It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… Charles Dickens The fascinating memories skillfully written on these pages, like annals of time, vividly describe varying groups of people who share a distinct neighborhood and a sole purpose in life…survival. Growing up in Olde Huntersville, an African American segregated section of Norfolk, Virginia in the 1940’s and 1950’s resembled neighborhoods across America. Everybody knew everybody. From skin hues of light cream to dark chocolate and ages ranging from newborns to great-great grandparents; we had African American teachers, lawyers, doctors, truck drivers, ditch diggers, and domestic workers—all living next door to one another; each household respected for how strong they loved and consistently provided for their families all the while supporting their community. A skirmish might break out on a Saturday night after a game of cards and too much drink, however, a cool-headed neighbor would bring a word of peace and all was well again. It was a place where childhood friends remained friends for a lifetime. It was where students met weekly in a classroom and sang in the same church choir on Sunday. Our goal was simple —we just had to make sure we stayed on the dark side of Norfolk. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…