EPIPHANY: A CHRISTMAS AWAKENING

Christmas Eve had finally, finally arrived in our deep South Northwest Florida town. Except for a few
gifts yet to be wrapped, our family was ready.

My sister and I had been warned that because of the Great Depression, a term whose meaning we knew well in 1932, Santa might not be able to bring everything we wished for. I'd also known for a long time that Santa was really my parents. This discovery never bothered me, except that I knew these were "hard times" for our family and therefore I hoped for a miracle which would provide the beautiful doll I'd seen in a downtown store.

The week before Christmas, Mamma and I with my sister Chris, who was younger than I, had put the electric candles in the front windows and trimmed the pine tree Bill had brought from the woods. My mother had exclaimed as she did every year when Bill, the handyman, delivered the tree, "I believe this is the most beautiful tree we've ever had. Thank you, Bill.”

"Yes, ma‘am, it is mighty pretty," said Bill, his usually tired eyes brightening a bit as he straightened to look at the tree. “I'm glad you're pleased. I ‘spect it'll look even nicer once you put on the decorations these girls have made."

"You'll be here Christmas morning to see it, won't you, Bill?” I asked.

"Yes, Miss. I'll be here."

The tree, which touched the ceiling of the living room, filled the house with its fresh fragrance.

Other delicious aromas--chocolate, fruit cake, apples and oranges-wandered through the house. The chocolate lingered from the candy Mamma had made as gifts for friends with some left over for us. Fruit cakes had been prepared by my mother and our beloved Cattie, the cook, far enough ahead for the perfect melding of all the dried fruit flavors. Cattie had taken hers home wrapped in tea towels. Ours sat in the sideboard waiting for Christmas Day. The apples that came from out West were a special treat we'd bought at Curry Douglass' store. The crate of oranges was a gift from Mamuma's sister, who lived in South Florida.

On this particular Christmas Eve, when I was nine years old, our family was planning to participate in a candlelight carol service at the Presbyterian Church. We'd attended the Christmas pageant at the Methodist Church the preceding Sunday. Because my mother was a Methodist and the church organist, and my father was a Presbyterian, we attended Christmas programs at both churches. My sister and I loved it all: the carols, the special music, the Christmas story, and the extra love and warmth we felt between the people.

On Christmas Eve it was traditional in my mother's family to have a light supper featuring seafood. I don't know how the fish custom originated, but the supper prepared by Mamma was delicious. Living so close to the Gulf also made seafood plentiful and inexpensive, at least in those days.

At supper Daddy suggested that after the church service we go by the new Junior Department Store. The store was a bright addition to our town, especially in those dark depression days. It had been opened by the Apostles, a couple from up North. They'd originally come from an Eastern European country and spoke with an accent, making them unique in our town. Mr. and Mrs. Apostle were kind to us children and allowed us to browse for as long as we wished. Chris and I were thrilled with the anticipation of yet another chance to be a part of the magic of lights and decorations of the store. But mostly I wanted one more look at the doll I so hoped Santa would bring me.

Throughout the carol service at the Presbyterian Church I thought about the beautiful baby doll. I think in my mind the baby Jesus and the baby doll began to converge.

When we arrived at the store I ran to the store window to see if the doll were still there. It was. There was still a chance Santa might get it for me that night!

Because it was unusually cold with temperatures expected to go below freezing, we quickly went inside the store and I began to look possessively at doll from the rear of the showcase.

Standing in the Christmas lights outside looking in was a little black about my age. She wore only a sweater over her dress. No coat, no hat or gloves. Her sad eyes were fixed longingly on the doll. And then, she looked straight at me. With an instant, empathetic realization, I could actually feel how much she wanted the doll. As she turned away, head downcast, I knew too she was thinking it could not be hers. The suddenness of this revelation of knowing how another person feels was devastating.

Gone was the happy excitement of the evening. When we reached home, no longer was I singing. No longer did I ask for one more piece of candy or to stay up late and sit by the fire. The lump in my throat and the hurt inside caused me to say I'd just go to bed. This change in my behavior brought a quick response.

"She's not feverish," Mamma said as she felt my forehead.

“Maybe she's just worn out from all the excitement and activity," my father suggested.

“Does your throat hurt?" my sister asked. I shook my head. It did hurt, but not the way she meant. "Well, you should both get to bed anyway," Mamma gently urged. “Santa'll be coming soon, and you should be asleep when he arrives." 

Once under the privacy of the covers, I began to cry. I could not sort it out. The sadness was overwhelming. I kept seeing the little girl's face, the ging look in her eyes. Finally, I slept, but fitfully.

Next morning upon awakening, I momentarily forgot about the little girl until we raced into the living room to see what Santa had brought. And there it was--the doll I no longer wanted. My reaction was immediate. "Please, Daddy,” 1 pleaded, “find the little girl and give her the doll." “What do you mean? What little girl?" asked my surprised father. “The little Negro girl I saw outside the store last night. She's about my age. She wanted that doll too.”

“But, who was she? We don't even know her name," Daddy said.

“Come on, honey, look at your other gifts," my mother coaxed.

All attempts to distract or console me failed. "I'm not going to Aunt Bern's to dinner," I threatened, “until we find the little girl.”

My sister stopped playing with her toys; my mother looked at me with a worried expression; my father stood up and stared out the window. Now, everyone realized the seriousness of my outburst, for Christmas dinner at my aunt's home was a family occasion to which we all looked forward.

Mamma moved towards my father and said, "Malcolm, we've taught the girls that Christmas is a special time for showing love. The doll is Marjorie's to do with as she chooses."

“Maybe Cattie can find out who she was," Chris suggested.

“But Cattie won't be coming in today," I replied. Even so, I brightened a little at this possibility and it gave me another thought. "Bill might know her and he's coming by this morning for his gifts and treats."

“Dear girl," Daddy patiently tried to reason. "Bill could not possibly know every Negro child your age and besides he lives on one end of town and that child who was downtown so late probably lives near town in the Hollows.”

Dashed were the momentary hopes for achieving what I so desperately wanted.

My sister, intuitively trying to rescue the family from the pall I'd created, said, “Marjy, I'll bet Cattie can find her tomorrow. You can leave your doll in the box and I'll let you play with my doll. AND," she added happily, “Daddy's going to set off some of the fireworks soon as we get to Aunt Bern's. Won't that be fun?"

It must have been with relief that my parents observed some restoration of good mood. I did try hard to enter into the festivities, especially after we got to Aunt Bern's and one of the adults scolded me with, “Marjorie, you are ruining the day for everyone with your moping about." I did try, but 

my heart was not in it. I now believed that Jesus wanted me to find that little girl. I knew He did. The next morning when I heard Cattie in the kitchen getting breakfast, I went straight in to tell her about the little girl and the doll and to ask if she knew her.

Cattie listened as she continued her work and then replied, "There ain't no way I can figure out who that child was from what you've told me. Could be anybody. Did you see anybody else with her?"

“No, ma'am. Just the little girl."

Cattie stopped her work, looked at me and directed, "Now, look here, Marjrie. You can't go giving away your present even if we knew who she was. Gettin’ that doll for you meant a lot to your Mamma and Daddy."

"But Mamma said if I really wanted to give away my doll, it was all right. Besides, I don't think that little girl had any Christmas."

“Yes, she did. If she went to church or the school program she got a bag of candy and some nuts, likely even an orange. And I'm sure somebody in her family must've made her a clothespin doll."

That didn't sound to me like what the girl really wanted.

I kept standing there unsatisfied while Cattie began to mumble to herself as she stirred the oatmeal. Turning to me she asked, "Did you hear anybody call her name?"

"No, ma'am," I answered shaking my head.

"Then how in the world you ‘spect anybody to find her?" That seemed to settle it for Cattie.

I turned and went into the living room where the doll was still lying in its box propped in a chair beside the now cold fireplace.

No one knew the black child. No one knew her name. This white child knows her well, and has never been the same.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

"Dogs and cats may fight and spat for ‘tis their nature true, 

But, children of one family, you should never have that to rue."

That 19th century doggerel came from some exercise book which sought to combine the teaching of
reading with moral training. It was repeated often to my sister and me by our beloved Aunt Bern, as she sought in vain to influence our behavior.

As with many siblings, my sister and I had what at times must have seemed like continuous squabbles. As the older one, I assumed the more authoritative role, but in fact, my sister learned early how to get her way or how to arouse my ire. Sometimes, I suspect, she did this deliberately. At others, I was just an easy mark, because of the wide differences in our dispositions and temperaments, and because my reactions were always predictable.

Unfortunately I suffered the plight of all perfectionists. My sister, on the other hand, sailed through days without a worry over inconsequential details. This difference brought us into almost constant conflict. Our dear mother, always hoping for harmony, arranged for us to play piano duets. They turned into disasters with Marjorie, the ogre, lashing out at Chns, the angel, for making a mistake. Then it was tap dancing. We were both pretty good dancers and so were frequently asked by local organizations to provide entertainment. Rehearsals for this would cause vigorous upheavals. I wanted perfection. My sister settled for the fun of dancing.

When we went to Miss Jennie Drake, the dressmaker, Miss Jennie would sigh as she tried to have me stand still and not squirm over itchy organdy collars or scratchy wool. Then she'd look to heaven or my mother for help when I'd begin to make suggestions about pleats not being exactly right, or a waist not tight enough. As my sister's turn came, Miss Jennie woud beam at Chris' complete cooperation. Once Miss Jennie said, ‘I }] declare, I believe Chris would be happy dressed in a potato sack while Marjorie..." she trailed off in tired dismay.

One summer I refused to attend with my sister the week-long 4H camp held on the sandy banks of the Choctawhatchee Bay because I knew what would happen. Sure enough, when we went to the camp to bring her home the clothes in her suitcase were all a jumble, the bunk bed a mess of crumpled covers, crackers and sand. As I fumed at her for these conditions, she was not the least disturbed or affected by my admonitions or the situation.

In all the arguments I came across as the villain, and I suppose I was the aggressor. My mother never physically punished me nor did Cattie, our nurse. Mamma pleaded for peace. Cattie, whose given name was Catherine demanded it and from time to time would threaten with, "Marjorie, if you don't behave, your daddy’s gonna’ have to take a switch to you’. I never took her seriously.

I'd heard of boys at school being paddled and Mr. Kinsall, the principal, would regularly walk about the school exhibiting an awful looking paddle with four holes in it. Only boys who were considered incorrigible were paddled. Such punishment was unthinkable for a student who strove for high marks in subjects as well as deportment. I'd never observed a paddling or a switching and it never occurred to me that it could ever happen to me.

One Saturday afternoon, when I was eight or nine years old, my parents must have been at wits' end over the battling between my sister and me. My father came into the backyard where just a few minutes before Chris and I had been playing, until she had run crying into the house. "Marjorie," he said, "Catherine and Chris both tell me that you have hit your sister and Catherine says she has warned you this must cease. Now, I'm sorry, but I must try to impress on you that you are to stop this."

My sister was looking arxdously through the screen door. Mamma was nowhere in sight. Cattie stood on the porch, hands on her hips, shaking her head from side to side.

Daddy continued, "I want you to go and select a thin little switch from the peach tree and bring it to me." In a state of unreality, I did as I was told, selected a small branch with green leaves on it and brought it to my father. With a quick movement of his hand, he went down the branch, took off the leaves and walked into the house. Head down, I followed. Before I knew it, I felt the sting on my legs. My sister began to loudly wail. This distracted me and also made me angry. Why should she be crying when I was the one being punished? I don't think I received more than three or four "switches". It was

quickly over. Without a word or a tear I turned and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind me.

“Marjorie,” my father called.

“Yes, sir,” I responded and stopped my march. For a moment I feared he was going to have me go through the whole thing again.

Instead, he admonished, "You are not to slam doors. Come back and close it properly."

I did and then turned and walked out to the edge of the backyard to hurse my emotional wounds, while sitting in a favorite camphor tree. As I sat in the cradle spot of the tree, I examined my legs expecting to see welts and

scars. There were no marks at all. But the sting of the indignity caused a terrible ache in my chest and burning in my throat.

As the afternoon wore on, my sister came out and asked if it hurt. I did not answer. After more unanswered questions, she left. The pain in chest and throat continued. At last, the approaching night caused me to have to leave my perch and go into the house.

Daddy was waiting for me inside the hall. He looked very tall. No words were spoken. He just knelt and took me in his arms. With those arms about me the tightness in my chest and burning in my throat melted as tears began to flow. My mother came out of the kitchen where she had been nowhere in sight. Cattie stood on the porch, hands on her hips, shaking her head from side to side.

"And Daddy's going to take us downtown to get an ice cream cone after supper,” my sister joyously exclaimed. For her this terrible event was over.

I really didn't feel like ice cream or a supper surprise, but they were all so eager to make me happy that I tried to enter into the welcoming circlea a big sister should.

That evening, at least, my sister and I did not argue. And I didnt complain when Chris insisted, as we were going to bed, on having the light left on in our room, a practice I hated. I was too exhausted. Besides, it was nace to feel the love and acceptance of my family.

"Good-night, honey,” Mamma said as she tucked me in. “You know your daddy loves you. He just wants you to behave like a good girl.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know," I said and ducked under the covers as I felt the lump in my throat returning.

YOU GOTTA HAVE MANNERS, GOOD MANNERS

Not long ago as I lay on a cold x-ray table anxiously awaiting the procedure of an arteriogram, a friendly
doctor entered the room. He was a young black man with a very reasonant voice and friendly, intelligent eyes. Something about his presence was both familiar and comforting.

"Good morning, Mrs. Moylan. I'm Dr. Anderson. How are you today?"

I replied as cheerfully as if we were on our way to a beach picnic, "Just fine, thank you, doctor. How are you?"

Then I silently reflected that even though his manner was reassuring, my reply was ridiculous. If I were all that "fine", 1 would not be lying there far from the joys of a day at the beach.

All of a sudden, Cattie, our childhood nurse who was also of African American heritage, flashed through my memory. My response was due to Cattie's indoctrination. As I lay there vaguely aware of the preparations going on around me, I recalled a long forgotten experience when she was taking my sister and me to the park. Apparently I had not replied quickly enough or with sufficient enthusiasm to please Cattie when someone passing asked, “How are you today, Marjorie?" Whereupon once they were out of earshot, I received an unusually cross reprimand, which obviously fixed itself forever upon my subconscious.

Cattie said something like, "Now listen here, Marj'rie. I'm 'shamed of you. You s'posed to speak up when folks speak to you. Don't just drag along, mumblin’, lookin’ at the ground like you didn't want to notice ‘em. If you act like that, people gon’ think your Mamma and me ain't taught you NOTHIN' "

I thought that was it, but Cattie went on. "Next time somebody pa 5 and ask you how you are, you smile, let ‘em know you glad to see them ang speak clearly not mumbly like. Don't matter how bad you feel, or 1f you w you hadn't seen ‘em, you speak up--and brightly.”

Meeting Cattie's standards of correct social behavior in the 1930s wa never questioned. Although we were reared in a time with some remaining adherence to the adage, "Children should be seen and not heard," my sister and I had plenty of opportunity for self-expression. But conforming to certain of Cattie's dictums of "what's right" made an indelible impression.

In addition to the one about Speak to People and Brightly, I recall two other rules and examples of Cattie's instruction. There has been no startling acting out in the present of these two rules, but I'm sure they are a part of my behavior of which I am for the most part unaware.

One Rises When An Older Person Enters Room

My father had three aunts who lived close enough to our town to occasionally visit us. Two of them were always warm and generous in their greeting and made us happy to see them arrive. The third, Aunt Mag, showed a distinct preference for my sister to the point of greeting her with endearments and giving her 25¢ (a large sum in the '30s). She then would add, “And dont let your sister have one penny." This upset my mother, but the situation somehow was never dealt with.

Therefore, once when great Aunt Mag came to call, instead of rising to greet her, as did the others, I remained seated on the piano bench. I realized I could not leave the room, but decided since Aunt Mag was so unfair I would not get up and greet her. Cattie happened to walk into the living room while the other family members were hugging and welcoming Aunt Mag, and saw me seated with arms folded tightly over my chest. "Get up this minute and gO speak to your Aunt Mag,” she spoke in my ear. "You know good and well what you're supposed to do "

Yes, I knew and it was by now an automatic response. But Aunt Mag Was a Special case. Abiding in my spirit was a deep dislike for injustice, although I certainly had not yet intellectually analyzed this. Still, I recall thinking I would no longer pretend courtesy or affection for Aunt Mag, since ghe so obviously did not like me.

Mamma felt Aunt Mag acted as she did towards my sister because my sister was named for our grandmother, who was much beloved by Aunt Mag. But, on this day, no explanation mattered. I had had enough, so I did not pudge even while Cattie continued to whisper in ever more stern tones that I arise. My poor mother, the soul of goodness and always desirous of peace, gave me a pleading look and a gentle, "Marjorie, come and speak to your Aunt Mag.”

Everyone was watching. I didn't care what happened as punishment, for I knew there would be something, but it was hard to refuse my beautiful mother. So, I got up and limply extended a hand to Aunt Mag, while tonelessly saying, “Hello, Aunt Mag."

Aunt Mag, who was nearly six feet tall, drew herself up to her full height and said, “Wel-1-1-1, I do not know how you all can tolerate such a rude child. Why can't she behave like her sweet sister?"

I was immediately whisked out of the room by Cattie and further instructed on the error of my ways and the infallible rule of always rising and politely greeting one's elders.

I suspect I received no further punishment because my parents too must have objected not only to the partiality shown by Aunt Mag, but to the hurt it brought me. And, proud man that my father was, perhaps he respected my spunk. Besides, they knew Cattie had thoroughly scolded me.

It's Not Polite to Eat Every Last Bit of Food on Your Plate

For people living through the hard times of the Depression in the South, I do not know why the custom of not cleaning one's plate was considered good manners. Perhaps it was even more important to maintain dignity in a time of scarcity than in a time of plenty.

In Cattie's words, “Les you're eatin’ in the kitchen where nobody can see you, you ain't supposed to eat every scrap of food." Then she would add, “You don't want people to think you don't know where your next meal's did much care about that. Nor did it bother me to leave rice or vegetables on the plate, but when we'd have company and pecan pie or homemade peach ice cream was served, I wanted to eat every last bite.

My sister caught on to the way to accomplish cleaning the plate. She made a practice of asking to be excused from the table, especially if company were present. Amidst compliments for being such a good little girl, she carried her dessert plate to the kitchen, where she enjoyed every morsel and sometimes even second servings.

I recall that I longed to follow her, but inasmuch as I was the older sister, I felt compelled to remain seated through the interminable wait until my parents and the guests arose from the table. Like it or not, I had to obey the rules.

“You gotta have manners, good manners,” Cattie said. I hope she would be pleased that her words are with me still.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

AN EARLY ACQUAINTANCE WITH DEATH

“Don't leave me, Malcolm," I could hear my mother crying as the nurse came rushing out of the closed
bedroom ordering someone to phone the doctor.

Standing in the hallway I was frozen with the sudden realization of the unthinkable, "My father must be dying." People began moving about, the doctor arrived but almost immediately emerged from the sick room with his arm about my stricken mother. I had never seen her look like that. Daddy was gone.

We stood there as in a bad dream. How could he be gone? This was a Wednesday morning and my sister and I had not gone to school that day. I remember that not going to school, in a way, warned us of the gravity of the Situation. Still it was all too sudden to comprehend.

Over and over in my mind I relived the days preceding this terrible event. On Saturday night Daddy had taken my sister, Chris, and me to town to a carnival with all its exciting lights, ferris wheel, merry-go-round and cotton candy. It was a bone-chilling January night. I know it was "bonechilling” because people said so repeatedly. Yet, everyone entered into the Spirit of fun of having a carnival in our small town. Despite the cold, all too soon, we were going home.

Before getting into our unheated car, my father suggested we go by the drug store. We were not there for ice cream cones, but to huddle about the  coal stove, which was in the back of the store. How good the warmth to hands, toes and back sides.

The next morning at church, which we regularly attended, my aunt asked, "Where is your daddy?"

“He's not feeling well. Has a bad cold, so he stayed in bed,” I replied

Aunt Bern looked surprised. A cold would hardly confine her bro h , to bed. "I'll take you home and see how he is."

I think I recall this conversation because in my mind it was the first hint of something out of the ordinary.

Many people had pneumonia that winter of 1935, before antibiotics. But serious and fatal illnesses happen to other people, not my dad.

Upon arrival home from school on Monday, the bedroom where Daddy lay had a completely different look. A nurse was there in starched white uniform and cap; oxygen tanks were being wheeled in. I peeked in but quickly retreated at the shocking sight of Daddy lying under a cellophane looking tent. Alarm was in the air.

My sister and I slipped out to sit in a sunny spot on the back porch. I remember trying to do homework, while my nine-year-old sister played with Nira, our cat. Mamma, who was usually with us, was completely occupied with Daddy. An awful loneliness came over me and I suspect to my sister too.

I don't know how we endured Tuesday. I recall my father's anguished calling for the windows to be opened, so he could breathe. Cold as it was, windows were opened, even though I recall the nurse saying, "But Mr. Morrison, it will do no good. You have the oxygen."

Hurting for another:  terror at the situation was relieved for us somewhat by the continuous attention my sister and I received from relatives and friends.

Someone sat by the fire in the bedroom with us children all Tuesday night. It's likely my aunts took turns.

My mother never left my father's side. I think this is so, because I have no recollection of her from Sunday morning until Wednesday when she came out of the room with Dr. McSween. We were immediately gathered into her arms and she, my sister and I wept together. After that, my mother's grieving was deep, but private.

I cannot recall all the events preceding the funeral. However, the memory of my beloved father's lifeless body lying in a grey casket in our dining room still evokes powerful emotion. I looked at him only once. This was Daddy and yet it was not. He was gone. The emptiness was devastating And mixed with that memory is the pungent smell of carnations, as flowers began to arrive and fill our house.

The funeral service held in the living room is etched indelibly in my mind. Family members had all gathered and sat with my mother, sister and me. The house, as well as the front yard, quickly filled with people just before the service began. Hymns sung so plaintively caused a terrible tightness in my throat as I fought to hold back tears. Both the Presbyterian minister from my father's church and the Methodist minister from my mother's church read Scripture and spoke of life eternal. I thought the service would never

end. The slow drive to the cemetery following the hearse with a long line of

cars following ours was perhaps the hardest part. I knew this was final. People stood motionless in front of their houses as we passed by. When we drove through town, business inside stopped as people came out of the store to watch and pay their respects. I recall men standing with hats over their hearts. But, what I shall never forget on the return drive from the cemetery to our house was the realization that life for other people had already returned to normal. I observed them going into stores. I could see them laughing as they talked. I felt angry that so quickly everything was as usual for them. As friends and relatives lingered following our return home they said, "He was so young, only forty-five." "Oh, how Malcolm with his wit will be missed.” “He gave light and laughter to everyone." "Well, we know he is with God." "He was such a good man, a considerate man." And in low tones I overheard the sad whisper, "What will Mamie Ruth and the children do?" Soon, everyone left. We were alone. My sister and I sat on either arm of a large rocking chair as Mamma silently enfolded us. I do not recall any words Just an awful sadness. Although I was only eleven years old I knew that life ahead for us would be hard Not only would we not have the secure pr _ce and love of my father, but that questions, "What will Mamie Ruth and the children do?” was on my mind.

I knew well that because of the Depression Daddy had had to let his insurance policy lapse, but he'd taken out a new one just two weeks before he became ill. I knew this because on Monday before he got so much worse, he kept asking Mamma if the policy had been returned for him to sign. He wags very agitated about that. By his voice I could tell he was fighting this disease fighting the bossy nurse. I was even a bit fearful that he seemed to be fighting God, for I heard him say to my mother, "If I should die before that policy arrives, I do not see how you can hang onto your faith in God." My father was distraught about the possibility of not being able to provide for us. He did not go gently from this world.

At one time the land holdings of the Morrison family had been extensive and their businesses prospered. All this began gradually to disintegrate following the Civil War; then the tragic illnesses and deaths of my grandfather and his oldest son, the talked-about mismanagement by an uncle who relatives said was unsuited for business, and finally the Depression. We still had Gulf property, but in 1935 there were few buyers.

What would we do? As far as I know, my mother's faith was not shaken. Although she must have had some desperate moments, she never expressed any doubt but that we would be all right, that God would take care of us. However, the realities did not escape her. The funeral was on a Saturday. On Monday, Mamma sent us back to school. On Tuesday, she herself was back at work, teaching piano pupils. I know this because I recall someone's commenting on my mother's bravery.

It all seemed unreal. In less than a week life had changed abruptly and terribly for us. Never was it the same. And the swiftness with which death can take a loved one became a lasting part of the consciousness of two little girls.

OL’ BILL

It's hard to recall the first time I was aware of Ol Bull and his place in our lives in the 1930s. He was just
always there, a tall, large-framed man with blue-black skin. My mother called him Bill, but to distinguish him from his young son, also named Bill, my sister and I privately called the father Old Bi | The father always referred to his son by his full name, Bill Jones. No one seemed to know for sure what had become of Ol' Bill's wife. Some said shed run off up North with another man. I never saw either Bill smile when they were together.

Ol' Bill and Bill Jones delivered wood to us beginning in the fall and continuing through the winter. Winter temperatures in Northwest Flonda can go below freezing, but mostly remain in the 40s. Few homes had central heating. Wood burning fireplaces were the main source of heat; therefore, we needed a continuous supply of firewood, pine and oak

At Christmas Bill brought a wonderful tall pine tree, whose fragrance filled our house. In summer the Bills were there with gallon cans filled with wild blackberries and blueberries. I don't think they had too many customers for any of these services.

Bill and Bill Jones were an unusual sight riding through town in their oxen drawn wagon. I don't recall any other such wagons. Long after Bull Jones had moved North--about the time he turned fourteen—Ol' Bill continued his rounds always driving the ox drawn wagon.

Each time they made a delivery, winter or summer, we served Bill and Bill Jones a hot midday meal. Cattie, who originally was our nurse, but in my middle childhood became the family cook, insisted they eat outside on the ack porch, not in the house. When I pressed her once about this, she replied emphatically as if it were some kind of law, "Field hands not supposed to come inside and eat. They know their place." Years later I realized that Afncan-Americans had a fixed class structure which existed years after the end of slavery. Those who worked outside in the fields, or their descendants, were not considered on an equal status with domestic workers, or skilled workers as brick-layers or the more elegant railroad porters. After Cattie left our household to marry a L. & N. Railroad man and moved to another town, we invited Bill, who was now alone, to eat indoors. Bill would sit quietly at a table next to the stove, his hat on one knee.

On Christmas Day Bill would arrive in his best, though mis-matched trousers and coat, and always wearing a clean white shirt. Sometimes he'd not be wearing any socks, but on Christmas that would be remedied with our annual present of warm socks together with other gift-wrapped remembrances. In those Depression days my family too was hard hit, but we shared what we could. And Bill usually had a gift for us. We would be presented with a sack of plump pecans he'd gathered, or beautiful holly or other red berries from the woods.

Since we always had Christmas dinner at Aunt Bern's and therefore no need for a cook at our house, my mother would begin to prepare a meal for Bill following our family's gift exchange. She might cook rice and sweet potatoes, warm up vegetables and rolls, get out ham from the previous day and several slices of holiday cakes, which would've been saved for Bill. This, Bill would eat with great relish at his table near the wood stove in the kitchen. Additional food for Bill to take home was packaged with oranges, apples and candies. On Christmas I think we were Bill's only holiday experience. It seemed to please him. Unlike his usual solemn demeanor, he was almost jovial, and effusive with compliments.

"I believe this is the finest Christmas meal I've ever eaten," he would say, adding enthusiastically, “Your mamma's the best cook of all--better 'n that Catherine.”

However, it cast a sad feeling over me when we'd sometimes have to leave early with Bill left to eat all alone while we went on to a festive family dinner.

O!l' Bill knew he had a friend in my mother, and it was to her this proud man turned when an extreme emergency forced it.

One cold winter afternoon Mamma received a message from Bill apologizing for not delivering the wood because he was sick with the flu.

Mamma, who was in the midst of teaching after-school piano pupils when the news arrived, left the student and began to prepare tomato soup. She quickly strained the tomatoes through a sieve. I was instructed to finish the soup and put together whatever food I could from the pantry shelves. I was to take this immediately to Bill along with cough syrup and Vick's salve.

At fourteen I had not been driving long, but was entrusted to go on this mission. Never having been to Ol' Bill's house, I followed my mother's directions, but since none of the streets was named or houses numbered, I had to stop several times to ask people along the way. Their answers were bnef, apprehensive. Dark, curious, silent faces stared at this young girl driving a black Chevrolet down red clay, washboard roads. I was thankful it hadn't rained recently or I'd have been slipping and sliding all over the road. More than that, I wondered about the suspicious behavior of the people.

I was familiar with the other end of town where black people also  near their school and churches. The houses there were neat looking with clean-swept yards and many with flower and vegetable gardens. This section where Bill lived looked very poor and the people certainly didn't act very helpful to anyone asking directions. I felt very much an intruder.

One last time I stopped when I saw a woman in her yard boiling clothes in a huge black kettle set over a hot fire. She continued to stir the clothes with what looked like an old broom handle as I approached.

In answer to my inquiry, and barely looking at me, she asked abruptly, with some hostility, “What you want with him?"

“He's sick, and my mother sent me to see about him."

“Oh,” she said and after a couple of minutes added, "The po-lice come down here a little while ago.”

“Did they stop at Bills?” 

*No.”

That was all the information I got as she continued to poke and stir the clothes,

I waited a minute before asking again, “Could you please tell me which house is Bills?” 

Raising the stick she pointed down the road. "It's that old shack down there a: the end.” 

When I came to the house designated as Bills, I saw an unpainted, windowless place with the remnants of a vegetable garden on the side There were wooden openings, but no screens or glass, and since it was winter the
house was closed as tightly as possible. As I walked in, there was some light coming through the cracks in the floor and sides of the house. Ol' Bill, who was lying in his pathetic bed unde, a pile of ancient quilts, weakly tried to get up to greet me. I urged him not to move and he fell back gratefully. The dying coals of a fire in the fireplace gave off little warmth. A more desolate sight I had not previously witnessed. I was stricken, but held on. 

Here was strong, reliable Bill barely able to move, living in a miserable room with nobody to care for him, no food or medicine and yet trying to follow his customary courtesy of greeting. 

I put the soup in a bowl I'd brought with me, and at Bill's request placed it on a makeshift table by his bed. "Shall I feed you the soup, Bill?" I asked rather tentatively. “No, Miss I can manage. You'd best be leaving anyway,” he urged.

 "Bill, Mamma said to tell you she's sending the doctor to see you. Hell let her know how you are. If he wants someone to stay with you, Mamma will attend to that. She'll be here to see you tomorrow." 

With tears beginning to come into his half-closed eyes, Bill murmured,"Your mamma is the best person in the whole world. I ‘spect she’s a saint." _ Then, in a brighter tone, he added, "Looks like that ol’ chariot ain't coming for me after all.“ 

"You'll be fine, Bill. I know you'll be fine.” 

This was not the first or the last act of caring in which my mother enlisted my assistance, but it made the strongest impression. It was direct, —

That was all the information I got as she continued to poke and stir the clothes,

I waited a minute before asking again, "Could you please tell me which house is Bill's?"

Raising the stick she pointed down the road. “It's that old shack down there at the end."

When I came to the house designated as Bill's, I saw an unpainted, windowless place with the remnants of a vegetable garden on the side. There were wooden openings, but no screens or glass and since it was winter the house was closed as tightly as possible.

As I walked in, there was some light coming through the cracks in the floor and sides of the house. O!' Bill, who was lying in his pathetic bed under a pile of ancient quilts, weakly tried to get up to greet me. I urged him not to move and he fell back gratefully. The dying coals of a fire in the fireplace gave off little warmth. A more desolate sight I had not previously witnessed. I was stricken, but held on.

Here was strong, reliable Bill barely able to move, living in a miserable room with nobody to care for him, no food or medicine and yet trying to follow his customary courtesy of greeting.

I put the soup in a bowl I'd brought with me, and at Bill's request placed it on a makeshift table by his bed.

person-to-person contact with poverty. It was also my first glimpse of what lay behind the masks black people wore to hide their hurts and fears--the effects of generations of racial discrimination.

I cried all the way home, barely seeing the road. My mind's eye recorded forever the scene of Bill lying there, not wanting to reveal the depths of his despair and with great effort and dignity rising up on one elbow to bid me a reassuring "Good-bye, Miss, and thank you."

"Shall I feed you the soup, Bill?" I asked rather tentatively. “No, Miss, I can manage. You'd best be leaving anyway," he urged.

"Bill, Mamma said to tell you she's sending the doctor to see you. Hell let her know how you are. If he wants someone to stay with you, Mamma will attend to that. She'll be here to see you tomorrow."

With tears beginning to come into his half-closed eyes, Bill murmured, “Your mamma is the best person in the whole world. I ‘spect she's a saint." Then, in a brighter tone, he added, "Looks like that ol' chariot ain't coming for me after all.”

"You'll be fine, Bill. I know you'll be fine.”

This was not the first or the last act of caring in which my mother enhanced my assistance, but it made the strongest impression. It was direct, person-to-person contact with poverty. It was also my first glimpse of what lay behind the masks black people wore to hide their hurts and fears--the effects of generations of racial discrimination.

I cried all the way home, barely seeing the road. My mind's eye recorded forever the scene of Bill lying there, not wanting to reveal the depths of his despair and with great effort and dignity rising up on one elbow to bid me a reassuring "Good-bye, Miss, and thank you."