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GHETTO FLOWERS I THE EARLY YEARS
Francis Oliver Lynn
Francis Oliver Lynn
Purchase at:
www.lulu.com/content/1048847
GHETTO FLOWERS I: THE EARLY YEARS
Copyright © 2007 by Francis Oliver Lynn
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher:
FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN
423 Brickhouse Rd
Princeton, New Jersey
Email: franlynn36@hotmail.com
First Edition: July 2007
The stories in this book are based on actual events and characters, but they have been fictionalized to enhance their educational and entertainment value, and to protect the innocent and guilty, but mostly to keep people from yelling at me. None of the characters as they are represented in this book are real living persons, with the exception of the author, and a couple of his cousins who said they didn’t mind.
Printed in the United States of America
Printer: http://www.lulu.com/1048847
DEDICATIONS
Snooky & Lenny Lynn – Mama & Papa Panthers
Nathaniel Lynn – miracle son
Ariah Lynn - compassionate daughter
Suzanne Caimi – the real Sandy
William Lynn – Ghetto Flower brother
James Kilpatrick Orr – Ghetto Flower cosmic cousin
Anita Curtis – a great teacher & remarkable friend
Dennis Donnelly – Ghetto Flower minstrel
Fr. Albert Boselli – Ghetto Flower gardener
Fr. Teddy Neighbors – Ghetto Flower savior
Tom Wissert – Ghetto Flower Wiz Kid
I have deep appreciation and admiration for all the Ghetto Flowers who helped free each other from the chains of fear with the power of love. Their seeds of love have sprouted over the earth, and yet their roots remain firmly grounded under the red brick, row home, concrete and asphalt jungle of South Philadelphia.
And a very special thanks to the students of Princeton Friends School whose interest in my stories inspired the writing of this book.
CONTENTS
LITTLE PANTHER
SOUL SAVING THIEVES
WHITE SHEPHERD
BOW & ARROW
PLAYGROUND
CAMP
HOT DAMN, SUMMER IN THE CITY
STONE HARBOR
The past isn’t what it used to be, never was and never will be, so as we learn to let it go, perhaps we can see life as it truly is in the present moment - and begin to heal, turning ancient wounds into sacred loves.
- Francis Oliver Lynn
GHETTO FLOWERS
I
THE EARLY YEARS
FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN
When I was five years old my mother took me to the city zoo. I stood in front of a Black Panther’s cage. The cat paced his prison with nervous agitation. His flaccid muscles and loose skin flapped as he pranced back and forth. I cried. Taking me in her arms my mother said, "There's nothing to fear son, the panther is locked in his cage. He can’t hurt you.” I looked into my mother’s eyes and asked, “Mama, why do I feel like that big cat?”
LITTLE PANTHER
The red brick back alleys were narrow – three and one-half feet wide passageways stretching the length of a city block, one alleyway connected to another by intersecting cross streets – a labyrinth spread throughout inner city Philadelphia. The fences were made of wood, some painted, and others weathered grey and a few were made of cinder block. People kept their slop cans (compost) and trashcans in their small rectangular concrete, paved back yards, along with miscellaneous partially wanted things. These alleys were home to feral cats; cats that at one time were house pets but had a taste of freedom, never to fully return to the sanctuary of the family home, choosing instead to roam the streets and alleyways. The boys had recently developed a passion for hunting the cats, using homemade spears fashioned out of branches or old brooms, sling-shots made from coat hangers and scraps of rubber from bicycle tire inner tubes, and of course by simply throwing rocks and stones.
The cats were awesome creatures: independent, efficient hunters, graceful and agile. They provided hours of entertainment to me, watching them from my bedroom window as they leaped from fence to fence, searching for prey and garbage cans with loosely fastened lids. They would challenge each other for dominance – stand-offs on the fence tops, hissing out threatening sounds for hours before striking each other with razor sharp claws; ultimately the weaker one would back down. Their late night mating cries were hauntingly beautiful, even though they kept awake many disgruntled humans, who would toss hot water on them to end their love ritual. I wanted to convince the other boys to stop hunting these marvelous creatures, but I went along with them doing my best to protect the cats while pretending to be a hunter.
We moved with stealth as our eyes scanned the alley fence tops and nooks and crannies of dark corners in search for feline prey.
“I saw it, the big black cat went up the tree in Mrs. Hines’ back yard,” whispered Liam.
“Quick, let’s get closer and try to hit her with our sling-shots,” Butch urgently whispered.
When we were within range, we zinged pebbles into the branches. They zipped past her as she leaped from tree to rooftop – she was safe. Liam would not give up. He climbed the tree and on to the roof and we followed. We saw no signs of the black cat, we did see an expanse of rooftops stretching throughout the city, and on distant roofs we saw cats scurrying along their house top haven, along with countless pigeons perched along the highest roof edges and electric wires. Pigeons were preyed upon by these hunting masters; these birds were the most abundant animal life in Philly: they weren’t known so much for the beauty of their design and the grace of their flight, but for the filth from their defecating that was everywhere throughout the city, spreading stench and germs. The cats never made a significant contribution to reducing the avian population, for the birds were far too numerous, and flight was the perfect defense. (City officials would later decimate them through a massive poisoning campaign.) Killing pigeons was an easy game for the boy hunters; many pigeons were taken from their flight by well-aimed stones hurled from slingshots. My father forbade me the killing of birds. Once, while sitting on my front steps, I killed two pigeons in flight with a single shot. My father saw this happen and I was punished for my deed, my father making me swear to never kill another bird. He enjoyed sitting on the front stoops of our home on Saturday mornings feeding the flocks in the street
stale bread crumbs. It was one of his favorite activities. The killing of birds made them afraid to flock in the streets in front of our home. My father attempted to rescue baby birds that had fallen from their nests or were left abandoned, although he was never successful. He had no contempt for alley cats, but he had no fondness for them either.
“She got away,” I calmly stated, trying to hide my satisfaction.
“Yeah, but look at these rooftops. We need to come up here to hunt. We should try it at night – surprise them by waiting. I bet we’ll catch the big black cat that way. I’d sure like to have its hide hanging in the clubhouse. She looks like a miniature panther,” said Liam. My stomach churned at the thought.
“Liam, you wouldn’t take its fur, would you? Besides, you don’t know how to skin a cat,” I said.
“No I don’t, but my father does. He hunts up in the Pocono Mountains and he has deer, rabbit, skunk, raccoon and squirrel skins hanging in the mountain hunting trailer,” he proudly stated.
Liam could be quite aggressive and impulsive, which sometimes led to violent action. I was worried that he would take this pursuing of cats too far and that he would actually skin one.
The hunting of cats disturbed me. I was the youngest in this gang and didn’t want to risk rejection. When we threw spears, stones, or used our slingshots to hurt them, I would aim near the cats, hitting a close target, giving them warning. The boys were irritated by my poorly timed and inaccurate shots. I wasn’t always successful – cats would get injured and occasionally killed. I wondered what drove boys to hunt and kill like savage animals. I too felt the surge of energy in the thrill of the hunt, yet something else would then take over, stopping me in that crucial moment from choosing to inflict harm.
I never told them that the black cat came to my backyard to eat. I vowed to do everything I could to stop Liam and Butch and the other hunters, but I didn’t know how.
Several months later, shortly before sunrise on Christmas morning, my brother and I quietly went downstairs to peek under the Christmas tree. Our parents were asleep on the sofa as the multi-colored tree lights blinked and twinkled, casting holiday radiance through the room. As we stared in wonder at the colorfully wrapped presents, particularly the two red bikes that came straight from the Sears & Roebuck catalogue, my brother noticed a very large black cat make its way from the kitchen and slip through an opening in our basement door. Our attention immediately went to the cat and we followed in quick but quiet pursuit. It was crouched on the edge of the cellar stairs. My brother picked up the cat by the hair of its neck. It swiftly spun around and clawed his chest with several deep scratches. He yelled, causing our parents to awaken.
“What the heck is going on?” cried my mother.
“It’s a big cat Mom, the one I told you about. The one that is as big as a baby panther,” I said with excitement. She ran to my brother to comfort him and examine his wounds, while my father and I went in search of the cat. “Don’t hurt it Dad, it’s very cold out and it probably just wants to be warm,” I said.
“Yeah, and she’s pregnant. Look at the size of her belly. She’s big all right,” he said.
“She must have come through the backyard door during the night when we were putting out trash. Lenny, I told you to fix the latch on that door. She was looking for a warm place to have her kittens,” my mother explained.
The decision was made to keep her in the basement. My mother took my brother upstairs to clean his wounds. My father placed an old wool blanket and a bowl of milk near the coal chute where the cat was hiding. We couldn’t go back to sleep. We decided to make breakfast (it was still dark outside) and then we opened our presents. Afterwards, my brother and I went to the basement to check out the cat.
“Wow, Bill, look at that, she’s having kittens. She’s pushing them out of her butt and they’re all wet and so small,” I said.
“Yeah, weird, they’re cute and ugly at the same time. Let’s count them,” Bill suggested. “One, two … I count 7 so far, and look she’s pushing out another one! Hey Francis, isn’t she the cat you put food out for on the fence tops?” said Billy.
“Yeah, but don’t tell Mom or Dad. They’ll get mad and say that’s why she came to our house to have the kittens,” I replied.
On this Christmas day she had 13 kittens of a variety of colors and markings. We named her Little Panther. Since Panther was an alley cat, she was not tame and would not allow anyone to pet her. She came and went as she pleased through the ‘cat door’ my father installed in the cellar window. She was a good hunter, although prey was harder to find in the winter, so we provided extra food for her. She was the queen cat among the neighborhood alley cats; she was larger than all other cats and fierce in her battles with rival felines. My peers knew Panther very well, she was artful in escaping them during the hunt; they respected her and they enjoyed the challenge she gave them. The story of Panther’s thirteen kittens spread quickly throughout the neighborhood and the boys visited my basement to watch her and the kittens.
A few weeks later I walked into the kitchen and saw my father, accompanied by my Uncle Nathaniel, sitting on a chair with a kitten in his hand about to dip it into a bucket of water. I screamed, “No!”
My father yelled, “There are too many kittens. The neighborhood is overrun with them. And I have heard rumors that Mr. Nasty has poisoned cats that go in his yard. We both know Panther goes in there. These kittens will surely follow her. The best thing is to drown them.”
“No!” I screamed again, and kicked the bucket, spilling the water over the kitchen floor. ”You can’t do that. You’re a monster. I won’t let you kill them. I’ll take care of all of them!” I stood there with tears streaming down my face and fists clinched in angry defiance.
“You’re crazy! So you think you and your hoodlum friends, who hunt cats, are going to save them? Those boys would just as soon kill them,” he yelled.
“I’m going to take them to our clubhouse and give them away to the boys. I know they’ll learn to take care of them, they must.” I responded with determination.
“Francis, you have the wackiest ideas, those street boys aren’t going to take those kittens home, you know darn well they’ll never be able to take care of a single one of those wild creatures, no home will contain them, all they’ll want is the food they can get and then turn over the garbage cans for more, making smelly messes all over the alleys, causing more mice and rats.”
“The cats kill mice and rats, and people should attach garbage lids better, besides, look how Panther allows us to feed and shelter her and she still roams through the alleys. That’s where the alley cats belong, and they hunt rodents that live in the sewer, and they hunt pigeons as well. I’m going to save these kittens, Dad.”
“Go ahead then. Take them to your clubhouse and see what happens. The parents of those boys won’t go for it. You have one week to get them out of here. And we’re not going to keep a single kitten.”
“What about Little Panther? Can she keep coming here?” I asked.
“I’ll leave the opening in the window. If she brings any other cats in that basement, then the cat door comes out,” he said with finality.
The boys were thrilled by the idea of having personal alley cats; ones they could have relationships with, look after with minimal responsibility, and still let them have their freedom (they’d take it anyway). Most of the parents weren’t keen on the idea, so we took all but two to our clubhouse, an old abandoned two story brick shell that we claimed as our own, complete with secret entrances, furniture, flags, and other paraphernalia useful for our adventures and cultural rituals. The kittens were well fed and free to come and go as they pleased.
“Hey, this is almost as much fun as hunting them,” my cousin Butch said, laughing sarcastically.
”Yeah, and we have our own army of cats to keep the clubhouse free of mice and rats,” Liam added. “If Panther ever dies though, I would still like to have her skin. It would look great hanging in the clubhouse,” he continued.
“Never!” was my reply.
“Just kidding,” said Liam.
Spring arrived and the kittens had grown quickly, as kittens do, and since we weren’t consistently available to take care of them, they soon became full fledged alley cats, occasionally visiting the clubhouse, some of them using it as a part time shelter. As time went on they became ever wilder, although never completely distrustful of their former human caretakers. Panther occasionally visited the clubhouse and our home, coming through the cellar window, and she never allowed other cats to come with her. This was a good thing because my parents would have closed up the opening.
It was the middle of June when I noticed that Panther had not been around for a few days. I asked if anyone had seen her and no one had. We decided to search the alleys.
“She’s not in any of the alleys and we haven’t seen her on the roofs either. Let’s go check out the nasty man’s yard,” I suggested. We walked along the edge of the roofs looking down into the yards. When we came to Mr. Nasty’s yard we saw something lying in his garden, slightly camouflaged by plant leaves. “That might be her,” I said. We climbed down the drainpipe, jumped onto the kitchen roof and then into the yard. “Oh my God, it’s her. She’s dead!” I cried.
Her limbs were fully extended, her tongue was hanging from the side of her mouth and her eyes were open and covered with a light white film, obscuring the color of her green eyes. I picked up her stiff body and held her close to my chest. Anger surged through me and tears streaked my cheeks. After handing Panther to Butch, I kicked the nasty man’s back door and I screamed, “Come out you murderer. How could you be so mean? Come out now!”
“Get out of here you little hoodlums. What do you want with me?” he yelled back from the second story window.
Description:
Ghetto Flowers is the story of multi-ethnic inner city youth coming of age in the red brick row home asphalt concrete jungle of South Philadelphia. The narrow streets, homes, and alleys form a complex culturally diverse maze of neighborhoods for kids to utilize every available opportunity to thrive in their struggle to survive. The book is semi-autobiographical, using actual and fictionalized events from the author’s life to illustrate the challenges young people face in their attempt to grow beyond cultural circumstances that hinder the discovery and unfolding of their innate potential. Ghetto Flowers is a collection of realistic stories woven into a novel and written so that young people can appreciate and understand the challenge of growing up with unusual educational and cultural influences in what many would consider a world of deprivation. The Ghetto Flowers will amaze you with their ingenious resourcefulness and their insatiable hunger for adventure.
Product Details:
Printed: 272 pages, 6" x 9", perfect binding, cream interior paper (60# weight), black and white interior ink, white exterior paper (100# weight), full-color exterior ink
PDF (927 kb)
Download: 1 documents (PDF), 927 KB
Publisher: FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN
Copyright: © 2007 by FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN Standard Copyright License
Language: English
Country: United States
Edition: First Edition
Version: 1
Hits: 22
Keywords:
cultural diversity
MULTI-EHTNIC
inner city
coming of age
Listed in:
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www.lulu.com/content/1048847
GHETTO FLOWERS I: THE EARLY YEARS
Copyright © 2007 by Francis Oliver Lynn
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher:
FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN
423 Brickhouse Rd
Princeton, New Jersey
Email: franlynn36@hotmail.com
First Edition: July 2007
The stories in this book are based on actual events and characters, but they have been fictionalized to enhance their educational and entertainment value, and to protect the innocent and guilty, but mostly to keep people from yelling at me. None of the characters as they are represented in this book are real living persons, with the exception of the author, and a couple of his cousins who said they didn’t mind.
Printed in the United States of America
Printer: http://www.lulu.com/1048847
DEDICATIONS
Snooky & Lenny Lynn – Mama & Papa Panthers
Nathaniel Lynn – miracle son
Ariah Lynn - compassionate daughter
Suzanne Caimi – the real Sandy
William Lynn – Ghetto Flower brother
James Kilpatrick Orr – Ghetto Flower cosmic cousin
Anita Curtis – a great teacher & remarkable friend
Dennis Donnelly – Ghetto Flower minstrel
Fr. Albert Boselli – Ghetto Flower gardener
Fr. Teddy Neighbors – Ghetto Flower savior
Tom Wissert – Ghetto Flower Wiz Kid
I have deep appreciation and admiration for all the Ghetto Flowers who helped free each other from the chains of fear with the power of love. Their seeds of love have sprouted over the earth, and yet their roots remain firmly grounded under the red brick, row home, concrete and asphalt jungle of South Philadelphia.
And a very special thanks to the students of Princeton Friends School whose interest in my stories inspired the writing of this book.
CONTENTS
LITTLE PANTHER
SOUL SAVING THIEVES
WHITE SHEPHERD
BOW & ARROW
PLAYGROUND
CAMP
HOT DAMN, SUMMER IN THE CITY
STONE HARBOR
The past isn’t what it used to be, never was and never will be, so as we learn to let it go, perhaps we can see life as it truly is in the present moment - and begin to heal, turning ancient wounds into sacred loves.
- Francis Oliver Lynn
GHETTO FLOWERS
I
THE EARLY YEARS
FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN
When I was five years old my mother took me to the city zoo. I stood in front of a Black Panther’s cage. The cat paced his prison with nervous agitation. His flaccid muscles and loose skin flapped as he pranced back and forth. I cried. Taking me in her arms my mother said, "There's nothing to fear son, the panther is locked in his cage. He can’t hurt you.” I looked into my mother’s eyes and asked, “Mama, why do I feel like that big cat?”
LITTLE PANTHER
The red brick back alleys were narrow – three and one-half feet wide passageways stretching the length of a city block, one alleyway connected to another by intersecting cross streets – a labyrinth spread throughout inner city Philadelphia. The fences were made of wood, some painted, and others weathered grey and a few were made of cinder block. People kept their slop cans (compost) and trashcans in their small rectangular concrete, paved back yards, along with miscellaneous partially wanted things. These alleys were home to feral cats; cats that at one time were house pets but had a taste of freedom, never to fully return to the sanctuary of the family home, choosing instead to roam the streets and alleyways. The boys had recently developed a passion for hunting the cats, using homemade spears fashioned out of branches or old brooms, sling-shots made from coat hangers and scraps of rubber from bicycle tire inner tubes, and of course by simply throwing rocks and stones.
The cats were awesome creatures: independent, efficient hunters, graceful and agile. They provided hours of entertainment to me, watching them from my bedroom window as they leaped from fence to fence, searching for prey and garbage cans with loosely fastened lids. They would challenge each other for dominance – stand-offs on the fence tops, hissing out threatening sounds for hours before striking each other with razor sharp claws; ultimately the weaker one would back down. Their late night mating cries were hauntingly beautiful, even though they kept awake many disgruntled humans, who would toss hot water on them to end their love ritual. I wanted to convince the other boys to stop hunting these marvelous creatures, but I went along with them doing my best to protect the cats while pretending to be a hunter.
We moved with stealth as our eyes scanned the alley fence tops and nooks and crannies of dark corners in search for feline prey.
“I saw it, the big black cat went up the tree in Mrs. Hines’ back yard,” whispered Liam.
“Quick, let’s get closer and try to hit her with our sling-shots,” Butch urgently whispered.
When we were within range, we zinged pebbles into the branches. They zipped past her as she leaped from tree to rooftop – she was safe. Liam would not give up. He climbed the tree and on to the roof and we followed. We saw no signs of the black cat, we did see an expanse of rooftops stretching throughout the city, and on distant roofs we saw cats scurrying along their house top haven, along with countless pigeons perched along the highest roof edges and electric wires. Pigeons were preyed upon by these hunting masters; these birds were the most abundant animal life in Philly: they weren’t known so much for the beauty of their design and the grace of their flight, but for the filth from their defecating that was everywhere throughout the city, spreading stench and germs. The cats never made a significant contribution to reducing the avian population, for the birds were far too numerous, and flight was the perfect defense. (City officials would later decimate them through a massive poisoning campaign.) Killing pigeons was an easy game for the boy hunters; many pigeons were taken from their flight by well-aimed stones hurled from slingshots. My father forbade me the killing of birds. Once, while sitting on my front steps, I killed two pigeons in flight with a single shot. My father saw this happen and I was punished for my deed, my father making me swear to never kill another bird. He enjoyed sitting on the front stoops of our home on Saturday mornings feeding the flocks in the street
stale bread crumbs. It was one of his favorite activities. The killing of birds made them afraid to flock in the streets in front of our home. My father attempted to rescue baby birds that had fallen from their nests or were left abandoned, although he was never successful. He had no contempt for alley cats, but he had no fondness for them either.
“She got away,” I calmly stated, trying to hide my satisfaction.
“Yeah, but look at these rooftops. We need to come up here to hunt. We should try it at night – surprise them by waiting. I bet we’ll catch the big black cat that way. I’d sure like to have its hide hanging in the clubhouse. She looks like a miniature panther,” said Liam. My stomach churned at the thought.
“Liam, you wouldn’t take its fur, would you? Besides, you don’t know how to skin a cat,” I said.
“No I don’t, but my father does. He hunts up in the Pocono Mountains and he has deer, rabbit, skunk, raccoon and squirrel skins hanging in the mountain hunting trailer,” he proudly stated.
Liam could be quite aggressive and impulsive, which sometimes led to violent action. I was worried that he would take this pursuing of cats too far and that he would actually skin one.
The hunting of cats disturbed me. I was the youngest in this gang and didn’t want to risk rejection. When we threw spears, stones, or used our slingshots to hurt them, I would aim near the cats, hitting a close target, giving them warning. The boys were irritated by my poorly timed and inaccurate shots. I wasn’t always successful – cats would get injured and occasionally killed. I wondered what drove boys to hunt and kill like savage animals. I too felt the surge of energy in the thrill of the hunt, yet something else would then take over, stopping me in that crucial moment from choosing to inflict harm.
I never told them that the black cat came to my backyard to eat. I vowed to do everything I could to stop Liam and Butch and the other hunters, but I didn’t know how.
Several months later, shortly before sunrise on Christmas morning, my brother and I quietly went downstairs to peek under the Christmas tree. Our parents were asleep on the sofa as the multi-colored tree lights blinked and twinkled, casting holiday radiance through the room. As we stared in wonder at the colorfully wrapped presents, particularly the two red bikes that came straight from the Sears & Roebuck catalogue, my brother noticed a very large black cat make its way from the kitchen and slip through an opening in our basement door. Our attention immediately went to the cat and we followed in quick but quiet pursuit. It was crouched on the edge of the cellar stairs. My brother picked up the cat by the hair of its neck. It swiftly spun around and clawed his chest with several deep scratches. He yelled, causing our parents to awaken.
“What the heck is going on?” cried my mother.
“It’s a big cat Mom, the one I told you about. The one that is as big as a baby panther,” I said with excitement. She ran to my brother to comfort him and examine his wounds, while my father and I went in search of the cat. “Don’t hurt it Dad, it’s very cold out and it probably just wants to be warm,” I said.
“Yeah, and she’s pregnant. Look at the size of her belly. She’s big all right,” he said.
“She must have come through the backyard door during the night when we were putting out trash. Lenny, I told you to fix the latch on that door. She was looking for a warm place to have her kittens,” my mother explained.
The decision was made to keep her in the basement. My mother took my brother upstairs to clean his wounds. My father placed an old wool blanket and a bowl of milk near the coal chute where the cat was hiding. We couldn’t go back to sleep. We decided to make breakfast (it was still dark outside) and then we opened our presents. Afterwards, my brother and I went to the basement to check out the cat.
“Wow, Bill, look at that, she’s having kittens. She’s pushing them out of her butt and they’re all wet and so small,” I said.
“Yeah, weird, they’re cute and ugly at the same time. Let’s count them,” Bill suggested. “One, two … I count 7 so far, and look she’s pushing out another one! Hey Francis, isn’t she the cat you put food out for on the fence tops?” said Billy.
“Yeah, but don’t tell Mom or Dad. They’ll get mad and say that’s why she came to our house to have the kittens,” I replied.
On this Christmas day she had 13 kittens of a variety of colors and markings. We named her Little Panther. Since Panther was an alley cat, she was not tame and would not allow anyone to pet her. She came and went as she pleased through the ‘cat door’ my father installed in the cellar window. She was a good hunter, although prey was harder to find in the winter, so we provided extra food for her. She was the queen cat among the neighborhood alley cats; she was larger than all other cats and fierce in her battles with rival felines. My peers knew Panther very well, she was artful in escaping them during the hunt; they respected her and they enjoyed the challenge she gave them. The story of Panther’s thirteen kittens spread quickly throughout the neighborhood and the boys visited my basement to watch her and the kittens.
A few weeks later I walked into the kitchen and saw my father, accompanied by my Uncle Nathaniel, sitting on a chair with a kitten in his hand about to dip it into a bucket of water. I screamed, “No!”
My father yelled, “There are too many kittens. The neighborhood is overrun with them. And I have heard rumors that Mr. Nasty has poisoned cats that go in his yard. We both know Panther goes in there. These kittens will surely follow her. The best thing is to drown them.”
“No!” I screamed again, and kicked the bucket, spilling the water over the kitchen floor. ”You can’t do that. You’re a monster. I won’t let you kill them. I’ll take care of all of them!” I stood there with tears streaming down my face and fists clinched in angry defiance.
“You’re crazy! So you think you and your hoodlum friends, who hunt cats, are going to save them? Those boys would just as soon kill them,” he yelled.
“I’m going to take them to our clubhouse and give them away to the boys. I know they’ll learn to take care of them, they must.” I responded with determination.
“Francis, you have the wackiest ideas, those street boys aren’t going to take those kittens home, you know darn well they’ll never be able to take care of a single one of those wild creatures, no home will contain them, all they’ll want is the food they can get and then turn over the garbage cans for more, making smelly messes all over the alleys, causing more mice and rats.”
“The cats kill mice and rats, and people should attach garbage lids better, besides, look how Panther allows us to feed and shelter her and she still roams through the alleys. That’s where the alley cats belong, and they hunt rodents that live in the sewer, and they hunt pigeons as well. I’m going to save these kittens, Dad.”
“Go ahead then. Take them to your clubhouse and see what happens. The parents of those boys won’t go for it. You have one week to get them out of here. And we’re not going to keep a single kitten.”
“What about Little Panther? Can she keep coming here?” I asked.
“I’ll leave the opening in the window. If she brings any other cats in that basement, then the cat door comes out,” he said with finality.
The boys were thrilled by the idea of having personal alley cats; ones they could have relationships with, look after with minimal responsibility, and still let them have their freedom (they’d take it anyway). Most of the parents weren’t keen on the idea, so we took all but two to our clubhouse, an old abandoned two story brick shell that we claimed as our own, complete with secret entrances, furniture, flags, and other paraphernalia useful for our adventures and cultural rituals. The kittens were well fed and free to come and go as they pleased.
“Hey, this is almost as much fun as hunting them,” my cousin Butch said, laughing sarcastically.
”Yeah, and we have our own army of cats to keep the clubhouse free of mice and rats,” Liam added. “If Panther ever dies though, I would still like to have her skin. It would look great hanging in the clubhouse,” he continued.
“Never!” was my reply.
“Just kidding,” said Liam.
Spring arrived and the kittens had grown quickly, as kittens do, and since we weren’t consistently available to take care of them, they soon became full fledged alley cats, occasionally visiting the clubhouse, some of them using it as a part time shelter. As time went on they became ever wilder, although never completely distrustful of their former human caretakers. Panther occasionally visited the clubhouse and our home, coming through the cellar window, and she never allowed other cats to come with her. This was a good thing because my parents would have closed up the opening.
It was the middle of June when I noticed that Panther had not been around for a few days. I asked if anyone had seen her and no one had. We decided to search the alleys.
“She’s not in any of the alleys and we haven’t seen her on the roofs either. Let’s go check out the nasty man’s yard,” I suggested. We walked along the edge of the roofs looking down into the yards. When we came to Mr. Nasty’s yard we saw something lying in his garden, slightly camouflaged by plant leaves. “That might be her,” I said. We climbed down the drainpipe, jumped onto the kitchen roof and then into the yard. “Oh my God, it’s her. She’s dead!” I cried.
Her limbs were fully extended, her tongue was hanging from the side of her mouth and her eyes were open and covered with a light white film, obscuring the color of her green eyes. I picked up her stiff body and held her close to my chest. Anger surged through me and tears streaked my cheeks. After handing Panther to Butch, I kicked the nasty man’s back door and I screamed, “Come out you murderer. How could you be so mean? Come out now!”
“Get out of here you little hoodlums. What do you want with me?” he yelled back from the second story window.
Description:
Ghetto Flowers is the story of multi-ethnic inner city youth coming of age in the red brick row home asphalt concrete jungle of South Philadelphia. The narrow streets, homes, and alleys form a complex culturally diverse maze of neighborhoods for kids to utilize every available opportunity to thrive in their struggle to survive. The book is semi-autobiographical, using actual and fictionalized events from the author’s life to illustrate the challenges young people face in their attempt to grow beyond cultural circumstances that hinder the discovery and unfolding of their innate potential. Ghetto Flowers is a collection of realistic stories woven into a novel and written so that young people can appreciate and understand the challenge of growing up with unusual educational and cultural influences in what many would consider a world of deprivation. The Ghetto Flowers will amaze you with their ingenious resourcefulness and their insatiable hunger for adventure.
Product Details:
Printed: 272 pages, 6" x 9", perfect binding, cream interior paper (60# weight), black and white interior ink, white exterior paper (100# weight), full-color exterior ink
PDF (927 kb)
Download: 1 documents (PDF), 927 KB
Publisher: FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN
Copyright: © 2007 by FRANCIS OLIVER LYNN Standard Copyright License
Language: English
Country: United States
Edition: First Edition
Version: 1
Hits: 22
Keywords:
cultural diversity
MULTI-EHTNIC
inner city
coming of age
Listed in:
Teens
