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The Black Oldsmobile

by
William Nielsen

 

 

Once our father bought a convertible.  That sleek, black vehicle and the events that followed that summer of 1963 were to change the way we looked at life in Valdosta, Georgia.  It was some months before a death in Dallas killed a nation's innocence and still two years before a rally in Selma brought a King to challenge color lines when my family received a lesson that began with a convertible - a 1961 black Oldsmobile Super 88. 

"Mama!  Mama!  Come see what Daddy did!"  My little sister Maggie slid across the kitchen floor on the Thursday evening before July Fourth, stopping inches from our mother. 

"Margaret, stop your hollerin'.  I will not have you screamin' through this house." 

Our mother began again but Maggie, having a death wish, interrupted. 

"Sorry, Mama ... but you've got to see what Daddy did."  Maggie bolted for the door.  I wasn't going to wait for an invitation so I was right behind her. 

I heard our mother's voice from somewhere behind me as I hurried outside. 

"You'd think I never taught these children any manners at all."  She was talking to the ceiling now.  Mama did that at times. 

"Sorry, Mama," I called over my shoulder. 

I stopped on the porch next to where Maggie stood.  In the driveway beyond was our father, Royale Carter Mosby, II, leaning casually against the door of a huge black convertible with red seats. 

Maggie and I were speechless.  Mama would soon do enough talking for all of us when she saw the car.  The obsidian surface of the exterior gleamed while the red interior appeared as heat itself.  The car was magnificent. 

The sun was low in the sky casting shadows across the front lawn and driveway.  Stray sunbeams sneaked through the trees, streaking the shiny black surface of the car with long hazy strips of pale red and gold rays.  Evening was descending like a curtain and with it hopes for relief from the oppressive heat of the southwest Georgia summer. 

My sister and I walked reverently to the car.  "Daddy ... " I gushed. 

"Wait, Trey.  Wait till your mama comes out.  Shush now."  He smiled conspiratorially, drawing both Maggie and I into his plot. 

Plot for what?  I didn't have a clue.  My trust in our father was so complete, I didn't give it a second thought.  

Mama came out to the porch and stopped on the top step.  The three of us looked up from the driveway and stared, waiting for her reaction.  I'll never forget the image of her poised on the gray wooden floor surrounded by the white railing.  Backlit by the low sunlight, her light brown hair formed a halo around her face.  She was positively angelic; feathers of hair touched flawless skin around her forehead and cheeks.  Her light blue summer dress seemed perfect for the robes of a goddess, which is what she looked like that evening.

The slight breeze eased the heat below the temperature of the human body while the scent of magnolia from the nearby trees wafted over us on a gentle wind.  The sultry summer air seemed to part for my mother as she floated to where we stood. 

"Roy-Al, what in heaven's name have you done now?" she asked, her accent emerging.  Mama was formerly Rebecca Fortenought of Lafayette, Louisiana, a Cajun by birthright. 

"Sugar, I have bought us a new car.  We need some stylish wheels to drive when we're in the Fawth of JUU-lie Parade."  Our father's pronunciation of the month of July seemed perfectly normal then. 

"What were you thinking?" 

"Darlin', when I first saw this machine, I pictured you sitting behind the wheel cruisin' through town with the wind in your hair.  I just couldn't resist that image." 

Our father was smooth.  I'll give him that. 

Without so much as a breath he continued, "The Judge owned it and never drove it.  He offered it to Daddy last week and was thrilled when I bought it for you." 

"And what did your father think ... us, a family, in such a car?" She started rubbing the interior of the car while talking.  Warming up.  A good sign. 

"He thought it would be wonderful."  Our father's enthusiasm was as large as the Oldsmobile Super 88 itself. 

"It's a bit ostentatious, Roy."  The use of our father's name without the -Al added was another good sign.  "What would the neighbors think?" 

"Who cares?" Daddy asked. 

"Let's go for a ride.  Jump in kids.  Darlin', you just sit right here in the front and I'll show you the beauty of this car." 

We drove around for two hours waving at friends and enjoying the envious stares of neighbors.  Low profile is something our father never believed in.
 

~ 

Friday night came and we climbed into the Oldsmobile to head into town for the annual talent show.  It was a tradition to open the Independence Day celebration with this event.  Our father had a great voice and couldn't wait to show it off. 

The air was still sultry when the lights came on the makeshift stage.  Folks were spread out over the grass on blankets or in lawn chairs.  Mason jars were filled with iced tea and other, more potent, tonics.  The town was still racially divided so the coloreds were on one side near the back of the lawn while the rest of us were scattered around the park. 

Baton twirlers, hymn singers, dancers, and other acts began the show.  But soon it was our father's turn. 

The announcer said, "Now we have our own Roy Mosby singing two songs, accompanied by his mama - Miss Etta." 

Daddy strode on-stage, confidant and smiling.  Grandma did not sit behind the upright piano.  Instead it was Miss Evelyn.  Jesse and Evelyn Jefferson were colored friends of our family. 

The silence of the spectators evaporated as Miss Evelyn sat down at the piano.  Our father said, "Folks, there'll be a slight change to the program.  I'll be singing with my good friend Jesse Jefferson."  A tall, dark skinned man walked across the bandstand to stand next to our father. 

Before the gasps of the town developed into a full-fledged discussion, Miss Evelyn started playing Amazing Grace.  Our father's voice rose above the piano, his tenor clear, sweet and strong.  The crowd hushed.  Curious now, people listened.  Jesse joined in and both voices rose to join the stars in the night sky. 

Somewhere and somehow the song transformed from the hymn into the Gershwin standard - Someone to Watch Over Me.  It was magical. 

Mama leaned over, "That is our father singing his heart out with Jesse.  Aren't they wonderful, Trey?" 

"Yes, Mama.  They are." 

When the song finished, the crowd remained quiet.  Our father stepped back up to the microphone with Jesse and began singing their next song - I Only Have Eyes for You.  Mama and Miss Evelyn looked like they'd burst with pride when they finished.  Scattered applause broke out in the audience, but mostly from the colored section and from our area.  The announcer stepped up to thank them.
 

~ 

Saturday was the parade and we all rode in that 1961 black Oldsmobile Super 88.  Jesse and Evelyn were in the back seat with us kids, the wind in our hair.  Our father won more than a singing contest that year; he won my undying respect. 

 

Literature has always been an important part of Bill Nielsen's life. As a boy his father paid him an allowance based on how many books he read and, being a greedy little kid, he tried to bankrupt him. He read everything he could and this developed in him a love for the written word. 

A graduate of the US Naval Academy, a former Navy flier, and an experienced aviation executive, Bill now devotes much of his time to writing. Having studied at the New School, C. W. Post College, Long Island University, and a Kennesaw State University in Georgia he continues to learn the craft. 

Several of his short stories have been published and he has won awards for his work. Most recently, he was the 1998 Richmond Fiction Award winner for a story of the South. Recently Bill has signed a contract with a literary agent for the development of a novel and is hard at work on the rewrite of a thriller titled, "Defying the Storm."  

Portrait of Rose la Touche by John Ruskin is available from CGFA Virtual Museum

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