The conclusion. . . .

The banker sat in his car for a moment, surveying the house in front of him. The home appeared to be in good condition, the lawn surrounding it, neat and well-raked with patches of new green poking through the remaining brown of winter. He could see laundry on the clothesline in the backyard, snow white sheets flapping in the warm spring breeze. There was no sign of a car, but the front door was open.  Obviously, the occupants were home.

He left his car, briefcase in hand, walking briskly toward the porch, noticing the freshly tilled flowerbeds bordering it. A sturdy, comfortable-looking rocking chair occupied the space at one end of the newly-scrubbed porch, a large swing, the other. He raised his hand to knock on the door frame, as Anna and her daughters greeted him.

"Morning, ma'am," the banker said, with a tip of his gray flannel hat. "Is your husband home?"

"No, sir," Anna replied, pushing the screened door open.  "You must be from the bank."

"Yes, ma'am."

The man got a whiff of fresh baked bread, the aroma mixing with the delicious smell of food cooking. "Do you expect him shortly?"

"No, sir, but won't you come in?" Anna stepped aside, allowing him to enter the living room.  She gathered her daughters close to her. The toddler was down for his morning nap.

The banker found it curious, if not disgraceful, that the man of the house was absent in the face of  his family's dilemma.  The image of the young woman, her thick, dark hair pulled neatly away from her face, tied with a pretty bow at the back of her neck, wasn't at all what the man was expecting.  Anna stood in front of him in her starched and ironed print dress, wearing a white organdy apron and a pretty smile upon her otherwise ordinary face.  Her daughters were dressed in frilly little pinafores over pink gingham dresses, each wearing white stockings and shiny black shoes. Their honey-colored hair was braided tightly, and secured with matching satin bows.

The mother and daughters stood in the center of the well-organized, though obviously well lived-in, room.  The windows were shiny and clean, not a streak or a speck of dust anywhere.  Neatly arranged, colorful pillows were tucked here and there, giving the faded and worn furniture the lift it needed.  Crisp, white tieback curtains adorned the open windows. He could see a large pot, its lid jingling, on the stove in the kitchen.

"Sure smells good," he said, trying to ease his own tension, more than anything else.  The three in front of him seemed perfectly calm.

"Just some potato and onion soup," Anna replied.  "The girls like it."

Getting right to the point, the business man removed his hat, sat down on the sofa, and opened his briefcase. "I'm sure you know why I'm here, ma'am. The bank has been very patient, given your husband plenty of time to make the overdue payments."

He paused, something capturing his attention in the other room.  "We can't continue to carry the mortgage on your house," he continued, as his eyes swept over the perfectly made bed, glimpsing the large handcrafted cloth rug on the linoleum floor beside it.  The man hesitated for a moment. An old sewing machine in front of another open window had captured his attention.

"I know," Anna said, "My husband has tried so hard to find work, and he does have some prospects." She kept her voice steady, surprising herself with the ease of the lie coming out of her mouth.  But her heart raced.  The banker listened, pulling his attention away from the bedroom.

"I know you have your job to do, sir," she continued as confidently as possible, "but if there is any way, could you give us another month? That's all. Just one more month."  Anna hugged her children, looked the man squarely in the eyes, and waited.

The truth was, she knew of no such prospects for work.  Her husband had given up, apparently deserting his family in their greatest time of need.  The loaf of freshly baked bread on the table had taken almost all of the flour in the bin.  The soup on the stove would have to be rationed, for the potatoes and onions were all that remained in the store house.  She had some beans, very little cornmeal, and a handful of rice in the pantry.  The cow hadn't freshened yet, and the two remaining hens laid sparingly. She had not planted the seeds saved from last year's vegetable garden.  What would have been the point, with the impending eviction?  The truth was, the clothes they wore were the best they owned, last year's Easter dresses.  The well-worn shoes had been carefully repaired and polished.  The truth was, Anna hoped for a miracle.  In her pounding heart, she knew that was all that could save them.

Again, the man looked toward the sewing machine.  "Do you sew?" He asked.

"Yes, of course," she replied, something quickening in her brain.  "I've been sewing my clothes since I was a girl, and now I make everything we wear.  Everything in the house.  Nothing is store-bought," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, laughing a little at the absurdity of store-bought dresses.

"Have you considered sewing for the public?"

Anna shook her head no, all the while wondering why she had not thought of doing that.

"Well, ma'am, you obviously have a real talent, and there's no reason you shouldn't be able to earn a living putting that talent to work.  I know my wife needs a seamstress.  Her dressmaker has retired." He closed his briefcase.  "I can send you more work than you can handle, if you're willing.  And yes, I'll give you a month's extension."

Anna gasped, but quickly regained her composure as the man continued.  "If all goes well, we can refinance your mortgage.  If you can pay the overdue interest on the loan by this time next month, we can bring your account back to current status."  The man stood, replaced his hat, and picked up his briefcase. "I look forward to doing business with you, ma'am," he said, offering his hand to Anna.

"Likewise," she replied, shaking his hand firmly.

Later in the afternoon, the fine lady in the black car returned, this time pulling into the driveway.  Anna was surprised, but glad that she would be able to give the woman her good news.  She also was pleased to have a chance to present herself more favorably, ashamed that the woman had found her in such a sad state the day before.  On the porch, Anna greeted her visitor, noticing the large basket on her arm, piled high with beautiful fabrics.

"I'm Jeanette Hart," the woman said, flashing a brilliant smile, "the banker's wife. And I need a dressmaker."

Story in progress. . . 

Anna lifted her tear-stained face, her attention drawn to the approaching car.  She remained seated there on the ground as the car came to a stop a few feet away.  A pretty, well-dressed lady, the lone occupant of the shiny black Ford, came to stand in front of Anna, looking kindly into her red, swollen eyes.  "What troubles you, my dear?" Anna saw the woman glance away, toward the children on the porch.  "Would you like to talk about it?" The pretty lady asked, her voice soft, gentle.  Her eyes fell to the letter in Anna's lap.

Anna wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and attempted to smooth her tangled hair, becoming self-conscious in the company of such a fine lady.  She started to stand, but the lady stopped her, and sat down next to her on the ground, waiting for Anna to speak. Anna could smell her expensive perfume.

Anna handed her the letter.  "Tomorrow is the third day."  

The lady read quickly, and placed the letter back in Anna's lap.  "Well, then, my dear, you have work to do!  No time to sit here fretting, worrying. That never solves anything!" 

"I don't know what to do!" Anna wailed, a new batch of tears gushing down her cheeks. "My husband hasn't worked in months, I have no money, and now he is gone, who knows where!"

"Your children are depending on you," the lady said.  "Their home is at risk here, so you must gather your bearings, your strength, and your pride.  You will be surprised what you can do!"

Anna noticed for the first time that the yellow jonquils along the driveway had bloomed over night. She signed deeply, and turned her head to look directly into the other woman's pretty face.

"What would you be doing under normal circumstances, had none of this befallen you?" The lady asked.  "Take stock of all your resources, Anna, and use them to save your family."  The lady stood, brushing away the dried grass from the back of her lovely blue dress.  "Be strong, Anna."

Anna sat there on the ground for a minute longer, watching the visitor drive away. Then she pushed herself up, brushed off her hands, and went to her children on the porch.

To be continued. . . 

 

When I was a young girl, I heard a story about a woman and the actions she took, simple as they were, to hold her home together.  For some reason that story has remained with me.   The message of the story is still relevant today, I think, for it speaks to the importance of the image we present to those in positions of authority over us, and the powerful influence that image holds, good or bad.   There’s still value to be found in putting our best foot, or face, forward.  Of portraying ourselves in the best light possible, no matter our circumstances.   Time was, a man’s good name was the only collateral he needed at the bank. It was his bond, and his best asset was his wife.   Times have changed, but the ideal remains, regardless of gender. 
  
In the story, the man’s good name had been squandered for he had fallen upon hard times.   Being without work or income, his savings had quickly disappeared, and the family had gone through a long, difficult winter.  The wolf was practically at the door, so to speak, in the person of the banker coming any day to evict the man and his family from their home.  The mortgage was long overdue.  I will call that man’s wife, Anna, and fortunate he was to have her.

 
Anna sat beneath the big sycamore tree by the road, in front of the small house she and her husband had purchased ten years before. They had signed a twenty year mortgage, hoping to pay it off sooner.  They had not missed a payment either, not in all that time, until now.  Her husband had fallen ill, and after two weeks of being unable to work, his boss terminated his employment at the pipe foundry where he had worked since they had been married.  He could not find employment for the whole country was in a depression. Many were without jobs.  
 
They had no family to help them, nowhere to go.  Anna held her face in her hands, and her thin shoulders shook with the sobs wracking her body.   She had reached her wit’s end. Her dress was wrinkled and soiled, her hair unkempt, disheveled.  Her three small children were hungry and needed shoes and clothing. The house needed cleaning, and the pantry was practically bare.  The children stood on the porch watching their mother, the youngest one crying, the other two looking forlorn, destitute.   Their father, despondent, filled with despair and without hope, had left the house at dawn without a word about where he was going and when he would return.  Laying on Anna's lap, the last letter from the bank, an eviction notice.  They had three days to make payment.   She was terrified.  
 
To be continued tomorrow. . . .

Fannie Smith Fox truly was my representative 19th and 20th century woman.  She lived under the most unreasonable circumstances women of her era and station experienced when finding themselves widowed with minor children.  I only knew her as my great grandmother, and by then she was an old lady and looked pretty fragile.  I wouldn’t learn until many decades later, the hardships she endured in her life as a young, single mother, her strength or the sacrifices necessary for all of them to survive.

I remember her only vaguely, as Granny Fox.  By today’s measure of age, she wasn’t such an old lady, only in her seventies, when she and I, for ever so briefly, occupied the same space and time. I discovered her extended encounter with the paternalistic court system overseeing women and property, long after the fact, while researching her family history.

My grandmother Emma, the second of Fannie’s seven children, told me that her father, Joseph Fox, had died suddenly one day out plowing his fields, when Emma was only eleven years old. She said that he had just turned thirty-six, and had been having bad headaches before his death.  Fannie would have been thirty-three years old.  That is all my grandmother told me about her childhood, other than commenting about having to work so hard growing up, how she would plow all day in the field like a man.  As the child I was at the time, I didn’t have the forethought to question her, to pick away at every little detail the way I would now.  Youth truly is wasted on the young!

Fannie passed away in 1951, and my memories of her faded, leaving only today’s vague image of her in my mind.  One day in the late 1980’s while searching through courthouse records, I discovered the reason Fannie left no property, owned no land when she died. Like her counterparts from neighboring farms, all of them from early pioneer families who had settled in the southern part of Hopkins County, Texas (many before the Civil War like mine) had established large farms, had worked many acres of land.  I had seen the land records, had discovered the early land deeds my grandmother’s grandparents had owned, and I wanted to know what became of it all.

I discovered the court documents filed on behalf of Joseph Fox’s minor children, upon his death, declaring them wards of the court.  Since young Joseph had left no will expressing his wishes for the welfare of his children upon his death, the court appointed trustees on his behalf, to oversee their welfare, under the court’s supervision.  Had Joseph died without any property, no such concern for the children’s well-being would have ever come to the court’s attention. Fannie inherited nothing of her husband’s property, and the law recognized only the children as his legal heirs. She had no rights, not even when it came to administering her own business affairs.  The court took charge of all her finances, approving the sale of the land, bit by bit, and doling out the funds received for it, as approved by the trustees, for the feeding and clothing of her children. The family worked the land, in decreasingly smaller portions, as it was sold off over the years the children were growing up.  By the time they were adults, all the land was gone.

It was 1906 when Fannie was widowed. There was no such thing as “community property”. Women could not vote.  When a woman married, she might as well have died, as far as her own legal presence and personal voice "in the affairs of men" was concerned.  And that was the way it had always been. Fannie knew nothing else.  She had no choice. She had no recourse.  She had no other expectation.  It would be fourteen years after her husband’s death, before Fannie would have the right to vote.  I wonder if she ever did. Somehow, I doubt it, although I cannot be sure. I do not even know if either of my grandmothers voted.  If they did, it would have been as my grandfathers instructed.

Fannie remained faithful to her husband, living the rest of her life in rented property. She died a short distance away from the family’s original homestead, leaving nothing of value to her children, if you measure value in money and possessions.   But, I’ll just bet you, if you could ask her today, Fannie would deny that, saying she left them very well off—rich in dignity, pride, respect for hard work, and the good name of their father.

We have come a long way, Fannie!  Rest in peace.

Candy Crowley, “State of the Union” host on CNN, is the best political journalist in the business, in my never to be humble opinion. She is a seriously savvy, right on target writer. Combine that ability with her rich, mellow, easy on the ears voice rarely heard in a woman reporter, and you get a balanced, smart message impressively delivered with the kind of authority some man once said no woman could ever sell to the public.

Well, Sir, Candy can. She has covered all but one of the national political conventions, since Jimmy Carter. She sat down for an exclusive interview with President George W. Bush a few days before he left the White House.

I would love to meet Candy, to sit down and talk with her. From what I have read about her, she steadily made her way through the male dominated journalistic maze of political reporting on the back of her outstanding ability, professionalism, and pure hard work while raising a family as well. Her children she considers her greatest accomplishment, saying that they love her and want to be around her, so she must have done something right.

Candy Crowley is a woman for our times. She is strong, passionate, tough, and compassionate. I believe she radiates the kind of female grit seen in Scarlett O’Hara so many, many years ago as she shook that turnip toward the heavens, vowing never to go hungry again! It’s that velvet coated ferocity built into every woman’s DNA that enables us, through seemingly impossible situations, to call into action every ability we possess when necessary, especially when others are depending upon us. It is the mothering thing, the animalistic instinct to protect our young, because we simply must. I think Candy has that same fierce determination to get to the truth, to protect it, and to effectively tell us about it, because she has no choice. It’s in her DNA, in her character, in her soul. Every Sunday morning, she will be in my living room, on my television screen, telling me the TRUTH about the state of this country. She tops my very shortlist of those I trust to do that.

I believe in Candy, and applaud CNN for giving her this well-deserved venue. I await her first of many books to come, which she says she hopes to write someday. I am hoping it will be soon.

Some of her awards include:

The 1997 Joan Shorenstein Barone Award for Excellence in Journalism for her coverage of Bob Dole's campaign for the presidency.

Associated Press Broadcasters' Award for spot news reporting for her coverage of the 1980 Reagan campaign,

Associated Press Broadcasters’ Award for in-depth coverage of the 1980 Reagan campaign.

The 1999 DuPont-Columbia University Silver Baton Award for coverage of the impeachment and trial of President Bill Clinton.

Columbia University's Armstrong Award for “Freedom is My Woman”, a documentary on a prison cellblock takeover.

In 2003, an Emmy for CNN Presents' "Enemy Within."

The 2003 and 1998 Dirksen Award for distinguished reporting on Congress from the National Press Foundation.

In 2004, the Gracie Allen Award for "War Stories" (in the National News Story-Series category)

National Headliner and a Cine award for "Fit to Kill." 

In 2005, Joan Shorenstein Barone Award for excellence in journalism for her reporting on the 2004 presidential election.

Juanita exemplified the good wife during her entire marriage of 64 years, 8 months, and 25 days, from the beginning til the very end. Always, without wavering, she devoted herself to Avon. He was her one true love, and remains so still, 5 years, 6 months, and 22 days since his death. Now, I loved my father, but anyone who knew him well, knows this took an extraordinary woman to be sure.

But for Juanita, the good times outweigh the bad, even to the point of denial it might seem. She saw always the good in Avon. Through all the hard times, which I experienced as their oldest of four children and will not go into here, she held our family together. No matter the address of the house, she turned every place we lived into our home. She did so, to the best of her ability, with unimaginable grace. Grace, well-seasoned with fortitude. With her own labor-induced sweat, often times personal pain, and rarely public tears. This trait is deeply rooted in Juanita, through her strong personal belief that God is in control. This faith has served her well, sustains her still.

She lives alone, in the small apartment she loves, surrounded by good neighbors and friends. She has time now for herself. Socially, she is more active than at any other time in her adult life. She attends church functions, goes to the beauty shop regularly, loves new clothes, volunteers one day a week at the hospital, reads more, and loves visitors. She most especially enjoys time spent with her children and their families. She and her younger sister are the only siblings still living, and they talk on the phone regularly.

Juanita Rhodes was born in 1923, at home, naturally, on the "old McCloud Place" which was located "back around by the Sells' place" which was located somewhere east of Arbala and west of what is now Hwy. 154 in southern Hopkins County, Texas. It was snowing that March day of her birth.

The fifth of six children, she grew up in the area of the Union Community, which is where she attended school and church. Her mother's family had settled there before the Civil War.

When she was about two, she fell and broke her nose, but a much more serious accident occurred one day while her father was chopping wood. Wanting to "help" him, she attempted to drag the axe over to him.It stuck in the ground and she tripped, falling upon the freshly sharpened blade, inflicting a large gash just under her left breast. It is said, they saw her heart beating. Kerosene was quickly fetched and doused into the wound before it was bandaged. That very common household remedy of the day was the only medical attention the injury received. The scar is still very visible today.

The family, nor the neighbors, were particularly impacted by the Great Depression. They were poor, had always been poor. It was a way of life. Juanita owned two dresses, her everyday dress and her Sunday dress. The everyday dress was washed at night, if needed. When the black cotton stockings she and her sisters wore became torn, they painted over the holes with shoe polish, leaving their legs spotted black when the stockings were removed.

Treats, or any kind of indulgences, were rare. At Christmas, there was the orange and apple, and eggs for breakfast when there was an excess, which occurred sometimes in the winter. The eggs would freeze in the hen house, and had to all be cooked at once. Normally, the only one to get eggs for breakfast was Ernest, my grandfather.

Ernest went to town most every Saturday for supplies in the horse drawn wagon (the family never owned a car), and the trip to Sulphur Springs began early in the morning, so that he would get home "by dark". Years ago, I was told he would bring hamburgers for everyone. Juanita said "they were "delicious", and that it didn't matter if they were cold and greasy. Now, she doesn't remember telling me that at all, doesn't remember him ever bringing home hamburgers.

The family almost bought a vehicle, once. The oldest brother, Buddy, talked Ernest into going to town to look at a truck he'd heard about that was for sale. The kids all waited anxiously all day, watching for Buddy to drive up in that truck. They were all disappointed when father and son returned at dusk, in the wagon.

When Juanita was about 10 or 11, one of the neighbors got a radio. Every Saturday night, she walked to their house, with a group of other kids, to listen to the "Grand Ole Opry." Juanita can't remember who the stars were, but "probably Kitty Wells and Red Foley." The "invention" itself, the radio, was thrilling, so anything they heard, any "program", was exciting. They could not leave until the show ended because they had to "listen to 'em blow the jug." I suppose that must have been the grand finale in those days at the Opry! It would be late when they hurried home in the dark, fearful of a murderer rumored to be on the loose in the community, roaming the sandy isolated roads late at night, looking for victims. She told me his name, but I won't mention that here.

When Juanita was fifteen years old, nineteen-year-old Avon Friddle, from the neighboring Greenpond Community, proposed to her one Sunday afternoon. It was during one of his weekly chaperoned visits, having met her a year earlier. They were in the living room listening to records on the "Edison", the family's new windup "victrola". Before the end of the next year, they were married.

Thus, in November, 1939, Juanita began her life as a wife.

The first woman I ever knew was Juanita, my mother, therefore she is the woman I have known the longest. Her influence definitely shaped the standards for my daily life, just as her mother's shaped hers. The way I go about my basic household chores, the way I cook, and raised my children (making necessary adjustments, of course), I owe to Mother. And that is only the beginning. Respect shown to superiors ranked high on the list of common courtesies and polite manners, so much a part of life growing up in my little cocoon-wrapped existence of the Fifties. Knowing one's place in a man's world, first as a girl, then as a woman, had been passed down for generations, instilled into us all as rigidly as the Southern Baptist doctrine seemingly running through our veins!

Sometimes even now, from here in this whole new universe of my life today, I am shocked at my physical resemblance to Mother, as well as the personality characteristics we share. My hands are becoming her hands, this I noticed more than ever last night. She and I can even wear the same glasses and see perfectly. Genetics are powerful!

Mother is the strongest woman I know, although physically failing now, having battled arteriosclerosis for who knows how long. She began suffering from angina in her early sixties, and underwent quadruple bypass surgery at about the age I am now, when her pain became too severe. Just as Bill Clinton is beginning to experience the maintenance necessary with the disease, Mother has endured for years, undergoing several stent replacements, and most recently, vascular surgery in her neck to remove blockage.

Thinking about it now, ENDURANCE, both physically and mentally, may be Mother's most defining quality, a trait common to all my grandmothers, including the great grandmothers, ESPECIALLY my maternal ones. With all due respect, I submit my poem inspired by them all.


FORGIVE THE GRANDMOTHERS
(1993)

Forgive the grandmothers,
their docile obeisance, their unopinionated views, their unassertiveness,
their servile attitudes.
It was absolute authority that made her bow her head,
a cultural thing that prohibited her, but praised and honored him.
Forgive the grandmothers for teaching male superiority,
for misleading us about what feminine decency meant.
That self-esteem was white starched shirts, shiny scrubbed floors,
fresh baked bread, piousness,
and literacy restricted to reading scriptures.
Forgive the hovering about,always at beckoning call,
for believing she was most attractive when he stood proud and tall.
For countless family dinners that served the men folk first,
while she was judged by tasty meals,
the value of her worth.
And for steadfastly believing her place was in the home,
while understanding when men folk gathered,
their need to talk alone.
Forgive her part in enabling him to reign:
head of the table, head of the house, head of everything.
Forgive her quietly giving birth
in a quality show of strength:
Any woman worth her salt, decently endured pain.
Forgive her performance of duty in keeping the children quiet,
careful not to disturb Daddy when he came home at night.
Forgive her mindless chatter,
her silence when it would have mattered,
for the mockery made each time she marked her ballot.
Forgive her disdain for the sister who resisted
by casting her own vote in protest, refusing to double his.
Forgive the grandmothers if you can,
for their clucking godliness—
Those little women of velvet steel deserve our graciousness.
So, forgive them, forgive them, lift up their lowered heads.
Forgive them their delusions, they knew not what they did.