My birth certificate states that I was born at 8:30 a.m. on May 11, 1951, in the old Baptist Hospital on North State Street in Jackson.
Nothing extraordinary about that.
However, my paternal grandfather, Robert Cleveland Smith, died at 2:30 p.m. later the same day, two floors above the nursery where I lay in a bassinet, contemplating my arrival.
Very unusual start.
The next day held a lot of drama. I was always told by my parents, and historical data from the old Baptist Hospital confirm, that there was a fire in the nursery area of the hospital and all of the newborns were removed to a safe position on the sidewalk in front of the hospital.
(Understand that this pre-dated the current policies of elaborate identification methods for both newborns and mothers, including bar coded ankle bracelets, computer chip tracking, and other safety protocols.)
My home for the next 20 years would be a 900 square foot house, constructed with asbestos siding, lead-based paint, cast iron water pipes, and a weekly dose of DDT during summers, courtesy of the City of Jackson Skeeter Truck.
Somehow, seven decades later, I am still around to tell the story.
Our home was a couple of blocks north of Battlefield Park, on the western fringes of our neighborhood known affectionately as “Doodleville.” I was welcomed….(and welcomed might have been too generous a word)…by my brother, Bruce, five years my elder.
Bruce had been the only child in our extended family for several years. He was precocious beyond his years. As he grew, he excelled in learning to play the piano, starred in all the early years of class plays at George Elementary, and was the darling of my parents’ eyes, along with various aunts, uncles, and grandparents.
Me? I had no interest in anything musical, played baseball in the Robert E. Lee Little League at Battlefield, and generally showed no interest in academics or intellectual pursuits.
Over the years I did not help matters. I considered myself very compliant but didn’t always conform to the expectations my parents had for me…especially my mother. One incident has always stood out that evoked an interesting retort from Mother.
I was getting dressed for church on Sunday and my laziness---or poor taste---led me to the dirty clothes hamper. I selected a rumpled peach-colored shirt, olive green slacks, red socks, and brown shoes. After getting dressed, I walked into the living room and my immaculately dressed brother exclaimed---“you’re not going to let him go to church like that, are you?”
I suppose Mother was both aggravated at my sloppy choices, or the fact that my impending change to more appropriate clothing was going to make us late for the Sunday School at Griffith Memorial Baptist Church.
At any rate, she blurted out---“You’re not one of us…You were supposed to be a girl named Vicky.”
“You’re not like us.”
My immediate first thought was---“is that Vicky with a ‘Y,” or Vickie with an “ie,” or perhaps Vicki with an “ki?” I also wondered why anyone in their right mind would name a boy “Kendall” in 1951.
It was then that I began to ponder what could have really happened way back on that sidewalk in front of Baptist. Perhaps I was REALLY the son of a wealthy Jackson oil man? But I guess I could have been the progeny of a band of gypsies, based on my preference for outlandish clothing.
Maybe those bassinets really did get switched around.
Seventy-five years later the truth comes out. This makes for a funny story, but the reality is that I look just like my mother, act just like my daddy, and over the years developed an interest in music, took piano lessons, and sing tenor in the First Baptist-Jackson choir.
I loved my mother dearly---and she would be really irritated with me for writing this article.
Kendall Smith is a Northsider.
