Charlotte Clarke Houston

The Clarke family home, located in the center of Birmingham, before it was replaced by the main intersection of freeway arteries in the city, next door to Kids Storyteller Dale Long’s aunt, was always a warm gathering spot for the older Clarke siblings and me and my siblings as a child. I had piano lessons there every Thursday evening. My two Uncles from New York, who remained single and very popular in music for many years, would come home for the holidays each year and always traveled with their horn or mouthpiece. (My father defected from playing in New York to return to Birmingham to raise a family.) Jam sessions were instant.

I grew up with music always in the atmosphere. My father performed jazz as a second job. His day job was as a (“trailblazer,” one of the first few Blacks hired) Claims Examiner for Social Security (he was a math whiz). He routinely plucked out arrangements on our piano. On many approaching weekends I asked, “Where are you playing?”, to see if I would be able to go.

My recollection of 1963 centers around gaining a new friend at a swimming outing in August 1963, and losing her in the church bombing a month later. Sixteenth Street Baptist Church had an all-day youth pool outing at Memorial Recreation Center.  I was invited by my paternal aunts, one the long-time organist for the church (Mary Alice Stollenwerck) and the other a long-time member (Myrtle Lumpkin) and teacher. That day I met Addie Mae Collins and we “clicked,” spending all day chatting in the corner of the swimming pool while most of the other kids swam and ran about. I was excited about the closeness we rapidly formed during the day. A month later I was horrified to learn that she was one of the victims of the bombing that killed her and three other girls that I knew by name and family affiliation at church only.