Second in a series
Re “It Is Time to Get to Know Omar Bradley”
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Mr. Bradley doing what he loves best, counseling young people. Photo, John Youngblood.
Dateline Compton – “Most people who have been mayor,” said the once and possibly future mayor of Compton, “don’t want to be mayor. Most people who have been mayor, don’t want to be mayor again.”
Mark down Omar Bradley as an exception to that non-traditional aphorism.
He was mayor of Compton for eight years, bridging two centuries, and he can taste the pleasure of being Hizzoner again. Out of office for a dozen un-boring years, he is eager to return after the runoff election three weeks from tomorrow, on Tuesday, June 4.
In business for himself these days, a prison ministry, Mr. Bradley, 55 years old, too young, too energetic for a sedentary life, has ample time to ruminate about what was, when he was away from society, and what can be again.
Mr. Bradley, who does not live by a strict schedule, has matured into a philosopher.
He would rather stand than sit, and so we did.
He detoured in a story about a recent birthday party he had attended. “It not only was in my old neighborhood, the party was at the house I lost when I was going through my struggles.
“I walked into my old house for the first time in eight years, and then walked out again.
“Some youngsters ran up to me and said, ‘Man, Mr. Bradley, oh, man. You know when we were kids, you had that black Continental, we just loved that car.’
“And I said, ‘Son, I don’t know where that car is.’ Right now, if somebody said to me, ‘Show us that car or we’ll blow your head off,’ I would be shot because I don’t know where it is.
“The thing I want you to know is, that car, like everything else in my life, is transitory. Everything is temporary.
“The thing that is real is that you remember them.
“And that is how I plan to live the second half of my life, using ‘half’ very liberally.”
While we visit, Mr. Bradley’s narrative periodically is interrupted by a cough or throat-clearing, resulting from a strain of tuberculosis that he lives with.
“The phlegm is what it is,” he explains apologetically, and more than once.
“It is just a reminder.
“Let me tell you, fella,” as he clears his throat, “I caught it in County Jail. But they didn’t catch up with it until I got to prison,” and therein lies a thousand yarns.
(To be continued)
