More Harlem memories

When I think about how my mom used to obsess over terrible things that might happen to me as a kid, it amazes me that I wandered all over Harlem alone without her saying a word.  She and Daddy were both at work all day; maybe I never bothered to mention my wanderings.  
I cried myself to sleep many times when we first moved to the city because we had been living on a farm where my dad was a hired hand, and I loved that place.  I missed the barn cats and my dog Cookie, who had to be shot before we moved because she had a huge tumor on her belly (and we had no place for a dog in the apartment).  So yes, I cried.  
But there were things I learned to love about our new home.

The levee

I loved going on the river side of the levee, sitting on one of the big rocks, and simply watching the Missouri River below.  (I still love the river, and find it interesting that I live so near it today.)  Sometimes a boat would come along; you'd hear a "toot" that was the signal for someone to raise up a portion of the A.S.B. bridge (in the background) to let it through, and neighborhood kids would run up to the top of the levee to watch.  
Up under the bridge were signs that hobos had been there, perhaps taking refuge from the elements:  whisky bottles, sardine cans and such were scattered about.  
Surely my mom didn't know I was wandering up there alone!  

We lived within easy walking distance of the Municipal Airport, which was one of my favorite places to hang out.  It was THE airport serving Kansas City back then.  My mom and I met Pat Boone's plane one time when he arrived for a concert sponsored by Katz drug stores, and we ended up being in a picture of the crowd on the front page of the Kansas City Star.  
Because of our close proximity to the airport, our TV signal often went haywire as planes flew over our house; when they were taking off or landing, the noise was horrendous.  

We drove to the airport yesterday; it's no longer "THE airport", but planes still land there.  Kansas City International Airport lies about fifty miles or so to the north.


While we were in North Kansas City, I asked Cliff to take me to the spot where I went to school when we first moved to the city.  I was halfway through the sixth grade when I was enrolled in McElroy Dagg school, which at that time was a grade school.  Later on it became part of the high school.  

Now the building is gone; in place of the McElroy Dagg building and grounds is Dagg Park.

A couple blocks away stands North Kansas City High School, from which I graduated in 1962.  The old part of the building hasn't changed much, although additions have made it at least double the size it used to be.   One thing that has changed drastically:  In 1962, you wouldn't have seen one black face in the student body.  There wasn't any enforced segregation, it's just that the Kansas City population north of the river was 100% white.   
That seems strange now, doesn't it?  Some traditions are best left behind. 

  Cliff and I saw several faces of color when we drove past the school.

I realize these ramblings are probably of little interest to my readers, but sometimes I need to turn back the years and remember other times, simply for my own benefit.