The Path of My Pilgrimage
The Autobiography of Marshall Brent Bass
by
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I told him about my survey of the four markets downtown, all of which had bicycle delivery services except his. “You mean to say that you believe my business would improve if you delivered groceries to my customers?,” Mr. Davis asked.
“Sir,” I continued, “I also know how to answer a telephone and I can write down what the people order, I can help you get it together, deliver it, and help you around the store, such as sweeping. My Mama has taught me how to sweep and clean.”
The air between us seemed to grow hotter and completely still as Mr. Davis and Mr. Cogdill, both sitting, looked at each other, appearing to be somewhere between astonishment and bewilderment. They were a bit amused, too, for sure.
“What do you think?” Mr. Davis said to Mr. Cogdill, after a long silence. I said nothing more, now simply standing there ... looking alternately from one to the other ... between these two white men. I sensed I had convinced them.
“Well, it’s hard to argue with what this boy has said,” Mr. Cogdill said to Mr. Davis. “He has a point.” Maybe Mr. Cogdill was more interested in selling a bicycle than in helping Mr. Davis or me but, to this day, I do not believe that was his motivation for siding with me.
I think Mr. Cogdill was offering a helping hand because I had convinced him to believe in me. Within a minute or two, they talked about how much I would have to be paid by Mr. Davis in order to pay for the bicycle. Mr. Cogdill offered to let me have the bicycle for a dollar a week payment.
Mr. Davis turned to me and asked when I could start delivering the groceries. I told him without hesitation that Saturday ... the day that the other markets made deliveries ... would be best.
“At least a dollar a week, enough to pay for the bicycle I need and a bit left over 25 cents for savings, is enough,” I said, when he asked me how much I wanted to be paid. Mr. Davis replied “What about $1.50, Marshall Jr.?” I was thrilled and probably looked like I had just been transported to heaven.
What
a fitting way to go out than to have my DMZ swan song harmonize around Mr.
Humphrey’s visit, which was scheduled a couple of days before I was to be
relieved of my command and to pass the colors to my successor. Oldfield Dukes, a black American, was one of
the lead persons in Mr. Humphrey’s advance party, came up to our base camp.
Oldfield was the staff journalist and public relations man for the vice
president.
“If you want, you can fly back as far as
Anchorage with us,” said Oldfield, after hearing that I was heading to the
United States. I accepted quickly, knowing that it was a call that the vice
president would have to make. As it
turned out, something came up that canceled Mr. Humphrey’s visit, but Oldfield
called and told me that the vice president would still accept me as his
military aide for a ride back home on July 4, aboard Air Force II.
I
worked with my guys and we pulled off the parade and ceremony in which I passed
the colors of the battalion to my successor, with many of the troops present.
It was a bittersweet occasion, solemn yet happy. I would be glad to see Celeste and the girls and go on with my
career, but it was also heartrending to leave my troops, to leave my command of
this world-class combat team, here in the DMZ.
Not
long after we lifted off in Air Force II, one of the vice president’s
attendants came and said that Mr. Humphrey wanted me to visit with him in his
cabin. I felt honored to go forward at
the vice president’s request, surprised to find him sitting there ... with that
ever-present warm smile of his ... reading my biographical sketch that had been
given him in preparation for his aborted visit to my command post.
“I’m very impressed, Colonel Bass, I’m so
privileged to have you aboard,” he said, almost disarming me with his warmth.
“Marshall,” asking then if I minded being
called by my first name, “what do you think about--?” We talked for more than an
hour, about many issues and subjects, some serious, some not so serious, from
presidential politics to the civil rights movement, to my plans for my
future.
“You get in touch after you get to the
Pentagon, Colonel. And, by the way, keep me posted through Oldfield if you ever
decide to run for office or go into the corporate world and make some
money. I’ll help you any way I can, as
you have helped our country.”
I
told him that I wanted to become a general officer. In an odd sort of way he
said, “Well, we both know you are going to become a general ... with your
extraordinary record ... but then what?”
Knowing that he had caught me flatfooted, searching for a response, he
repeated his earlier offer to “help --any way I can,” all said with a twinkle in
his eye. It was of look of authentic
meaning, not an idle, civil remark, like you would expect someone like him to
say to anybody in that setting. We
shook hands firmly, for what seemed like a very long time.
He
then said, “I know you are from North Carolina. There are some good friends of
mine in Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina.” He repeated himself: “--call Oldfield as soon as you get settled at
the Pentagon.”
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About the Book
The Path of My Pilgrimage
recounts bass’ experiences from his childhood days growing up black and
poor in segregated Goldsboro, NC - through stellar military and corporate
careers.
Thematically, Path
makes its points - particularly to young black American men facing systematic
barriers to their success ... of the value of hard work and persistence in the pursuit
of clear goals.
To his early recounts how
the bass family dinner table consisted of left over food given them by his
mother’s friend, the cook at the local hospital.
Bass takes his readers
along several paths with numerous stories and vignettes serving as mileposts to
inform fellow travelers of the timelessness of setting goals, assigning timetables
to goals, monitoring progress regularly, and knowing what one can and cannot
do.
At the end of Bass’ Path,
readers can look back and see clearly a mapped way of how to recognize and take
advantage of opportunities and know that spiritually-grounded faith, Coupled with purposeful
relationships with Good people and personal integrity are the Keys to life’s
“breaks.”
About the Author
Marshall B. Bass, 76, a child of the great depression, is one of eleven children raised by Estella, widowed when he was five.
Bass spent his high school summers working on a tobacco farm in Connecticut. At age 16, he entered Morgan State College in Baltimore, MD
Bass answered the U.S. army draft at the end of his sophomore year of college. He attended officer’s candidate school, rose through the ranks, was wounded in combat in Korea in 1950, Commanded a combat unit in Korea’s DMZ (1966-67, and retired as Lt. Colonel at the Pentagon.
In 1968, at age 38, with the support of then us Vice president Hubert H. Humphrey, Bass joined the ranks of the first generation of Black Americans in the professional ranks of major U.S. corporations when he began his career at R J Reynolds Tobacco, starting as a personnel manager in 1968.
He retired from RJR/Narnsco in 1991 as elected senior vice president of worldwide public and governmental affairs.
Still active at 76, Bass runs his management consulting firm and stays active through a wide range of civic, community, church and philanthropic endeavors. He serves on several Boards of corporations and public agencies, civil rights organizations, colleges and universities, and financial and health care institutions.
He and his wife of fifty years, celeste, live in Winston-Salem, NC. They have two daughters, Brenda, a physician and Marsha, a corporate executive. They have four grandchildren.