The Whites

I do not remember their real names. They were an all blond family with four kids who seemed to always be wearing white; from their immaculate white sneakers to the immaculate white ribbons the sisters always had tied around their blond ponytails. Mom and Dad always seemed to be wearing white also. The kids were not allowed to come home dirty. The whole family smiled all the time. It was creepy. 

As I was allowed into their lives only so far, it took me awhile to know them even a little. I learned the kids did not call their parents Mom or Dad, they called their mom "Honey" and their father "John".

The Whites lived 4 houses down on San Rafael St. in Tampa, Florida when I was in 4th and 5th grade. The family were very rarely separated from each other. When the kids were allowed to play outside, I never once saw any of them scuff even so much as one of those perfect white sneakers they always wore. They wouldn't sit in the grass, play in a sprinkler, or Heaven Forbid, swim in the canal or the bay. The sisters jumped rope, played jacks in kneeling position and played tic tac toe and never dirtied their hands. The girls didn't like me and that was fine. I wasn't yet partial to girls anyway. 

The brothers were even bigger pansies than their sisters. Every fun thing I suggested, they shot down because either Honey or John would not approve. And the time I said the word shit, one of them audibly gasped and turned red. Yeah, they were some odd, those Whites were.

My attempted friendship with the kids only lasted that first year. One day when my father was mucking around in the flower bed in the dooryard, Mr White pulled up in his, yeah, that's right, their white Ford station wagon. I was pulling weeds around the tree Dad had planted when we moved in some months before.

Mr White got out of his car and as soon as he caught the eye of my father, he smiled broadly and walked toward dad with his hand out. They went through ritual greetings two strangers might have, handshaking, reciprocal smiling and rigid body language as if each one had invaded the other's space. This was not a conversation between old friends. It was an awkward Howdy Doo moment.

I was too far away from them to hear what transpired in their conversation. I just remember Dad's face trying to harden around an awkward grin. I got up and walked in their direction when their conversation suddenly and abruptly ended. Mr White was still grinning, only now it looked strained and his body walked with a stiff look as he went back to his car and drove down the street to his house.

My father looked at me, shrugged and went back to tending his pride and joy flower garden. I could tell without asking, he had nothing to say to me. At least not then.

Later that night at dinner, I was quizzed about my relationship with the White kids. I indicated it was not much of a relationship because they never wanted to do the stuff I wanted to. Said their parents wouldn't approve. I finished with the odd fact that the kids never went home dirty. That just seemed unnatural to me.

I remember this conversation only because it was as if I had done something wrong and I knew that, at least recently, I had been living trouble free; just doing my kid thing. Why was I under the harsh light of a stern parental inquisition?

It turned out that that conversation was the first one of several more to come in my young life where I would be accused of being a bad influence. The inevitable grilling followed. Was I sure I was not trying to get them into trouble. Why would they accuse me of being a bad influence. What had I done? Did I know I was no longer welcome in their home or their yard?

By this time in my life I had learned the mistake it was to lie to my parents when they looked this serious. I dug in my heels, shut up and just said I knew of no reason why they had to ban me from their lives.

Our conversation ended there. I felt I had failed to convince my dad I was telling the truth.

It was a few weeks later I guess, on a night when my mom came back from the recent PTA meeting that the situation cleared up. She and my father had a conversation with the door to their bedroom almost closed. I heard none of it but the one outburst from my dad:

"Goddammit", followed by a shushing noise from my mom.

At dinner the next night, my father apologized to me. He had been sure it was something I did. But now he was pretty sure the Whites were just jerks and he should have given me the benefit of the doubt, but he didn't. He was sorry. End of discussion on his part.

Mom was not happy with his apology. She wanted to give it some context I guess, so she related her experience at the PTA meeting and her interactions with Mrs White.

Apparently Mrs White stood up at the meeting to object to the every other Friday Dance class in the music room. As good Southern Baptists, her family did not condone dancing of any kind, as dancing has its roots in Satanic rituals. God Fearing people did not dance.

I had never heard that dancing was against the Bible. But then my casual relationship with the Episcopal Church would never have concerned itself with such trivial and inconsequential stupidity. I asked my mom if she said anything. At that point in my life I had learned that no good came of my mom speaking her mind when she was angry. Mom indicated she had kept her mouth shut. She knew arguing with a religious fanatic was an exercise in futility. 

I can remember some confusion on my part. What did Mrs White being a Baptist have to do with Dad saying he was sorry. I said as much.

My father explained to me that he had assumed, since Mr White was an adult and I was a classic pain in the ass kid, that Mr. White's word carried more weight than anything I could have said. He continued that when he discovered their intolerant religious attitude, he knew I had been clueless about breaking whatever rigid family or wacky religious rule they may have.

"People like that find Sin in everything Humans do. They don't play well with normal folks. Forget them."

It might have ended there, but I was pissed. I had done nothing wrong. Dad had so much as said so. I did not even like the little tight ass kids who never got dirty. I vowed revenge but never got it because, well, I didn't develop the ability to hold a grudge until I was in my thirties.

In the meantime, the Whites yanked their kids from Dale Mabry School and I assume sent them to some religious school in the Tampa area.. I only ever saw them on our street from then on.

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I wanted to incorporate the original spark that fired this post up. I just could not seem to work it in. What got my memory juices flowing was when the image to the left crossed my path. The winged glasses reminded me immediately of Mrs. "Honey" White. The rest was easy. 

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Music today is MIA at the moment. Wait a sec. ........... Go ahead tap you feet and look bored. I'm working on it. Hmm. .......... Took a few minutes, but I found a wonderful anti-zealot yet devoted to Jesus tune, "Zealot", by Brock Human. And just to balance the books, I included a cover of the great Tom Waits tune, "Chocolate Jesus", as sung by Beth Hart on vocals with Joe Bonamassa on guitar. Both songs are worthy.