin by acknowledging something about myself, as a youth close relatives consistently reminded me, “Don't trust white people!”
This view has been passed on to others throughout black communities and it does dominate the perception of many whom engage into its meaning. As I absorbed the rage relatives felt and developed my own dynamo of fury from the energy of their hate.
During my youth I was taught by white nuns and was instructed on spiritual matters by white priests in parochial schools. But by the time I left their institution and began to attend public high school, I had rejected my former white tutors and their spiritual beliefs, especially the belief in God. I would not submit to a white savior in Jesus Christ. At that point in my life, I openly proclaimed myself an atheist and black militant in the making.
Though I continued to encounter remarkable white teachers, whose mastery of their skills helped to increase my knowledge and perceptions, nonetheless, I kept keenly focused on them as being the enemy, while I listened to what they taught with both ears. I still clung onto what I had been advised by some of my family. I would not trust white people.
My views and attitudes did not change much after I graduated and briefly attended college. I remained a black radical, defiant against the system.
The responsibilities of a dad who fathers his children have ways of turning many boys into men. So I emerged from my youthful cocoon to spread my wings as daddy.
I was hired to work a job as a telephone lineman in order to feed my family. It was a hard and dangerous job, but I was determined to do what I had to do to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I was during those times, one of a few black men who were hired to be linemen.
When I began the job, two white experienced linemen were assigned to teach us what we had to do on our “training crew”.
One was a brutish muscular man who was blunt and seemed to cuss with every sentence he uttered. He was always anxious and easily enraged. He constantly yelled and screamed how stupid you were if you made a mistake. We called him Wild Bill.
Fudge was the other lineman. He took time to show and instruct what work needed to be performed, what safety measures needed to be taken, and how to make the best outcome from a work day. He was a prankster and fun to work with.
Fudge and Wild Bill trained us for several months. Those of us who survived the training were dispersed to other line crews. Fudge and I remained in contact almost everyday, when we reported to work and when we left for the day.
Our work routine remained the same for a few years, until one day Fudge approached a group of linemen and asked if they wanted to go on an inland fishing trip together in the Sequoia National Forest. He quickly asked me if I would like to go. After entertaining the idea and discussing it with my wife, I agreed to join the fishing party the next day.
Fudge had picked the early springtime for the fishing trip. Eight of us began the journey to the mountainous forest. Another black person, Rod was a part of our group. Snow was still on the ground on most of the 26 miles we were to trek. While many of us raced to reach rendezvous points, when we tired and sat to comfort the pains in our bodies from our fast gaits Fudge leisurely walked by displaying the trout he had caught along the way. After sore and blistered feet and no catch in my fishing pouch, we pitched our tents over the snow and under a sky filled with illuminating stars. It was beautiful to look at an open sky and to feel the clean air blow through my nostrils. We arrived at our final campground the next day. Though my fishing pouch stayed empty, the journey itself was rewarding. All of us had time to talk to each other about who we were, about our wives, our children, our hopes, sports, and the things we liked. We forgot about work. When the trip was over, we would return to our labor.
I learned about Fudge during that time away. He was devoted to his family. He loved his wife and his children, whom I meant before we went on our trip. He also cherished friendships. He was an average person, who loved nature, fishing, and life itself. He liked to pull pranks, like throwing animal dung at you. He never showed any distinction between one individual from another; he was helpful to all. And even if he did slip without my knowledge, I wouldn't care.
