The Story Of Ruth

One Woman’s Spiritual Journey

The Story of Ruth

Rosalind J. Harris

The Story of Ruth

By Rosalind J. Harris

The Story of Ruth

Copyright @ 2023 by Rosalind J. Harris

Published by Bizzy Bee Enterprise, LLC Aurora, Colorado 80019

Paperback and ebook first published in 2023.

ISBN: 979-8-9883333-0-2 (paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-9883333-1-9 (ebook)

Rosalind “Bee” (James) Harris - Author and cover/graphic designer (publisher@urbanspectrum.net)

James Michael Brodie - Editor boulderblackandgold@gmail.com

Pattie Jo (Hill) Mallett - Associate Editor

Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed and some dialogue has been re-created.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced – electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

“This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Ruth Juanita Smith James Boyd; my father, Doyle James; my brother, Michael Anthony James; my grandmother, Avinger Smith; my grandfather, Cornelius “Neal” Smith; my grandmother, Lula (Stephens) James; and to all the lives they touched.”

“The Story of Ruth”

Foreward

By James Michael Brodie YYY

Rosalind “Bee” Harris is my shero.

I don’t remember exactly how I met Bee, but doing so changed my world. I wanted to be a writer, a chronicler of our history. I wanted to make a change. The Urban Spectrum was just getting off the ground, and Bee was looking for eager, and hungry, young writers like me to tell real stories about people of color – stories often overlooked in the mainstream media. She took a chance on me, encouraged me to dig deeper, supported my efforts to secure the difficult story. And she was patient, putting up with my growing pains. Encouraged me to follow my dreams when I decided to move to the East Coast to ply my trade.

After three and a half decades of interviews, commentaries, and several books, I am back home where it all began, working with a woman who has become legendary in the annals of Colorado journalism, and is regarded as a major contributor to the legacy of the Black press.

With this narrative, “The Story of Ruth,” Bee taps into the very heart of the African American experience in this nation by sharing the humble story of her mother, Ruth Juanita Smith James Boyd, by using her mother’s own words, words that

float majestically across the pages. Like many African Americans during the middle of the 1900s, Ms. Ruth, her husband, and newborn child turned away from Jim Crow Mississippi and turned to Grand Rapids, Michigan, in search of a dream too often deferred for so many of us. Ms. Ruth sought what any family would want to experience – what real freedom not only looked like, but how it felt.

The telling of this simple yet bold story gives voice to the insightful historical saga of a Black family at a time when many seek to silence such voices. As of this writing, several states have outright banned the teaching of Black history –going so far as to erase references to slavery, segregation, terrorism, and other forms of discrimination, even reducing Rosa Parks to being portrayed as merely a woman sitting on a bus without mentioning why she was sitting there.

Roughly half of the states have entertained measures to whitewash the teaching of the African American journey, while countless local and national groups seek to disrupt lessons on race in the classroom. If ever there was a time to tell our stories, now is that time.

Bee Harris is a keeper of us, of our truth. Her example has led me and many others to look for those hidden gems, those nuggets of truth, those glimpses into lives well lived, and to share their words and thoughts with the world, as she has done.

To be perfectly honest, I was honored when Bee asked me to be involved as editor. Actually, I was shocked. She could have chosen any of the talented people she has mentored over the

last three-and-a-half decades. And as we labored to craft Ms. Ruth’s narrative, we dug into the stories of Amory, Mississippi, and the lone colored school; the Civil Rights Movement as it played out in Grand Rapids, as her children stood up for their rights as citizens; to the turbulence of the 1960s and 1970s; the election of Barack Hussein Obama, the nation’s first African American president.

Ruth Smith was not a revolutionary. She did not march. She did not protest. She didn’t sit in. She didn’t lead any rallies. But what she did do was just as significant: she bore witness to her times, to her family’s hopes and dreams, to their victories and challenges, to their joys and their deep sorrows. She bore witness to the humanity of those she loved, showing grace, showing faith, showing love. And, like her counterpart, Ruth, of The Bible, she painted a moving picture of what service and devotion to others really means.

Hers is a story being told at the right and perfect time, in the right and perfect place, and with the right and perfect messenger.

And so it is…

Preface

By Rosalind J. Harris

YYY

“You may have heard that Toot died today…”

– Michelle Obama (November 3, 2008)

I was excited to see and hear Michelle Obama at then presidential candidate Barack Obama’s last campaign rally in Colorado. My friend Misti and I had attended almost all of his campaign rallies in the state, anticipating the election of the first Black President of the United States.

Michelle Obama was eloquent and engaging as usual even while making the announcement that Toot, the grandmother who had raised Barack Obama, had died. Even though it’s been fourteen years since she died, what Michelle said still resonates in my spirit because Madelyn Dunhamt was not the only woman who had died that day.

The rally was about an hour long but within that time my cell phone starting ringing like crazy and text messages were pouring in. What in the Hell has happened, was all I could ask myself. I was soon informed by my brother that my mother had also died – found in her home at eighty years — the victim of blunt force injuries.

My heart sank with pain, and I couldn’t believe what I had heard.

That was the beginning of my soul searching, which brings me to this point of honoring and remembering the life of my mother, Ruth Juanita Smith James Boyd. I have written this book to memorialize her life.

Losing my Mother was devastating, and nothing you would ever expect from a well-known and respected African American family living in Grand Rapids, Michigan. And because of the mystifying circumstances, hearts were broken, and family ties were destroyed.

How and why could this happen to a woman who loved life, her family, and was referred to by so many as such a “sweet and caring” woman? Only God knows.

I think about her every day, and I feel her spirit around me. She guides me on a daily basis. I hear her words. Like her Mother was to her, she is to me – my everything. I know she is watching over all of us. And I pray that she is at peace.

Writing this book and expressing my love for my mother has been soothing to my soul.

As you take the time to read this book about a simple woman from Mississippi who truly loved life, just remember that lives may be taken from the physical realm – but don’t worry –because spirits live on. They come in many forms. Just listen and hear, because they are always with you.

And one day you will be joined with them again.

Streetlights

Wind blowing. Dogs barking. Shirley Temple Curls.

It was a chilly fall Sunday evening in Amory, Mississippi, and I was running as fast as I could. My jacket and scarf were trying to keep up with me. The streetlights weren’t on yet and I knew Mother would be on the porch, hands on hips with an apron decorated with flour, looking back and forth down the road.

“Mr. Smith, I declare, I just don’t know what to say about that chil’e. She know I get worried when she is late,” Mother would always say to Daddy as it was nearing dusk.

“She’ll be here soon,” is all Daddy would say, sitting in his chair while listening to the news about the recession, President Roosevelt, and the summer’s hurricane damage, not letting on that he was a bit worried too about his only little girl.

Daddy, a big staunch businessman, was always cool, inside and out, and not because he was the Ice Man, a neighborhood business he had for many years. His truck was in the driveway, the bell faintly ringing from the blowing of the wind.

My best friend Maybelle lived just up the street from us. She and I had been having so much fun playing hopscotch, jumping

rope and talking about boys that we both forgot about the time. And we both knew how long it would take us to get home – her living one way down the street and me living the other. The streetlights should be on in about ten minutes, and it was going to take me about eight to hit the porch if I ran really fast.

“Good evening, Miss Martha,” I said running along her white picket fence and rattling it with a stick we had been playing with - thud, thud, thud, thud, thud it sounded until I got to the end crossing the dirt driveway. It was still partly wet from yesterday’s rain, so I purposely skipped over the damp patches trying not to get mud on my sneakers.

“Ruthie, you better hurry up and get home. It’ll be dark soon. You know your mother, Avinger, will be looking for you,” Miss Martha said like all the women in the village would say when needed.

“Good night, Miss Martha, I am,” I said as I started to smell the outdoors on me. I knew I had to get my hair washed, pressed, and Shirley Temple curled for school tomorrow, and living in one of the few houses that did not have an outhouse, I was looking forward to soaking in the bubble bath that Mother had bought for me.

Maybelle, who should have made it home by now, was my best friend. We talked about everything, school, boys, family, boys, church, boys, God, boys, periods, boys, growing up, boys, marriage, boys, children, and boys. My period had started earlier in the year, which was not really normal for a ten-year-

old girl, and more reason for Mother to be concerned. Mother, who was a very devout Christian (as well as Daddy), had warned me about those nappy headed boys from the neighborhood. But they all looked up to Mr. and Mrs. Neal Smith, who were well respected and looked at as somewhat well off in the community. Mother was a homemaker and Daddy, the Ice Man, delivered ice throughout the neighborhood. In those days, women were very dependent on their husbands, including Mother; so dependent that she never learned how to drive a car.

I was coming around the bend, just three minutes away and could see the flicker of the streetlights starting to show. Our house was at the end of the block. Bubba, who lived three doors away on the other side of the street, was still shooting marbles with a new kid on the block and hardly looking up yelled, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, Ruth!”

I really didn’t like him too much because he would sometimes pull my hair and tease me. But because I was brought up to be nice to everyone, I said, “Okay… see you tomorrow,” as the new neighbor from Alabama was looking at me. He was kind of cute.

JoJo, our neighbor’s muted-color mutt of grey, brown, and black that looked like a Terrier and Miniature German Shepherd mix, slowly and lazily looked up from lying in the yard as if to say, “you better hurry home.” JoJo watched me as I tossed him a piece of leftover cookie while barking a spineless thank you. He was old.

The Story of Ruth September 18, 1938

I was just a few feet away from home when I saw Mother reappear on the porch after checking the meatloaf that was cooking in the oven.

“Mother, I’m home. Where’s Daddy? What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”

And then, the streetlights came on.Y

Amazing Grace

I could hear the bacon sizzling, and I could smell Daddy’s coffee brewing as Mother was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. Soon she would be calling me to get ready for church. I could tell from the frost on the window that it was very cold outside – unusually cold this winter. I wanted to emerge from the covers and look for unique six-sided snowflakes that were compressed among the frost, but the cold draft from the window would not let me. With both hands, I pulled the covers closer to my chin.

Christmas was just over, and I still had to put the decorations away. I loved putting up what limited decorations we had but didn’t look forward to taking them down because my mind was now looking forward to my thirteenth birthday in just a few days, on January 2. And I was hoping this time Mother would let me have a party with some friends.

“Ruthie, it’s time to get up now and get ready for church,” I heard Mother say in her soft unassuming voice of a yell. “Get up now, breakfast is ready, and your grits and hotcakes are getting cold,” she said.

After quickly washing my face and brushing my teeth, and still in my long flannel gown, I dashed to the kitchen table and

The Story of Ruth December 29, 1940

while giving Mother a kiss on the cheek, I grabbed a glass of orange juice.

“Where’s Daddy,” I asked, knowing exactly where he was.

“Mr. Smith is warming up the car,” she said, referring to her husband.

Cornelius Smith was his name, but everybody called him “Neal.” I never knew why Mother called him “Mr. Smith,” or why he called her “Ms. Smith” and not Avinger, which was her given name. Avinger Whitfield. Later, Avinger Smith.

What I did know was that as their only child, all attention was on me, and according to them both, they knew what was best for me.

It was 1940, and I don’t remember the first time I went to Sunday school and church, but attending St. James United Methodist Church, which was about a mile and a half away from home, was part of my life for as long as I could remember. That was Mother’s church.

Daddy attended St. Paul Baptist Church, where he was a deacon. Both were devout Christians and very active church members. With a population less than four thousand, Black churches were still bountiful in Amory, and we all eventually would be attending St. Paul.

On my way to church, I saw Doyle James, who worked for Daddy, and his younger brother, Bobby walking and kicking an almost deflated ball back and forth to each other. It was too cold to toss; they were bundled up for the weather with hats, 6

gloves, and galoshes. They didn’t go to any church, so it looked like they were headed to the corner store.

Talk was they had a lot of Indian in them. Bobby wore his hair in two long thick plaits that passed his shoulders. Their mother, Ms. Lula, was only four feet eight with hair down her back almost to her butt. And their father, who was tall and stern, was called Big Red. But Doyle, who was secretly the apple of my eye since we met when I was eleven, was the cutest between him and Bobby.

Daddy, besides being the Ice Man, sold charcoal and anything else he could make a dollar on. Everyone needed ice and back then, everyone barbecued. Daddy would get ice from the icehouse, and Doyle, who was really good with an ice pick, would split the brick of ice to sell, earning four dollars a week working as the junior hustler. A twenty-five-pound block of ice cost five cents and a fifty-pound block of ice cost fifteen cents. And I loved most when Mother would make “snow crème.”

Daddy tooted his horn and we all waved at one another. I smiled and felt all tingling inside.

After crossing several railroad tracks and pulling up to church, I could hear the choir warming up for the morning service. We were always on time, and most of the time early. I don’t know why but we didn’t attend Sunday school this particular morning, but Maybelle was already seated, waiting for me for church. We always sat together and talked and giggled about people in the church – especially the boys and the fat women and their fancy hats – until we were shushed to be

quiet. We looked forward to always nudging each other to watch Ms. Jenkins, who every Sunday caught the Holy Ghost, and who had to take off her hat in the midst of her bout of getting happy and shouting.

Sitting in our regular pew, I thought about when I was baptized years ago and being completely immersed in the water as Christian Baptists do. I was nervous and scared because I couldn’t swim and thought I would drown.

A baby was crying on the fifth pew, causing the mother to revert to the back of the sanctuary to quiet the child while tip-toeing out and holding one finger up in the air. Ms. Jenkins had given her weekly performance to our delight and laughter. Rev. Thompson was now preaching hard with gasping intense ah-Hahs after each sentence of his sermon. Sweat was rolling down his face as he wiped his forehead with a hanky.

Wishing I was still at home in my warm bed, I knew Mother would be angry if she knew what I was thinking. I prayed that she would never be able to hear my thoughts. I was still sleepy and dozing, and I would have dropped my Bible off my lap if Maybelle had not caught it. She looked at me and we both giggled, knowing that the benediction was coming soon.

I clicked open my patent leather purse and took off my white gloves to grab two quarters from the change compartment as the offering plate was coming down toward me.

I looked at Maybelle and said, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” as the choir started singing my favorite song, “Amazing Grace.” Y

Happy Days and Challenging Times

The 1940s were turbulent times in Mississippi and around the country. The problems of the Great Depression affected virtually every group of Americans, and no group was harder hit than Black people.

It was 1942. I was fourteen years and happy that Daddy had his own business and could take care of me and Mother. Racial violence was common, especially in the South. Young Black men and boys were being lynched and strung up like stuffed sausage.

With limited resources for news, we got most through hearsay and gossip from barber and beauty shops or church services.

And as time went on, we heard that on January 25, 1942, in Sikeston, Missouri, Cleo Wright was arrested on charges of assaulting a white woman. Two years later, on January 2, 1944, fifteen-year-old Willie James Howard, was kidnapped and lynched by three white men in Suwannee County, Florida, after being accused of sending a love note to the daughter of one of the men. And on June 16, 1944, George Stinney, Jr., a ninetypound fourteen-year-old boy, was executed in the electric chair

in Columbia, South Carolina for the rape and murder of two white girls.

These stories should have warned Black men and boys, but during that time they had their own way of thinking and still would not listen. Doyle was my boyfriend, but there was this white girl named Susie who worked at the drugstore her father owned. I knew she liked Doyle, but I also knew his heart belonged to me; but I know that boys will be boys. He still flirted with her, which made me angry.

In spite of it all, and what was going on around the world and in Amory, I still found enjoyment in going to school. The best part was meeting and walking to school every day with Maybelle in the rain, cold, or sunshine. We would talk, laugh, and sometimes cry about what was going on.

“My auntie died yesterday,” she said. “We have to go to Hattiesburg City for the funeral on Wednesday.”

“Aunt Luella?” I asked. It was a sad day. We both cried and held hands a little tighter as we walked to school.

Hattiesburg was about three and half hours away, and I wished I could go with my best friend, but Mother and Daddy wouldn’t have it. They valued the importance of an education, and I needed all that I could get. I love going to school, but studying was not at the top of my list of things to do.

We all attended Monroe County Training School, the only school for Blacks in Amory. It began as Amory Colored Public School in 1927 in a four-room frame building with eight grades

and four teachers. The building was heated by “pot-bellied” stoves, and we sat on benches without writing tables.

I was an only child, but I would see Doyle and his brothers George, John, Charlie, and Bobby, and his sisters Missy (Winnie Ruth), Mary Sue, and Mavis almost every day going and leaving school. Doyle and I were in the same class.

“Hey girl,” Doyle would say every day as Maybelle and I entered the steps of the school.

“Hey,” I would always say back with a smile.

“I need to talk to you after school,” he said one day somberly and strangely.

“Okay,” I said, wondering inquisitively about not what he had said but how he said it.

The day was long and tedious, more so than usual, because I was anxious to talk to Doyle and the math class was working my nerves. Baby Face, who thought he was super smart, was always trying to impress the class, and me, with his equation knowledge. He was cute and light skinned, but his sandy color hair always made his skin look ashy. And when he needed a haircut, you could count all the little BB’s on his head one by one.

He was nothing like Doyle, whose hair was smooth and creamy, just like his skin. But to make matters worse, Gene Hogan, also known as Booger, was bugging me about how pretty I looked that day. Booger was short for “Booger Eating Gene,” a nickname he had had since kindergarten for always

eating his boogers that left dried snot on his upper lip. And nobody would let him touch them with his hands. That nickname held true even ten years later.

English class was almost over, and I was glad. I really couldn’t understand why we were reading “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” a book by Mark Twain that mentioned “nigger” more than two hundred times. I guess it’s the same reason we never learned about Harriet Tubman in our history class. How could the teachers teach something they didn’t know?

The bell would be ringing soon.

“There will be a test tomorrow on today’s lesson,” Ms. Johnson said as a mad rush began to get out of class and go home at the sound of the bell.

Doyle was waiting for me by a tree nearby. Maybelle stayed her distance so that we could talk. With tears in his eyes, he said, “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going,” I asked with tears swelling up in my eyes as well.

“I’m going to Chicago. Susie’s father told my brother George about me flirting with her and they weren’t going to have it,” he said. “I have to go, Ruth. I have to go now. My Daddy has a son in Chicago and I’m going to live there for few years. I’ll write you. I’ll be back. Will you wait for me?”

Without answering, he knew I said yes with my heart, and I softly said, “be careful,” as he walked away with his brother.

I was angry. I was sad and I was happy. Angry because he fell prey to weakness, sad because he was leaving, but happy that is life would be spared.

“He’s gone,” I said to Maybelle. “And I’ll miss his birthday.”

“It’ll be okay Ruth,” she said as we walked home holding hands and locking arms tighter than ever. “He’ll be back. You’ll see him again; and you’ll be happy again.”Y

A Child Is Born

Three years had passed and even though Doyle had been back and forth from Chicago and home over the course of time and not staying long, he was now coming home for good.

Lynchings were still prevalent and rampant. And if I could have foreseen the future, the uncertainty of whether Doyle could have ever been another Emmitt Till, who was killed in 1955, or those other boys killed in the 1940s. The thought gave me the heebie-jeebies, but they soon went away from just thinking that I would see Doyle soon. It made me warm and a little wet between my legs, my heart was fluttering, and I just felt happy.

It was Valentine’s Day, 1945, and no one would be home. Daddy was taking Mother to the store for some new stockings and then to church. Before I went to school she said, “Ruthie, I won’t be home until late. Mr. Smith is going to take me to the store before my Usher Board meeting so we’ll be home around nine o’clock. Your dinner will be in the oven.” And without missing a beat as she was walking out the door she added, “and don’t you forget to clean that kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said while throwing my hand up and giving her the bye-kiss wave. And all day long I thought about Mother and Daddy, and I wanted me and Doyle to be just like them.

Me and Maybelle, along with some of Doyle’s’ sisters and rothers, were at Sonny’s Hangout waiting for my love and his uncle to drive up. It was gonna’ be Sonny’s or Lawyer Whites Ice Cream Parlor for the reunion party. But since there was still a winter chill in the air, and my now-ratty but favorite purple and pink sweater was feeling a little thin, we didn’t want ice cream. And Sonny’s was closer.

I had my letters with me, close to me, the ones he wrote to me while away, in my brown corduroy bag that was hanging over my shoulder. And I knew the first thing Doyle was going to ask me was going to be about Babyface and Gene Hogan, who both had been pursuing me since Doyle left. I laughed out loud just thinking about some of the things that was said in those letters.

“Girl, wha’ you laughing ‘bout?” his sister Missy would ask, breaking out in laughter herself.

“Nothing is all I would say,” with a smile because I knew –me and Doyle would be laughing together again soon.

Dusk was setting in and the peak of the sun was disappearing as we heard the truck coming from down the road, fasttracking with loud jerky gears shifting. I watched him arrive in that grayish-steel blue 1930 Ford pickup truck.

When I saw Doyle, I said to him with a smile on my face, “I missed you.” He had gotten older, more finer, and taller. And then I said to myself, “This is going to be my husband.”

And with a hug, he said, “Hey, girl. How you been?” which made me happy and relieved that he didn’t ask about those good for nothing knuckleheads.

We were young and in love; and actually, had been since we were twelve years old. Now, we thought we were grown. At least it felt like we were grown as Doyle put my hand on his bulging body part. So grown that we took advantage of the situation… with Daddy and Mother… the store and stockings… church and the usher board meeting… and headed to Aunt Morlee’s house, Mother’s sister who lived next door.

She was glad to see Doyle and knowing Mother was not at home, Aunt Morlee invited us in.

“Y’all hungry? You want something to eat? I can cook you something,” she said, proceeding to the kitchen. Aunt Morlee would go out of her way to feed someone so that she could enjoy the company of other people.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said while looking at Doyle. We both knew that would give us plenty of time to be alone.

“Why don’t y’all go back in the room and wait. It’ll be a couple of hours. The game board is on the dresser. Sister will be home then,” she said referring to Mother.

The guest room was uneventful but served its purpose. And Aunt Morlee would let us come over whenever we wanted to

be alone. Doyle said she was naïve, but I thought she was just being my aunt.

We grabbed a book and laid on the bed that first time we were alone. The wallpaper design was a cranberry color paisley print with little white Englishmen standing side by side with top hats. Some of the fuzzy felt spots were starting to wear off in places from being too old. I never liked the wallpaper, but at least it helped me relax and gave more reason to close my eyes.

It was not the first time I had been in that room, and I saw that not much had changed – the same rocking chair with a homemade purple and orange quilt Afghan thrown over it – a mirror sitting in the corner next to the closet held up by a newspaper fan doorstop – and the lamp with the real small dusty shade on the dresser was still there.

But today was special. I knew in my heart that this day, this Valentine’s Day, February 14, 1945, would be the first day of starting our life together.

With food in the oven, we could have easily gone home, eaten, and then made the visit, but we knew that what we did at Aunt Morlee’s house could not be done at home, even if it was just next door. It was our little “never to talk about” secret. But I still wondered if Mother knew.

Doyle was looking so fine. He looked like that famous actor Tony Curtis – only beautifully Black. Hard to believe, but true. It was his eyes, it was his nose, it was his lips, and oh yeah, it was that Indian hair he had from Miss Lula who was from the Cherokee and Choctaw tribe and John “Red” James who was

half white. Miss Lula, who was only four feet six with hair down to her waist, always had her tobacco chewing spit can nearby. I knew we could make some pretty babies, I would say to myself fantasizing about my future with Doyle.

Sometimes less said is better and knowing that Aunt Morlee would not enter the room, we would dive into our own world, our private oasis, somewhere where no one else could enter. We were grown and in love, and our lovemaking reflected every essence of it. We were hot and sweaty as we expressed our love for each other. He was big and I was juicy – a perfect match for a perfect beginning.

“Happy Valentine’s Day” and “I Love You” were murmured softly but passionately until we heard dinner plates being set on the dining room table and Daddy’s car pulling up next door.

Doyle was home, we were happy, and a child was conceived.Y

Growing Up

“What color are his eyes?” Mary Sue asked while leaning over my first baby’s crib. Michael was born in my parents’ house on November 8. He was a beautiful boy and had taken many of his traits from everyone, including Doyle’s mama and daddy.

“They’re green!” Mavis said excitedly, “like mine” as she pushed older sister Mary Sue away so she could get a better look at her new nephew.

And as Michael Anthony James grew, so did his eyes, with the season and sometimes looking like his grandfather’s, John James, who was also known as “Red.” Doyle always said his father, whose father was Irish and mother was Indian, looked too white. Red, who was six feet five inches tall, walked with a hump from back problems, and had mingling black hair and blue eyes. In spite of his fair skin, he was a handsome man, and I could see where Doyle got some of his good looks. Miss Lula, on the other hand, who was Cherokee and Choctaw, was a beautiful small woman who stood four feet six inches tall with hair that trailed all the way down her back. I saw the three lineages of Doyle’s family morph into my other five babies, which soon followed over the next ten years.

The Story of Ruth

Doyle had a knack for naming our babies, and I left that up to him. He chose Michael Anthony after a radio personality. Jacqueline, who was named after Jackie Robinson, was born in 1947, followed by Dante (who we all called “Dan”) in 1948, who was named after an eighteenth-century artist. Our last three babies were no different with Doyle naming our second daughter Rosalind (1950) after the actress Rosalind Russell. Muriel (1952) was named after the famous Muriel Cigar in addition to capturing Doyle as her middle name as his legacy namesake. And our baby boy Robin (1954) was named after Robin Roberts, a famous baseball pitcher.

We lived just down the hill from “The Sticks,” and the ramshackled four-room house that Doyle lived in with his three brothers (George, Charlie, and baby Bobby) and three sisters (Missy, who never wanted to be called by her real name of Winnie Ruth, Mary Sue, and Mavis).

I was close to the family and watched how Doyle and Bobby grew up at odds and often fought, smashing each other’s heads to the point that big brother Charlie would have to separate them. Bobby, who Doyle said acted gay, would pee in the bed, wetting both their homemade night gowns and then tell Miss Lula that Doyle did it. Doyle would retaliate for the accusations and beat him up pretty bad. Those beatings resulted in Doyle having to go outside and getting a switch. And if it was not long enough, he would have to go and get another one before getting a whopping for beating the baby. Bobby would

always laugh, which caused more fighting and more spankings and ultimately estrangement over the years between the two.

Older brothers George and Charlie were Doyle’s protectors. He told me about the time when he was ten years old and Red was “Irish” drunk and giving him a good beating. Charlie, who was fourteen at the time, came and in said, “Get off of him! Get off of him right now!”

Red called Charlie a black son-of-a bitch. And Charlie, who was kind of dark skinned with heavy facial hair, grabbed the shotgun and took a shot, missing Red’s head by about three inches. Miss Lula had to wrestle the gun from Charlie, who then took off for a couple days. Red didn’t get shot but Doyle said his father was scared, and then just passed out on the bed drunk. When Charlie returned, Red never beat Doyle again.

Growing up with Red and the birth of our first baby gave Doyle a sense of responsibility. Adding to the fact was when Mother asked Doyle what he was going to do when finding out I was pregnant. After Mother suggested he marry me, he said, yes, that’s what he was going to do. So, on May 20, 1945, I became Mrs. Doyle James and was happy about it.

Doyle’s family was very poor. My family environment was quite the opposite. In addition to having indoor toilets and good working vehicles, we had a piano in the living room that everyone enjoyed playing on.

Going back and forth from banging on the piano, Mavis, who was four years old, wanted to take the baby for a ride in the van like we often did going to ballgames and eating hot dogs.

Even though the weather was somewhat cold, she still said “Get up Ruth, let’s take the baby for a ride.” She enjoyed riding in the back of the van while Mary Sue and Missy would be hanging out on the sides. She didn’t understand the process of having a baby and how things quickly changed for me and her older brother.

Keeping an eye on the little ones, Mother said, “Don’t rub him hard on his soft spot,” to Mavis who was feeling his soft curly hair and leaning over to kiss him.

It was late in the afternoon on Thursday and my new little sisters would be heading up the hill soon. With covered feet in argyle socks and propped up on his footstool, Daddy was listening to the radio while Mother prepared dinner. Doyle was now living with us, as a new husband and a new father. Since working for Daddy at the age ten, Doyle and Daddy had become fond of each other and had developed mutual respect. Over the years, Doyle had learned a lot from Daddy.

We both dropped out of school while in our eleventh-grade class. And at the age of 17, newly married with a new baby boy, we were at a crossroads with our future. Mother and Daddy decided to move up North looking for work and a better future. Daddy got a job and started working for the railroad as a porter.

Doyle and I continued to live in the old house for about eight more months – without Mother and Daddy who had settled in Grand Rapids, Michigan. They were the only family I had and

knew. It was tough times without them and as Doyle often said, “we were poorer than church mice.”

While working in a grocery store, Doyle was able to skim food and items to help make ends meet. The store owner knew that Doyle was smart and could use the cash register and check out the customers. He took advantage of this by charging for two items, and without the store owner knowing, he was able to keep one. This helped him to fill and ship a box of goods before we left, and also take canned goods, meat, and toiletries to Miss Lulu.

But missing Mother and Daddy was very sad and painful for me and became unbearable.

I was blessed with new in-laws, a family that loved me as much as I loved them, but loneliness still set in. With the longing for Mother and Daddy, we had difficulties as a young married couple trying to survive in the South, so we did the thing we thought best for us. We packed up Michael and our personal things, loaded up the station wagon, and headed North.

We were young, we were in love, and were growing up. Y

Looking Back and Moving Forward

The warmth of the sun woke me as we travelled on I-65 North. Looking out, all I could see was corn fields and cows. It was almost 9 a.m., and Michael was getting fidgety from a soiled diaper. He was still sleepy and hungry and my breasts, which were low on milk, were not helping. He was almost five months old and already with two teeth would sometimes bite my nipple. And before I knew it, my reflexes would prompt a quick bop to his curly head of hair for him to stop.

“The gas station is about five miles down the road,” Doyle said as I was reaching for the diaper bag. “We can fill up, take a stretch, and grab something to eat.”

It was only a few hours since we left the only home I knew, and I could only look back on the dawn of the day as we headed to somewhere I knew nothing about. We didn’t know it at the time that we were part of the Great Migration movement of Black people leaving the South, but knew we had to be careful and cautious while travelling during a time when racial tensions were as bad and as violent as ever. It was scary exploring the unknown, but the saving grace for me was knowing that I would be joining the only other two people who meant the world to me, Mother and Daddy.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Doyle as I proceeded to the ladies’ room with Michael on my hip.

“What a pretty baby,” said this washed-out-blonde white lady. Her little curly-haired blue-eyed girl was standing behind her looking like this was the first time she saw Black folk.

Feeling uncomfortable, I quickly changed my baby’s diaper, said “Thank you,” and grabbed my bag and left with baby Michael close to me on my other hip.

As I left the ladies room at the side of the building, I didn’t know how uncomfortable I was until I headed to the car with my baby. Leaning against the wall next to an ice machine near the front door of the gas station were two white men smoking cigarettes and talking.

Doyle walked out after paying for the gas, and without looking in their direction, he said to me, “Get in the car Ruth,” and then started pumping the gas.

I quickly got in, locked the door, and was relieved when Doyle had filled the tank. After he put the gas pump back and got in the car, the two men started walking toward us. I looked out the back window as we pulled away and saw one of them flicking his cigarette in the air, while the other simply stared in our direction.

We had just passed the Nashville exit when the sun caused me to snuggle up again and join Michael in slumber land. Feeling so proud and safe, I sheepishly looked over to my new husband as my childhood memories with him took over, dreaming about some of the things he had told me:

“My Dad was well educated and very smart. He went to college for a bit. He taught me a lot, some good and some bad…

“It was December, around Christmas time. I was eight years old and in the second grade. Our house was cold, and we didn’t have a fireplace in our room, and I caught a bad cold. Dad gave me some corn whiskey to help it before I went to school. After arriving at school and bumbling around, my teacher thought I had been drinking and sent me home. Mama had to go to school and tell my teacher I was not drinking, I just drunk the corn whiskey that Dad gave me to help my cold – which was not a good thing.

“Willie Marshall was four years older than me. He was a country boy. He took care of me, but we did a lot of goofy things together…

My older brother was going to the service and the night before he left, me and Willie Marshall got into a skirmish, some trouble, and I was put in the pokey. My brother knew the Mayor, who was also the presiding judge at that time; in a small town the Mayor could do everything. I remember he set my fine for $10.40. They kept my ass in jail all day and all night… and it stinked, oh God did it stink!

“The next day my brother came and looking at me through the bars, he said, ‘ you’ll be getting out soon I’ve already paid your fine.’ I said, ‘Okay, I’ll definitely repay you.’ And he said, ‘the way you will repay me is by staying out of this shit!’ And I said, ‘okay, I read you loud and clear…’”

The Story of Ruth March 28, 1946

I opened my eyes, looked up and saw the sign for Indiana. Mother had said we had some family somewhere there. I was looking forward to seeing more family. We were now about four hours away from our new home and stopped once again for gas, food, and to change Michael’s diaper.

Doyle had the car radio turned low. The reception was staticky, but I still enjoyed the music – and listening to the sounds of Cab Calloway, Billy Holliday, Ella Fitzgerald, Lead Belly, and John Lee Hooker – even while dozing. Riding in the car was relaxing, and I had to take advantage of sleeping every time Michael slept…

“Field Thompson was a stool pigeon for the white man. He worked for the Mayor, who also owned a furniture store... Me and Willie Marshall had a confrontation at a restaurant and Field Thompson overheard us cursing. He told the Mayor and word got out that we were going to get him. He didn’t know when and thought it was going to be Halloween. But two days later, we tied some rope around his outside toilet and with two bikes we pulled and turned over his shithouse.

“We had to wear robes at our 8th grade graduation… We didn’t have corsages like some of the richer people. So, we went to the cemetery where the white people had burials with nice flowers. We went to the graves at night around 12:30 when no policeman was around. We only had one and he was somewhere else. We went and picked out all the nice flowers and the next day for graduation, there we were with the most beautiful

corsages and boutonnière on our robes. I think we had the best corsages of all of them…”

“Baby, we almost here,” Doyle said while reaching over to give me a nod. I could feel the coldness from the outside and grabbed another blanket to cover me and Michael. The heat was on but not very high. I think it would have made Doyle sleepy. He had been driving for many hours and he didn’t want to stop before it got dark.

I was missing my friends already – Hattie, Beulah, Lillie, and especially Maybelle. They all helped me pack my stuff while Huey and Willie Marshall helped Doyle with all the stuff he got from the grocery store.

We soon passed the sign that said, “Grand Rapids: A Good Place To Live.”

We had reached our destination. While still in the car, I looked back. I couldn’t see anything out the back window but clouds, blue skies, and a long winding road that stretched almost eight hundred miles. In front of us was a new road, a road with opportunities.

We – my husband, my son and I – were moving forward, to a road with new beginnings.Y

A New Generation

It was now springtime, but the Northern cold was different than in Amory and so was the city – paved roads, streetlights, Standard Oil gas stations – and lots of white folks. Scants of snow were still on the bumpers and hoods of the many Ford and Chevy cars passing by. Feeling the chill in the air, I quickly raised the window after looking back at a middle-aged couple walking down Division Street in Grand Rapids; the main street just off from where we were going.

I tried to follow the map, but it was just a highway map. Doyle, who was good with following the directions that Daddy had given him, drove us to Pleasant Street where Mother was anxiously waiting. As we pulled up to the house, Michael was fidgety and hungry and as he was reaching for my breast to be nursed, a dog ran by chasing a cat, almost hitting the car. I didn’t know if they belonged here, but even if they didn’t, Daddy didn’t mind having a cat around to keep stray mice away.

“Look at this baby. He sure has grown,” Mother said while giving me a hug and taking baby Michael. “And look at all this curly hair,” she said removing the hood on his coat and holding him tightly.

“How was the drive?” Daddy asked while helping to bring in the boxes and luggage from the car. Doyle nodded, answering “good,” looking around to see where to take the stuff and familiarizing himself to the new surroundings. And as if Mother could read his mind, she said “take your things back in the room on the left and get ready to eat,” knowing we were tired and hungry.

Daddy had settled in to life in Michigan and was working as a waiter at the Morton House, a multi-storied hotel on Monroe and Ionia. In the 1920s, the Morton House was the place to stay when white business travelers came by the trainload to buy furniture for their stores back home. The five-story hotel was a popular destination for celebrities, including President William McKinley in the late 1890s. “The Kitten Club,” which featured high-heeled young women in bustiers with kitten ears, was one of the more notorious restaurant and bars at the Morton. Later, it would become two hundred and twenty-four rent-subsidized apartments through the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development.

I was glad to be home and reunited with the other two people who meant the most to me in my life. I guess I was missing being spoiled. My friends were missed and would soon become distant memories.

Few Black folks came to West Michigan until after the Civil War – fleeing Jim Crow in the Southern states. The numbers were still pretty small then, and it wasn’t until the Great Migration from the rural South, in the years between World

Wars I and II that the Black population grew, with folks looking for better-paying factory jobs and other jobs, which is what prompted Daddy’s decision to move up here, and what prompted us to follow.

A normal ritual after putting the baby down was to watch TV after dinner. Mother and I would listen as Daddy and Doyle talked about what was happening in the world. She would read her Bible and I would brush and plat my hair. Watching TV and the news was exciting, something we didn’t do in Amory, and showed how things were much the same but also somewhat different. Lynchings and killings of Black folks were still rampant across the country, and were still the subject of hearsay, word of mouth, and gossip conversations in the barber shops, churches, and at community gatherings.

But corruption among whites was well-known as well.

Daddy told Doyle and shared a hearty chuckle about a state politician who was killed execution style the year before we got to Grand Rapids because the man was about to testify before the grand jury about some political trickery. State Senator Warren G. Hooper was his name, and he was shot three times in the head. Word was that it was possibly done by members of Detroit’s infamous Purple Gang. Daddy wasn’t chuckling about the man getting killed, just the fact that white men were ferociously killing their own.

We settled in and lived with Mother and Daddy for about three months before they bought another house and moved, leaving us to live in their house as a family. After about a year,

we moved on the west side to 511 Church Place, the last house on the street where our family grew, and grew, and grew, until we outgrew the house.

Our small two-bedroom house held many memories as the formative years of our six children were developed.

Doyle had joined Daddy and worked as a busboy at the Morton House before starting a career at General Motors some years later. I was a stay-at-home mom, raising our children. Doyle was a good father, and he worked hard to support our family. Before starting at General Motors, he worked at Colonial Bakery and Brumbler Steele as a welder – a trade he learned when he was a teenager living in Chicago with his brother.

Saturday night was bath night, and the girls would take a bath together before saying their prayers and sleeping in one bed together. They knew that Sunday was church, and they had to get ready in time for Sunday school. The cracked wall plaster revealing the lath in the girl’s bedroom caused baby Muriel to sleep farthest away from the wall.

“I can hear that old cat through the wall,” she would say of the stray Abyssinian that hung around the house to catch any freestyle mice. Ginger, our rust-colored cocker spaniel, tried to catch the cat many times with cat and mouse games – but to no avail.

Michael was the oldest and at ten years old, he was the mischievous one of the bunch, daring the others to follow suit –from antagonizing the local hobos who lived down the forbidden hill near the railroad tracks to burning a tree fully infested

with caterpillars. Dan was tempted to join him but knew what would happen if he followed his brother and went along with his antics anyway. Jackie liked jumping rope and playing with jacks, and if she was not playing with dolls and BeeBee was missing, we could always find her upstairs, sitting on Big Mary’s lap eating mashed up greens and cornbread. And the two youngest, Muriel and Robin, enjoyed picking grapes from the grape vines or trying to get apples or peaches from one of the three fruit trees when they weren’t playing with Ginger.

Holidays were always eventful and adventurous, and even though we didn’t have a whole lot of money, we always made them memorable. Thanksgiving and Christmas were mostly spent with Mother and Daddy. Each Halloween, after roaming through the neighborhood for hours on end, ringleader Michael would return with his brothers and sisters with a pillowcase full of candy. It was enough that I was able to dole out treats daily over the next several months.

Cleaning chittlins’ was a tradition for our holiday dinners in addition to picking greens and shucking corn. Mother and Daddy made sure their grandchildren’s Christmas was filled with dolls, trucks, and unisex overalls. And with the unofficial holiday was always the unexpected arrival of Uncle Bob, Doyle’s baby brother who he never got along with. It was mostly during the holidays when he came on leave from the Navy bearing gifts to his favorite nieces and nephews.

“Uncle Bob is here, Uncle Bob is here,” the children would yell while jumping around the room. He was very special to

them and would always sing and dance with BeeBee, twirling her around in a circle, singing “Que Sera Sera” in his very distinctive and quivering vibrato voice. The children were too young to know but as time passed and as they got older, BeeBee would always ask if Uncle Bob had gotten married. Knowing he was gay from as a child, I would always just say, “Bobby is never going to get married.”

Our next-door neighbors – Bato, Johnnie, and Rudy – were Mexican and were close in age to my three girls. Their mother Rosa introduced us to hot griddled, and sometimes scorched, tortillas – served with dripping hot melted butter. And their father always had several dilapidated cars in the yard he was working on. The neighborhood stray cats found them as their home.

In addition to coaching basketball at St. Stephens, St. Paul, and St. Andrews Catholic Schools, Doyle was passionate about coaching baseball for the many unsegregated boys from the west side. Black, white, and Mexican boys came together for a common goal to have fun.

Doyle’s passion would expand over three decades; he would coach hundreds of boys over the years, and he would win many championships.

We were planting our own seeds now. We were home, a new home – one with different weather, different people, and different lifestyles. It was a different world, and one that produced a new generation from love. Y

A Change Is Gonna Come

“Look at that baby go,” Doyle shouted as everyone cheered and watched Herman Green round second base to third and then home, scoring for McInery Spring and Wire’s little League baseball team Green Wave. A homerun was always expected when he would step on home plate and hit the ball effortlessly but gently with the strength and power of a grizzly bear. He never failed. After a winning game, it took a while for Doyle to settle down, as he would be ranting about other talented players, especially Doug Fauble, who was white and lived on the other side of town.

It was starting to get dark during this one game, and the score was 8 to 3, in our favor. We all knew we would win the game, but the pride on Doyle’s face never diminished seeing how his coaching skills paid off as the eleven- and twelve-yearold boys slaughtered the teams from the other side of town. Those teams, mostly all white boys and coming from leagues with more money, were already nervous to play Doyle’s team for several reasons. In addition to being on the “other side” of town and across the tracks, they already felt a little scared, but they also knew that Doyle’s players were going to kick their butts on the baseball field.

Michael, who was seventeen and too old for the little league team, was still a champion of the game and helped out when he could. Doyle was especially proud of his ambidextrous first-born son who was an all-around player – pitching, catching, and outfield. Dan played second base and Robin, who loved the game the most, and living up to his Major League namesake, played first base.

“Ms. James, can I have some juice, please?” asked Steve McCreary as he grabbed a cup from me and quickly headed to the bench as Doyle and the other players acknowledged the other team’s coach and players for playing a good game.

He was gone before he heard me say, “Here you go Steve, and take some to your brother,” referring to younger brother David who was waiting in the wings to join the team because he was still too young to play.

The oldest brother Bruce rounded out the trio of siblings –all were high yellow, hairy, and cute boys. I enjoyed all the boys, watching them grow to become young men. But I had to watch out for a few of them because of my three girls. They didn’t think I knew what was going on, but I remember when I was twelve years old and how my heart was won over.

We were creating the “baby boomers” and during that time, families had more children; many from the community had three boys similar in age to my three girls. There were the Purnells: Curtis, Marshall, and Duane, three handsome brown skin brothers whose father was a well-known saxophone player. Marshall played shortstop but was not short of stopping

the girls who thought he was cute. He reminded me of Doyle in his younger days. And down the street on the next block were the very distinctive Hill brothers: Mervin, Monte, and Johnny. BeeBee became good friends with their sister Pattie Jo, who she walked to school with every day during their high school days.

It had been about seven years since we had moved from the house on the hill on the west side to a better part of town. We were moving up and another set of three boys were our neighbors across the street. Pat, Randy, and Chum Edmonson were called pretty boys – light skin, straight hair, green eyes, and all. They caught my girls’ eyes and their hearts. The Edmonson boys were not serious baseball players like the others, but they became very close friends of our family.

Our backyard, which seemed big at the time, was good for playing many baseball games made up of family members, having birthday parties, and playing Hide and Seek.

Winters were very cold, blustery, and snowy in Michigan, an enormous change from Mississippi. Snowball fights and snowmen adorned the winter ground, in the front yard and back. A hill in the backyard, which led to the garage shed down below, was big enough and steep enough to slide down on sleds during the winter months. One snowy winter day while playing, Randy was chasing BeeBee and was blinded by the snow. He ran into the clothesline pole hitting his head. A knot about the size of a fifty-cent piece quickly rose on his forehead above his right eye. It emerged so fast, about a half inch high and

turning black and blue, we thought we needed to take him to Blodgett hospital.

In the summers, I would hang clothes on the clotheslines held up by those same two big poles, and I would always think about Randy.

My girls were growing up and so were my boys. They were discovering their own individuality. Michael had become a ladies man and was now running the streets. Jackie was devoted to her school lessons learning Latin. Dan was learning the trumpet. BeeBee liked to dress up and get her hair done. Muriel was growing out of her tomboyish ways, and baby Robin was loving sports.

While Doyle had found his passion in coaching, I was finding my way as well. After the children had all become of school age, I decided to work – to bring in the needed income to raise six children, which also helped to fill my idle time. I didn’t have a high school diploma, so jobs were scarce and difficult for a young Black woman with a limited education.

I finally got a job as a salad prep assistant at Blodgett Hospital. It felt good to be doing something with my life. I remember many times returning home to leave thirty cents on the table so the kids could go to the corner store to get a five-cent ice cream cone after school. It was a challenge, but it was rewarding to be able to contribute to the family budget and help my husband who had been taking care of us for so many years. I was meeting people and making new friends; many who would impact my life and my family for years to come – and forever.

It was the summer of 1962. I was thirty-four years old, married with six children ranging from eight to seventeen. We were a two-parent family with a father who worked hard and a mother who also worked and took care of the family. If there had been a Black family on TV at that time it would have been called The James Gang or Living with the Jameses. We were an all-around family that looked like we had it together. We were loved by many but also envied by many.

Little did I know that in the next five years, a change was gonna come in my life. Y

Scary Times

“Did you hear the news?” she asked.

“No,” I said alarmed and anxious to know what she was talking about.

“President Kennedy was assassinated,” Mary answered. She was one of my new co-workers who had just started her shift. Mary, Geri, and John were watching the news in the break room in astonishment as I was just ending my shift.

My mouth dropped, along with the salad bowl I was holding, and then my heart sank with fear and shock.

“I have to go home,” I said in my mind and loudly said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” as I heard Geri say to the others that Ms. Johnson in room 201 had just suffered a heart attack after hearing the news.

As I took the last step to my porch to open the screen door of our home, I asked myself, “why?” The living room was empty and lonely as I looked through tear-filled eyes at the picture of

John Kennedy on the wall next to Dr. Martin Luther King. Doyle was not home yet and neither were the children. I touched the fallen president’s photo as I turned the television on to CBS News to hear Walter Cronkite recap what had happened earlier during the day. I sat on our partially stained gold striped taffeta couch, put one of the pillows on my lap, held it tight and quietly wept.

As the children came home from school, I attempted to prepare dinner. Doyle and the kids watched TV as he tried to answer their questions.

They were all coming of age and in middle school and high school, attending Catholic and public schools. Doyle had put our three youngest in St. Stephens, while Michael, Jackie, and Dan were attending Ottawa Hills High School.

“Sister Marie Therese came in my classroom and said she had some very sad news,” said BeeBee, who was an eighth grader at St. Stephens Catholic School. “President Kennedy has died,” she said, “and a lot of the students began to cry.”

School was closed and there would be no school on Monday as well to mourn the death of the president, a Catholic, who had died on Friday, November 22, 1963, in Dallas, Texas.

Anxiety was setting in. Civil Rights was the overwhelming issue of 1963. Alabama was facing some of the most dramatic struggles as the world watched as police in Birmingham turned attack dogs and high-pressure fire hoses on protesters, including children, for eight days in May. Four girls were killed

at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in September when a bomb planted by the Ku Klux Klan went off.

Michael, who was on his own now and living with girlfriends, stopped by to eat and out of concern for me, knowing how I felt about the president.

“Mama, you okay?” he asked, giving me a hug and digging in the pot of neck bones to put on his plate. I just nodded without looking up.

“This country is going crazy,” he said.

“That’s enough of the news,” Doyle said hoping to catch a baseball game. But the Los Angeles Dodgers had already swept the New York Yankees in the World Series in October.

Before going to bed, the kids thought they wanted to watch television. Muriel’s favorite was the “Beverly Hillbillies” with down-home humor, talk of possum pie and scenes with curvy Elly May Clampett by the concrete pond. Robin wanted to watch the “The Flintstones.” BeeBee’s favorite was “Dr. Kildare” because she thought he was cute, and Jackie looked forward to watching “Perry Mason” or “Ben Casey.” And for obvious reasons, I enjoyed watching “My Three Sons.”

But after the day’s news, they just ate dinner, went to bed, and looked forward to sleeping in the next day.

I had trouble sleeping. Even after making passionate love with Doyle. Our lovemaking had begun to be infrequent and far between. I didn’t understand why.

My mind was boggled as I laid in the bed thinking about the state of the country. Our president was just assassinated. The

unemployment rate was a growing problem for Blacks. The average family income was pretty low, which made it hard to buy a new home that cost about twice what most folks made. A postage stamp cost a nickel, a loaf of bread cost twenty cents, and gas was twenty-nine cents a gallon – almost the same amount I would leave for the kids after-school ice cream cone treat.

My children were growing up. With the Vietnam War in full swing and the United States having thousands of troops over there, and over the next several years, young men were being shipped out by the hundreds to fight the war and many were coming back home in body bags.

I began to worry about my sons.

Hiawatha Hicks was a friend of the family. He was handsome with a great smile, and he kept everyone laughing. He lost his life to the war when he was killed by a sniper. He was twenty-three years old. The war did not discriminate. Twentyone-year-old Walter M. Patterson, son of Rev. W. L. Patterson of my church, True Light Baptist Church, lost his life alongside seven others in battle. And the community lost Matthew D. Atkins III in a small arms fire at the young age of twenty-three. Our community was hurting. Our community was in pain. Our community was scared. I was scared. I was scared for my sons.

It was almost dawn, and Doyle was snoring, but my mind kept wandering. I was worried about Michael getting drafted, and Dan was not far behind him.

My mind drifted and reverted back to the day’s news, focusing on First Lady Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, who was now a widow with two small children, Caroline and John Jr. My heart was heavy for her as I asked myself, what would I do? She had two babies and I had six. She was one year younger than me. But she was also the widow of the President of the United States and would be taken care of by the government. But what about me? How would I survive if something happened? What would I do if I lost Doyle?

Watching Jackie Kennedy leaping over the back of that car to be with her blood-stained husband, slumping over in the convertible limousine as if to protect him, was ingrained in my mind. It was an image I never expected to see or could comprehend, and it prevented me from sleeping.

As the sun was rising from the break of dawn, I moved closer to Doyle as he slept. I felt a little frightened and I wanted to feel protected. I wanted to protect him, and I wanted to protect my sons.

These were scary times.Y

Friends and Loved Ones

It was Robin’s birthday. He was turning twelve, and as much as he wanted to play baseball that day with his brothers and sisters, we were scurrying down to the lower level of the garage for shelter. Not many houses on the block had garages, and it was not quite like the underground shed from our other house where we had to lift up the flat cover to enter, but it was safer than being in the house during the tornado season.

It was Palm Sunday April 11, 1965, and twelve tornadoes had touched down and raced across the state, carving several paths of destruction. It was later reported that fifty-three people were killed in Michigan and eight hundred were injured.

The tornado came unexpectedly, and we quickly took cover. We were all nestled in the musty dusty cobweb-filled garage basement. A couple of non-working bikes with flat tires were in the corner and mounds of baseball equipment were on the old wooden table that was wobbly from two loose legs. Several mouse traps were tucked away in areas that any stray cats couldn’t get to. The lawn mower and a gas can were in the corner near the rakes and shovels and an old tattered broom.

Muriel was snuggled close to Doyle, still holding her jump rope and trying to eat her leftover popcorn from the movie

theater. Robin, tapping his baseball on the dirt floor with his bat, was sitting close to his big sister Jacqueline as we all listened to the whistling wind and the rattling door. BeeBee was in her own world – just looking and listening and trying to re-braid one of her pigtails that was coming loose. Dan had a little transistor radio and we were trying to hear the news about the weather, but instead we could only hear a local urban radio station. When “Stop! In the Name of Love” by the Supremes came on, without thinking, the girls put their hands up signaling stop and imitated Diana Ross. They started dancing to “Fingertips” by Stevie Wonder, and then Dan got really excited when “My Girl” by the Temptations came on. He was probably thinking about his new girlfriend Bobbie who lived on the West side of town. Living only a couple of hours from Motown, Michael would go to Detroit with his friends, and to other places like Lansing, Kalamazoo, or Muskegon to party on the weekends. Michael had a girlfriend in Muskegon – not that he needed anymore because the girls flocked to him. There was just something about that boy.

My co-worker Geri had just brought BeeBee and Muriel back from seeing the movie “Joy in the Morning” with Richard Chamberlain, who played Dr. Kildare on TV.

“Oh, BeeBee enjoyed the movie so much, she wanted to stay and see it again,” Geri said as everyone laughed. “She is such a romantic at heart,” Geri went on while she and Doyle shared the laugh together.

Geri was just a year older than Michael, and she worked as a tray girl at the hospital where we became friends. Even though she was white, I kind of felt sorry for her. After moving north from the South, I knew what it was like not having a friend. And with her being from New York, I didn’t think she had any family in Grand Rapids; and she soon adopted ours as her own. We could hear debris flying outside and the crackling of tree branches. It was raining as well, and we hoped it would soon pass but in between moments, it reminded me about another tornado from the other house. The underground shed, somewhat attached to the house, looked like it was taken from the “Wizard of Oz.” A flat horizontal door with a latch hook had to be entered from the outside, leading to what the kids called “the dungeon.” I would store pickled vegetables and jarred fruit that I got mostly from Mother, and I went there only for those few occasions throughout the year.

A loud thud on the door made Muriel jump and scream, “Daddy, what was that?” she said as she snuggled closer to Doyle. “It’s okay baby,” he said holding her little lanky skinny body tighter and giving her a kiss on the top of her head. Her bangs and two plaits had dirt from the tornado-blown wind and needed to be washed before she could go to bed. She was his baby girl and namesake and somewhat of a Tomboy; quite different from Jackie and BeeBee, who always liked clothes and dressing up. With mud-stained overall pants, Muriel would always ask BeeBee how she would keep her clothes so clean.

That tornado destroyed one of our fruit trees, damaged our roof and we lost Ginger from the tornado.

It had quieted down. And looking at my girls and new young family friend, I looked at how they were bonding. One day Geri brought some clothes over for the girls, and after looking through the bag of pants, dresses, and blouses, BeeBee asked Geri, “What about that skirt you got on?”

We all busted out laughing as I told her, “BeeBee, you can’t just take clothes off people.” At an early age, I knew there was no shame in her game.

Another loud thud alarmed me. I wondered if Mother and Daddy were okay – and Michael, wherever he was. I knew they were fine, but that thought was a natural instinct for any mother or daughter.

Mother, who was serene, easy-going and spoke softly, didn’t say much but when she did, I listened, and I learned. I don’t know why, but I thought about something she had told me in my younger years that I took as words of wisdom.

“An honest enemy is always better than a friend who lies. Pay less attention to what people say, and more attention to what they do. Their actions will show you the truth.”

I kept thinking about Michael. He sure had a lot of friends; and my circle of friends was growing too.

An hour after the wind had died down, we ventured out to see what damage had occurred. Neighbors on Dunham Street were checking on each other. There was a car in a yard that was turned around. Several large tree branches were lying in the

streets. A bent-up tricycle was under a trash can whose contents were scattered on the Edmonson’s yard across the street.

Randy and Pat quickly crossed the street to our house as their father, leaning over the open porch, looked up and down the street in dismay. Randy was looking for BeeBee and Pat was looking for Jackie to make sure they were okay. Next door, Jim Wagner and his sandy-colored hair son Greg, who reminded me of my childhood friend Baby Face from Amory, were picking up debris from their yard as Jim and Doyle talked about the tornado destruction. Our neighbor on the left, Moses Robinson, was checking for damage as he moved tree branches from his new silver-gray Chevy truck, regretting that he had not listened to his wife about putting it in the garage. Garbage and rubbish were strewn all over his yard and driveway from an overturned trash can – another regret he had of having to clean it up.

“Muriel, get in here,” I yelled. “It’s after seven o’clock and you need to get your hair washed,” as it was a school day tomorrow.

“Okay mama, here I come,” Muriel said. “But, what about BeeBee?”

Geri and I both had to go to work the next day, and Geri headed to the bus stop to go home. We both thought it was best that Doyle gave her a ride because of the weather conditions and damage that may have occurred throughout the city.

Michael arrived just as Doyle and Geri were getting into the car to leave. He was hungry and wanted to eat. Geri smiled at

him, said “hi,” and said she would see him later as she closed the car door. Michael nodded, looked at his father, and went into the house.

I called Mother. She said she and Daddy were preparing for bed. He was the treasurer of the church and had just counted the money from the collection plates and was getting the deposit ready to take to the bank in the morning. Daddy was such a good man to everybody.

After putting the kids to bed, I said my prayers and waited to hear the car return in the driveway. While lying in bed, Mother’s words were still heavy on my mind as I remembered something else she had said to me that I took as a lesson to live by. It came to me out of the blue. Clear as the nose on my face I remembered it and wondered what she meant by it and why.

“The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies. It comes from friends and loved ones. People who you thought you could trust.”

And I eventually dozed off to sleep.Y

Proud, Still, and Calm

Growing up as an only child may have been one of the reasons that I looked forward to the birth of all six of my children. But having half a dozen babies by the age of twenty-seven, and within a ten-year span, was something I never dreamed of. But Doyle and I welcomed each bundle of joy, year after year and season after season. And, as they were growing up, we were also welcoming another generation of Jameses and enjoying the harvests of our seeds. And the way they were coming, I would have thought we had given birth to a rabbit or two.

High yellow with blonde hair and freckles, Michaelyn consumed all of our lives – especially mine. Born in 1966, she was Michael’s first daughter and the first grandbaby – so we thought. Years later we would find out differently. Between 1965 and 1970 the James grandchildren flourished with about a dozen, with Michael fathering about half of them. Jacqueline would have a daughter. Dan would have a son, as would BeeBee, while Muriel would have one of each. A few years later, several more came down the pipeline; some expected and then a few surprises.

It was during those years that my co-worker and family friend Geri quit work and just disappeared. Rumors circulated that she was pregnant by a Black man. Being the same age as Michael, we teased him asking was he having another baby that he wasn’t telling us about.

While Michael was making his own babies and populating the community, Doyle and our son Dan were pursuing their education. Dan was a senior in high school and was looking forward to attending college at Grand Valley State College in Allendale, Michigan. Doyle was attending night school in search of his diploma.

Although Doyle was a good man, he had his faults like many men. I knew of his infidelity with other women. The late nights getting home kept getting later. After working at General Motors for seventeen years, he was now in a supervisory position. He had more responsibility, which meant more income for the family, but he supervised in and outside the plant. He was still as handsome and polished as ever so nothing had changed from our formative years in Mississippi. Women were rampant and flaunty; and his flirtatious ways help lead him to his promiscuous behavior. I knew some of those women, and some of them knew me. And I knew Doyle better than he knew himself.

Mother knew of my discontent, and she could sense my pain. Her words of advice, which I guess she thought were words of encouragement, “A piece of man is better than no man at all,” haunted me. Those words did not sit well – even coming from her.

But overall, Doyle worked hard, and he was a good father and a good provider. He was a mentor to countless young men as a little league baseball coach. And in June 1967, he walked side-by-side with Dan as they both earned their high school diplomas. The following year, I followed suit, tested for, and got my GED Certificate the same year our second daughter, BeeBee graduated from South High School.

I never imagined that I would move away from my Southern home with my childhood sweetheart, get married, and have six babies. And after more than two decades, we both finished high school after dropping out in the eleventh grade.

We always knew that education was important, and we knew that even a high school diploma or a GED would improve employment opportunities during that time. College may have been out of reach for us, but we instilled in our children how important higher education was as they graduated from high school one by one.

I was now working with dieticians at the hospital, which helped me become more aware and knowledgeable of healthy eating and the preparation of food. I would soon be forty, and after having and raising six children, I still wanted to look my best.

In addition to trying several weight-loss fads, including the Fat Melting Jiggle Machine (guaranteed to loosen and whisk away the fat cells), and an electrical muscle stimulation machine (that provide shock treatments), I settled on the newest three-year-old weight loss phenomenon of Weight Watchers.

I must admit, it was a lot healthier and more fun given my newfound knowledge of working as a dietician.

The kids would laugh at me as I weighed my food on the scale, measuring my meal allotment, but not as much as when they saw me shaking and wiggling on my Fat Melting Jiggle Machine or lying on the floor all wired up looking like I was about to get electrocuted.

Otherwise, it was a time of self-gratification for me. I was getting compliments from coworkers, mostly from men who let me know that I was still desirable, even if I was not getting those same compliments at home. Work was comforting. The companionship and conversations were soothing. I enjoyed my job.

But sadly, the world outside of work was not so comforting across the state. Racial tensions were mounting with incidents in Lansing, fire bombings in Detroit, and riots in Benton Harbor. There was also a tuberculosis outbreak as well as a boycott by Black students in Detroit.

For the most part, all was well at home. But outside the home, I couldn’t help but to still worry about Michael and all his shenanigans. When I would ask about what he was up to, he would simply say, “Ma, me and my guys are out there fighting and dealing with The System, in our own way, and trying to make a difference in GR.”

But I was in my own world. I was enjoying my grandbabies. I had my GED. I was feeling good. I was looking good. I didn’t see or feel any of the storms. I was consumed with feeling proud, being still, and staying calm.Y

Stormy Days

It was 1967 and Black people were waking up. What we didn’t learn from watching TV, we heard while getting our hair done at Mika’s Beauty Salon, House of Style, or Jobe’s Barber Shop. Talk was the Black Panther Party was founded in 1966 in Oakland, California, to protect our people from police brutality.

And Michael and his friends were all wearing afros, leather coats, and sometimes black tams. They were representing The Movement.

During the summer, rioting broke out in cities all over the country. I read in the paper that something like fifty people got killed in Detroit, just for marching. Racism like what I saw growing up in Mississippi was up here too. The Black papers talked about discrimination, police brutality, and frustration. That’s what led Black folks out in the streets for three days in Grand Rapids in late July, mostly on the South Side.

Our family had moved from the West Side to the East side of the city, which was considered more well-to-do.

Michael and his friends – Leon Manning, Otis Clyde, James Farabee, the Pimpleton brothers (Otis and Robert), Scooter, and even a couple of younger ones like James “Tacky” Davis and

my boy Dan – frequented the area where the riots happened along Division Avenue. It was not because they were militant, though, but during that time the pimps, the players, and the gamblers were kind of running things, and Michael and his buddies were hanging out with prostitutes, gambling, and getting into whatever other mess was going on.

Michael – I heard that his buddies called him “Red Dog” –was everywhere trouble seemed to be. I worried a lot about my beautiful first-born child. And I remembered the time we arrived in Michigan with him all bundled up, wide-eyed with a head full of hair. Even then I knew this child would be adventurous.

“I hope you are not involved in those riots,” I would say to Michael when he stopped by to get something to eat.

“We were just over there to see what was happening. The police are going crazy, Ma. Like Stokely Carmichael said, we just want equality, that’s all,” he would tell me while grabbing a piece of chicken and some Kool-Aid. “The pigs are shooting out the streetlights and porch lights. They say it makes it safer for them to operate at night, forcing people to stay home.”

“You be careful,” I would reply, shaking my head as I watched him run out, jump in the Chevy Caprice, and take off with his friends.

During the three-day Grand Rapids riot, no one was killed, but there were a lot of injuries and whole lot of arrests. Rioters

looted, they torched businesses and abandoned houses, and they threw rocks at the police and firemen.

I thanked God that Michael’s name was not any part of those news reports.

It was a different era from what I was used to. Young people were protesting the Vietnam War. They were marching and demanding our Civil Rights, and most Black people believed the American Dream was out of reach.

A lot of the young people were following that boxer, Muhammad Ali. A few years ago, in 1964, Ali changed his name from Cassius Clay to Cassius X, and then to the name he is known by today. He became a Muslim, and he joined this group called The Nation of Islam.

Ali said he didn’t want to go to Vietnam, and until they changed the rules, he didn’t have to. I read that he flunked the U.S. Armed Forces test because he didn’t read and write real well. But then the Army changed the rules and made him eligible to get drafted. Ali said he wasn’t going, said he was a “conscientious objector,” meaning his new religion wouldn’t let him fight like that.

He got on TV and talked about what he was doing.

“War is against the teachings of the Holy Qur’an. I’m not trying to dodge the draft. We are not supposed to take part in no wars unless declared by Allah or The Messenger. We don’t take part in Christian wars or wars of any unbelievers,” Ali said. “I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong. They never called me nigger.”

Well, they sent Ali to jail for that, but he got out and took his case to the Supreme Court. And even though he would win in 1971, he would lose a big chunk of his career.

Me and Doyle always wanted our children to do what was right and stand up for their beliefs. Our second son, Dan, felt much like Ali. And though he was not of Muslim faith, his belief was just the same when it came to fighting a war in Vietnam for folks who didn’t like us over here. And even though he was under the watchful eye of Uncle Sam, I worried even more, praying that he would not join the many others and return home in a body bag. Not knowing his whereabouts, or his well-being, my heart was heavy with uneasiness. Many months later, we were all relieved when he safely returned home.

The year was challenging with storm after storm of race riots and war. But I was yet to experience the biggest storm of my own life.

Baseball had taken a toll on Doyle. Suffering from throwing too many pitches, he was hospitalized with severe neck pain for twenty-five days. Reality smacked me in the face like a ton of bricks, and I knew our lives had taken a turn for the worse. Arguments for no reason had become a daily occurrence. The beginning of the end had begun.

One time it got so bad that Doyle hit the kitchen table hard and broke two of its legs. Everything on that table, including the leftover dinner dishes, ketchup, silverware, sugar bowl,

pitcher of Kool-Aid, and the butter dish, all splattered on the floor.

I told all my kids, “Don’t you even pick up a fork. Leave all that shit alone. Leave it right there where your father left it. You didn’t put it there.”

Eventually, Doyle cleaned up the mess.

“Now baby, you can always come home,” Mother would say to me when I told her about my fights with Doyle. Daddy would just keep quiet and say nothing, trying to get Mother to do the same.

“Ms. Smith, let them kids solve their own problems. They are grown now,” I would hear him say in the background.

And in the foreground, Doyle would say to me in a very threatening manner, his face twisted up like his father did back in the day, “You just keep listening to your Mother.”

One day, I traded an earlier shift with a coworker at the hospital so I could look in on Doyle and see how his shoulder was doing. When I walked into the room, there was a nurse leaning over him in the bed. I thought she was reaching to take his vitals. Then it hit me. She was not a nurse. To my surprise, it was my long-lost coworker and friend, Geri, and she was not checking his heart. She was breaking mine.

Through my eyes of anger and dismay, blurred from my tears, I then remembered Susie, that twelve-year old white girl at the drugstore from twenty-five years ago in Mississippi.

Doyle had seen the racism up close; he knew what it was like having to get out of town to avoid being another Emmit

Till or one of those other boys I had heard about back home. Despite all of that, there he was, once again, tangled up with some young white girl like he hadn’t learned nothing from Amory. The more things change the more they stay the same. This was the storm that tore up my home. And I went home to Mother.Y

Feeling Safe

“Mother, I’m coming home,” I said before jumping in my Corvair with BeeBee in tow.

My daughter didn’t miss a beat, saying quickly, “I’m coming with you.”

After our most aggressive argument, and our most physical fight ever, the straw had finally broken the camel’s back of my marriage to Doyle. I left my other three children with their father, and I sought refuge in the best, and only, place I knew.

I was nervous. I was scared. I was angry, and I was confused. I had just left my home and three of my children with a man I didn’t know anymore. Should I turn the car around and go back? What was BeeBee thinking as we were driving through the city? She was just seventeen, the same age I was when I married Doyle, and she was in her last year of high school.

What were my other children thinking? What were they feeling? “What happened, Ma? Where are you going? Why are you leaving us? Are you coming back?”

I was thirty-nine years old, and I was leaving a marriage of twenty-two years. My heart was beating. My palms were

sweaty and my eyes were crying. What was I doing? Mother and Daddy were both waiting – Daddy with the door open and Mother with her arms open.

“It ain’t working no more; and he doesn’t care,” I cried as Mother held me and told BeeBee to go upstairs and put our things away.

“It’s okay Ruthie,” Mother said to her only child. “You’re home now.”

“What did I do wrong?” I asked as Mother quietly paced the floor.

In her soft-spoken voice, as she tapped on a chair when she wanted to ask a question, she said, “Mr. Smith, what should we do?”

“Miss Smith, I told you to let them be. They are grown and need to work out their own problems,” he adamantly said. “You just keep babying that child.”

I know BeeBee was listening at the top of the stairs. I was regretting putting her in this situation, and I was worried about the children I had left behind.

I reached deep down in my faith and asked for forgiveness.

The next day was Sunday. I knew I should have gone to church, but the pain and confusion would not allow me to as I heard Daddy and Mother close the front door. I watched through the blinds as they got into Daddy’s green 1960 Chevy Impala. Mother looked back as if she wanted to come get me. I quickly moved from the window.

I couldn’t face the congregation. They didn’t know and I didn’t want them to know – not yet. In time, I would talk to Rev. Patterson.

Before going to work on Monday, I went to check on the kids. I couldn’t get in. The locks had already been changed. Our perfect two-parent Black family was no more. That was a fact and now it was a reality. It was over.

Work, that had been a place of comfort and peace for me, was now filled with despair and woefulness.

“What’s the matter, pretty lady?” a male coworker said trying to brighten my day and make me smile.

“Does it show that bad?” I asked.

“I’ve been watching you for a few months now and you’ve changed,” he said. “My name is Joe. What’s yours?”

“I’m Ruth. Nice to meet you Joe,” I said to my newfound friend.

With the move, BeeBee was transferred to South High School, a Black school. It was much different from Ottawa which was mostly white. My daughter adjusted to the change well. She always could go with the flow in many situations, and she became best friends with Denise who lived across the alley. They knew each other from church as little girls. BeeBee and Denise were teenagers and about to be grown.

I would sometimes pick up BeeBee and Denise from the roller-skating rink. I can still feel the air from some of the kids whisking around the rink, arms locked together sometimes three or four deep, dodging the big round ceiling beams.

Watching them made me think of me and Maybelle and reminded me of how much I missed my childhood friend.

But I was still missing my other babies: Muriel and Robin. Jackie, who had become their temporary mother, was working as a dental assistant for Dr. Julius Franks before going to college to become a schoolteacher.

Dan and Michael were both on their own. Michael had two children now and Dan had one, his namesake. In a few years, Michael would have more – along with his father who I soon learned had started another family well before our divorce.

I didn’t see my sons much, and there was not a lot to do for the young people, but I knew they enjoyed boxing and the Golden Gloves. Buster Mathis was a local boxer, and he had a successful career as an amateur heavyweight. He won twentytwo contests and qualified for a shot for the world heavyweight title. It was a big disappointment to the city when he lost to Joe Frazier on March 4.

Time was passing and history was being made.

Five years ago, I was with my family as we sat around the TV listening to the news about President John F. Kennedy’s assassination. And now on April 4, 1968, I sat and listened to news about the death of Dr. Martin Luther King as Daddy just rubbed his head in dismay as he sat in his recliner. With Dr. King’s photo hanging on the wall, I could hear Mother saying over and over, “Well, I declare,” in a very subtle manner as she tried to find words to say to Daddy. She knew he was hurt behind the news, and there were no words that could be said to

rationalize the tragedy or ease the pain that everyone was feeling.

Dr. King was young and a promising leader for the country, and his life was cut short at thirty-nine. A few months later, the country faced another tragic blow that shook the community. Senator Bobby Kennedy, who fought organized crime, worked for Civil Rights for Black people, and opposed the Vietnam War, was shot on June 5, 1968, and died the next day. He was forty-two.

Twenty-three years ago, Doyle and I looked forward to moving north. I guess in the end it didn’t matter where we lived, and life would still go on – the good, the bad, and the unfortunate. I continued to work, and I got used to my new life. It was getting a little easier. Once again, I was home, and I was feeling safe.

I had friends, I was forty years old. And I was alone. Y

The Cat Fight

I was alone and I was angry, and I wondered how I would react if and when I saw Doyle and his now new wife Geri again.

Would it be a fight with scratching, slapping, hair-pulling, and shirt-shredding? Or would it be a heated conversation with insults, verbally engaged in an intense competition behind Doyle? But two women fighting each other was nothing but cat fighting, and I wondered if at my age I really wanted that. She was like a cat in heat, loose and sexually promiscuous. She was spiteful, backbiting, and malicious. This was how I saw her; my former friend Geri – the person I now know.

BeeBee was not happy about the new family situation, and in spite of everything, she tolerated her so-called stepmother because she loved her father. BeeBee had graduated from high school, and she asked Doyle to help her with getting a new car after recently getting her driver’s license.

“Daddy is going to co-sign for me to get a car,” she said excitedly as she grabbed her jacket to meet him outside. “It’s the new 1970 Ford Maverick and only costs one thousand, nine hundred and ninery-five dollars.”

I questioned why he chose to help her, and this was my chance to let them both know how I really felt as I quickly followed BeeBee to the street.

“Who do you think you are bringing this white bitch over here after all what y’all did? I treated you like my daughter, and you sneaked around and fucked my husband behind my back,” I screamed at them both as Geri would not even look at me.

Without looking my way, Doyle said to BeeBee, “Get in the car baby,” and she tried to get in as quickly as possible. He then looked at me and said, “Ruth, just leave us alone. You had your chance.”

Then I watched them drive away.

I knew Mother had been watching from the porch as she sat twisting her stockings around her knees, which she often did when she didn’t have a garter on.

“Mr. Smith will be here soon,” she said trying to avoid what she had just seen. “I’ll be fixing dinner soon. What time will BeeBee be back?” she asked, still twisting that stocking, and gently tapping her foot.

“I don’t know, Mother. Doyle didn’t say, and sometimes buying a car can take a long time,” I said, remembering how long it took when we had bought our blue Chevy Caprice, “But because he works at General Motors, it might not take that long.”

I worried about BeeBee being so young and having a new car, even though she was now a mother herself, as I watched my grandson, Lil’ Larry, bounce around in his walker. BeeBee

was an overly protective first-time mother, and she didn’t like putting that baby on the floor. I would tell her like the old folks would tell me, “You better put that baby on the floor so he can learn how to walk. They would say, ‘If he don’t walk before he crawl, he’ll crawl before he walk.’”

Now as much as I fretted over BeeBee’s driving, I was a grown woman, and I still had issues with my own driving. It was not long before she got her car when I had a very troubling incident – one that understandably brought me to tears. But, of course, I was known as someone who could cry at the drop of a hat.

We were out shopping, me and the kids, and we had just finished eating and were ready to leave. After piling into the car, and unbeknownst to me, the back door was still open and leaning on the curb. As I was backing out, I heard a “crack, crack, crack,” and before I could stop, the door was off the hinges and lying on the curb. We picked up the door, put it in the car, and we proceeded home with me crying and the children in the back laughing hysterically. Thank God it was summertime and warm.

“What are you cooking for dinner? Can I help? Where is Daddy,” I asked, putting on one of Mother’s red and white gingham aprons.

Daddy was getting older, and little did I know that in a few years he would be leaving us. He did not like seeing his little girl in pain, suffering from a man he also grew to love like his

son. In spite of everything, Daddy and Doyle had an inseparable bond. But that was my Daddy, and he was a good man.

It was not long before BeeBee’s cute little Maverick was confiscated, for a couple of reasons.

BeeBee was told not to let anyone drive the car, including her baby’s father, Larry Cobbins. Doyle saw him driving the car one day, and even though that was one heavy straw, it was not the one that broke the camel’s back.

But a confrontation between him, Geri, and my three girls, was.

It was about 7 p.m. in the evening, and I was glad to see the children spending time together trying to mend the brokenness of the family unit. The boys were on their own, but my girls were still close. BeeBee had moved into an apartment with her friends from Minnesota: Laura, Beverly, Gayle, and Patty – just like Jackie had done with her friends a few years earlier. Muriel was back with me, as well as her baby girl Robbin.

“We tried to beat her down,” they all said coming into the house. They were talking about running into their father and Geri at Meijers supermarket. Everybody shopped at the store, but the girls were still not prepared to see the two of them.

“We saw them,” said BeeBee “leaving the store, trying to get away when they saw us.”

“And Geri was pregnant, Ma, but we didn’t care,” Jackie said, letting me know that they had gotten up in their faces. “This was our chance to let them know how they destroyed our family.”

“People outside the store were watching,” said Muriel, “and saying stuff like ‘ain’t that their father?’ But we just kept yelling, cussing them out, and trying to get to both of them.”

“Yes, he is my father,” Jackie yelled back at the crowd with fire in her voice as she gave Geri the evil eye.

The girls said something about Doyle threatening them, saying “I’ll see you in court!” That never happened, but eventually Doyle did take back BeeBee’s car.

Even though it warmed my heart about what they were telling me, I was relieved to hear that they were able to get away before anything tragic happened.

In some small space in my heart, my girls fulfilled my desire for a physical catfight. With them, there may not have been the scratching, slapping, hair-pulling, or shirt-shredding. But it was most definitely a heated conversation, with insults, and verbally intense behind their father and this woman he had, who was young enough to be their sister.

My daughters were still hurt, angry, and in pain. They felt betrayed, and they also saw Geri for what she was – a cat in heat, who was loose and sexually promiscuous. She was spiteful, backbiting, and malicious. But most of all, she was white. And I’m happy I did not lower my standards to have a fight with someone who was not worth it. In the long run, she would have to live with what I had lived with and, as we all know, karma is nothing to play with.

And a worthless fight was not going to determine my destiny. Y

The Son He Never Had

Daddy was slowing down, not because of his age, but because something was draining his spirit. We still looked forward to hearing and seeing that very boisterous laugh that would often bring tears to his eyes when he talked about something that happened during church service.

“Miss Smith, did you see Sister Johnson count out nineteen dollars after putting a twenty-dollar bill in the collection plate,” he asked with tears in his eyes and rubbing his head, “and the chil’ren sitting next to her was counting along with her out loud?”

Mother was on the Usher Board, and couldn’t see it but as always, she would just say, “Yes, Mr. Smith. It sho’ was a sight to see and something to hear. I declare, I think everyone in the church heard them chil’ren. And looking at Sister Johnson, she didn’t pay them no mind.”

Those funny times were coming less often, drawing concern from me and Mother.

Daddy had left the house for several hours. When he came back, we had dinner before he went out to cut the lawn in the back yard.

I helped clear the table before sitting down and talking to Mother as she opened her Bible. I could see Daddy through the kitchen window heading to the garage to get the mower. He took pride in taking care of his yard and got on the kids if they messed with the flowers that Mother loved so much.

“BeeBee, come and wash these dishes,” I said, thinking about how she was my best dish washer even though she hated to clean the silverware, always leaving them in the water for me. She was putting Lil’ Larry down and getting ready for school the next day at Davenport College of Business. In spite of having a baby, that did not stop her from continuing her education like the rest of my children. They faced many unexpected challenges but continued on with their education. Me and Doyle always talked about how important that was.

“Where did Daddy go earlier,” I asked Mother.

“He went to the hardware store to pick up some nails to fix that loose door, and I think he was at Minnie’s,” she answered without looking up but knowing I was looking for more.

Aunt Minnie was Daddy’s sister, and they were very close. Aunt Minnie was fun loving, happy, and always looking for a good time. Mother had two sisters. Aunt Clara was tough, and the kids said she was mean because she didn’t take no mess or take any shit from anybody – man or woman. Mother’s other sister, Aunt Morlee, was somewhat meek and on the quiet side, much like Mother.

I remember the house parties when Michael was just a toddler, and I was about twenty years old. They would have

crowded house parties, in smoke filled rooms that lasted until the sun came up. The dining room table would be full of beer bottles, fried chicken, and potato salad, leaving only enough room for a card game for four people. We’d sit around the table and watch the adults drink, smoke, eat, and cuss. Mother and some of the ladies would linger in the kitchen talking and bringing food out to everyone. Daddy and Doyle would sit in the other room talking and laughing. Sometimes they talked about Mississippi, the news, and the future; but mostly they talked about baseball. I remember those days and I enjoyed seeing Daddy and Doyle spending time together. Like Aunt Minnie, they were close.

The hardware store was also near where Doyle and Geri now lived, and he was going to the hardware store more often than normal.

Mother didn’t think I knew, but those unanswered times of where Daddy was, I knew. I knew he and Aunt Minnie visited Doyle often. Ironically, Geri had a little girl who was born on Daddy’s birthday on July 8, 1969, and was coming up on her first birthday in 1970. Biologically, she was not Daddy’s granddaughter, but she was Doyle’s daughter, and I couldn’t deny either of them that piece of joy and happiness.

BeeBee moved to Minnesota in 1970 with Lil’ Larry who was just turning one. Jacqueline was on her own, as were Michael and Das. That same year, Michael had another daughter, Mia, becoming a new baby sister to big brother Melshunn.

Jacqueline had a daughter Lisa, and Muriel, who was still a teenager, had her second child, Ronnie.

And Doyle, their father, was still making babies, right alongside them.

Mother depended on Daddy for everything, and she didn’t tend to the business affairs at home. He made sure home was taken care of, making sure the household bills were paid, the yard was kept up, and the car was always running well. Mother was the epitome of a good and devoted housewife. She was a devoted Christian woman, who truly loved the Lord. She cooked and cleaned and made a home for her family. She was a devoted mother and sometimes overly protective of me.

After the divorce, and after our house was sold, I went with Daddy to get my portion for the sale of the house from Doyle. I stayed in the car as I watched Daddy approach and talk to my ex-husband as he handed him an envelope. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I could tell it was comforting – words that only they could say to one another.

“Mother, I always wanted my marriage to be just like you and Daddy’s. I know that everyone’s life is different – no one is the same, but I always loved the way Daddy took care of you and me. I sometimes wonder how life would have been in the South instead of moving here. Things are still much the same. Black men are still getting killed – even up here and for the same reasons,” I said, still just thinking about Dr. Martin Luther King, police killings, and local crime.

“Does Daddy think I would be hurt about his visits to Doyle and Geri’s or mad because I know he helped them with getting their house? Would he think I am upset that he still helps them?” I asked my Mother out of the blue and with sincerity.

“Chile, listen. Doyle has been a part of our lives since he was a little boy in Amory. He worked for Mr. Smith when he was a young boy. And he has watched him grow up to be a man and watched y’all have six babies,” Mother said. “He knows that sometimes things don’t work out and people grow apart. But Mr. Smith did the best he could for both of you, trying to let you find your way. He always told me to just ‘let them be’ which was hard for me to do, which I know was not good some of the time. But listen to me baby, you were my only baby and I only wanted you to be happy. I know you and Doyle will always have a special place in each other’s heart and sometimes hearts do get broken – but over time, they will heal.

“Me and Mr. Smith have had misunderstandings over the years and things were not always perfect – but we made perfect. You were our perfect Ruthie, and we love you and we also love Doyle. And by us not having any more children, Mr. Smith loves Doyle like the son he never had.”Y

A Marriage of Convenience

It was a Sunday afternoon and I had just left church when I saw Bill Upton leaving the grocery store.

Mother had asked me to pick up some sweet potatoes to make a pie for dinner. I had not seen Bill since his wife had passed. I’d known them for years and she was a friend and a beautician who often did my hair and Jackie’s. I got to know their daughters – Carolyn and Billie – when they came to the beauty shop. They were close in age to BeeBee and Muriel. They also had two sons: Ronnie and Rick.

“Rev. Patterson sure did preach a good sermon today,” I said, greeting Bill. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m fine. Ruth?” he said as he paused before heading to his car. “How are you?’

“Well, you know what they say, fair to middlin’, “I said, smiling with an awkward chuckle. “I was so sorry to hear about Ethel. How are the children coping?”

“They are doing okay but miss her a lot, especially Carolyn. You know she was very close to her mother,” Bill said without looking directly at me.

“Well how are you doing?” I asked out of concern as he was looking a little pekid and tired.

From getting to know Ethel, I knew that he had back issues from several surgeries due to a work injury. You could always see his back brace, sometimes over his shirt but mostly under a jacket. Ethel also proudly talked about how Bill was a hard-working provider and protector, much like Doyle but much more serious.

“I’m getting along,” he said as he started walking to his car.

“I know it’s hard raising the girls and those boys; let me know if I can help,” I said, heading into the store and greeting another friend as she was leaving.

“Hey Betty, how you been doing? Tell the family I said ‘hello,’” I shouted to another friend as I rushed into the store to the fruits and vegetables aisle.

I was lonely, and I knew Bill was too and that he needed help with his kids, especially the girls. A few weeks had passed when the phone rang.

“Ruthie!” Mother yelled from the living room.

“Yes ma’am?” I asked from the top of the stairs.

“Telephone,” she said heading back to the kitchen.

“Hello,” I said picking up the extension in the hallway.

“Hi Ruth,” I heard the male voice say. “This is Bill. How are you?”

“I’m fine Bill. Is everything okay? Are the children all right,” I asked, wondering why he had called.

“I’ve been thinking. I’d like to take you up on your offer,” he

said, surprising me with what came next. “Maybe we can go out to dinner and get caught up.”

After that initial dinner meeting, we found some common ground and talked on the phone a lot. Bill was an excellent cook, and when I visited him, I looked forward to sharing dinner with the children, getting to know them even better.

This was so new to me. I was actually starting over. This was life after Doyle.

Our relationship grew out of loneliness into one of necessity. We were filling a void in each other’s lives and in our children’s lives – so we thought. I still desired a man in my life, and he wanted a mother for his children. We got to know each other very well. We laughed and enjoyed each other’s company as we listened to one another tell stories of our upbringings. He was the third of nine children and bore the responsibility of raising his younger brothers and sisters.

Oh, how I laughed, picturing him standing on a stool drying dishes at the age of seven when he would help his mother while she cooked and cleaned houses for white people. He told me how he dropped out of school in the fifth grade to help his family.

He didn’t like working in the field with his dad and instead chose to help his mother with the younger children. He would help cook and clean – I guess that was how he learned how to cook so well.

Bill was fifteen years older than me but one thing we had in common was our birthday coincidences. He was born the day after Christmas, and I was born the day after New Year’s.

The Story of Ruth June 6, 1970

There was not much romance but there was companionship, something that we both very much needed at the time. And we thought it was time to take the next step of commitment.

Bill, being the man that he was – respectful, careful, and considerate – talked with family members before proposing. He was concerned that the children were still young and needed someone at home to care for them because he worked all the time. And I knew they needed structure and stability, just like my children; he needed help and so did I.

Our relationship developed into a level of convenience.

It was summertime and it was too hot to sit and eat dinner outside. Daddy had barbecued outside, and a few flies still managed to enter the house as the screen door to the back porch was constantly being opened as we went back and forth to get food from the grill.

The table, covered with a red and white plastic tablecloth, was filled with chicken, ribs, corn on the cob, potato salad, baked beans, and a pitcher of red Kool-Aid. The hot water cornbread was still steaming as the butter melted and dripped in the cracks of the crispy almost burnt edges overlapping the pan.

It took a while for Bill to make the announcement during dinner, which took his girls by surprise. They were grown and we had developed a mother-daughter bond, but to say we were going to marry threw them for a loop. And I knew from the expressions on their faces that they were disappointed that Bill had not prepared them ahead of time.

I was disappointed as well, but I wanted to reassure them that I would take care of their father the way I hoped to take care of them. Bill was fragile after the death of his wife, and he had suffered a nervous breakdown, which was a big concern for me and for our future. He had recovered, but he was never the same.

A few weeks later in June, Bill and I took a leap of faith and got married.

I was committed to making this marriage a happy marriage. Unfortunately, I realized that it takes two to make that happen, and this was not the case here.

I was still a young woman with desires and needs, and even though Bill had desires as well, we both knew that I would never replace the love he had for Ethel. The pain and rejection were unbearable.

Even though my daughter Muriel, with her baby daughter Robbin Marie and son Ronnie, were also living with us, making me think we could have a family again, it also did not fill the void that was lingering in my heart.

But I knew all along what was real and what was true. I couldn’t make Bill love me if he didn’t. I had to respect his feelings for his wife. His heart belonged to her. No one can love you when they are not there.

I was hurt. I cried. I felt lost.

And once again, I went home to Mother and left my marriage of convenience. Y

My Other Girls

It was October, it was getting cold, and Mother was in the backyard tending to her garden as I opened the door to the chill.

“Mother,” I called out, letting her know I was back home with the children.

After I had finished talking with Mother the night before, telling her and Daddy this marriage to Bill had been a mistake, they had prepared the upstairs for me, Muriel, and Robbin.

“Ruthie, I’ll be in rightly, but tell the children to wash up and get ready for lunch. There’s some fried chicken, cabbage, and cornbread on the table,” she said, “and some Kool-Aid in the Frigidaire.”

So, I was home again, and once again I was looking back in an effort to move forward. I couldn’t stop thinking about my new-found daughters – Billie and Carolyn – whom I had left behind. Billie, who was curious like Muriel, had a streak of get-up-and-go like BeeBee. On the other hand, Carolyn, who was very close to her late mother, was somewhat reserved like Jackie.

The Story of Ruth October 17, 1970

Over the past several months, I had spent special moments with both of them as they were young women, with Billie gravitating to me more so than her older sister.

“We used to have so much fun going to Rumsey Park on the West Side of town to watch my brothers play baseball,” Billie said to me one evening as we were talking about the past. “Mr. James was their coach, and he was so much fun to watch. Ronnie and Ricky loved playing for him, and they always said he was really nice.”

As a little girl, Billie adapted very well to the James family. She reminded me of a slumber party that she had come to at our house, and how much fun she and the girls had grilling hot dogs and making s’mores. While the girls were listening to a story about one of them getting stung by a bee, “nosey” Billie joined Doyle and Dan in the garage. I still remember her beaming after helping them change a light bulb. She stood there in glory, looking like a cute little Black Shirley Temple, when Doyle asked her to hold the bulb while he held the ladder so Dan could climb it. She often enjoyed sitting on Doyle’s lap and watching TV and eating snacks with him when she came over to visit.

Billie was very inquisitive and spent more time with me and Doyle than with the other girls. It was 1967 when their mother passed. Rick was just three years old; Billie was eleven, Carolyn was thirteen, and Ronnie, eighteen, was the same age as Dan.

I couldn’t imagine losing a mother. I know that day will come for me but until then, I thank God that Mother is healthy and still with me. She is and will always be my world. My heart went out to both of Bill’s girls. I could feel their pain and I wanted to help and find a way to ease some of it. I didn’t want them to hurt or feel any additional pain and heartache.

I treated them like they were my own and wanted to share with them what I would share with my own daughters and what they would have shared with their mother. Billie enjoyed talking, cooking, watching TV, and sharing secrets. And after a few months, she called me “Mom.”

“Mom,” she told me once, remembering Rick’s birthday party and how she was fascinated with learning creative ways to do things, “I remember when you used cupcake papers for bowls to hold the scoops of ice cream.”

“Mom, do you remember when Ronnie was about to join in a gang fight as Rumsey Park?” Billie asked while I was pressing her hair.

Her older brother Ronnie was a lot like Michael, always in the mix, refusing to back down.

“Yes, that was a close call. I’m just glad he listened to what I had to say to him,” I said, telling her that I had said much the same thing to Michael many times. Somehow, Ronnie would listen to me when he wouldn’t listen to anyone else. One time, we sat at the picnic table in the backyard, and after talking for a while, he was convinced not to join the others in that fight. And

later on, I drove him to the bus station and purchased a ticket so he could return to Detroit after that visit with us.

“Well, I’m glad Ronnie is going back to Detroit. He’s safe now,” Billie said, feeling a little relieved.

As a teenager, Billie was young, feisty, and rambunctious, and she would do anything to protect her family. Not knowing that I saw her, she hid a kitchen knife, ready to help defend her brother if needed.

“Yes, Billie he is safe. We are all safe,” I said as we turned on Division Street heading home from the Greyhound station.

It took Carolyn awhile to accept me and realize that I only wanted the best for her as any mother would want, especially hers. I didn’t want to replace her mother, and knowing that I never would, I only wanted to fill a void of emptiness and loneliness.

“Do y’all remember when I was using a sunlamp, trying to get a suntan, when I burned my eyes?” Carolyn asked as Billie fell on the bed with laughter. She was not supposed to look in the sunlamp but the rays from the lamp reflected off the television screen.

“Lord have mercy,” I said when she woke up the next morning complaining about her eyes. Trying to stay calm, we quickly got ready to go to the doctor.

“I can’t see. It feels like someone is scratching my eyes with steel wool,” she said, as I was wondering why she wanted a suntan in the first place. Her skin color was already golden

brown. Anyway, after getting some eye drops from the optometrist, her sight came back by that evening, just in time to for her to watch her favorite TV show “Bewitched.” And we became closer from that whole experience.

Times were still difficult, even for two-parent Black families. Bill and I were both working, but raising children can be a challenge, keeping up with all of their wants and needs. Carolyn wanted a new outfit for a special occasion, and with finances being a little short, returning that silver coffee and tea set we received as a wedding gift was a small price to pay for watching the joy on Carolyn’s face – and far more gratifying than watching it tarnish in the china cabinet in the dining room.

It was getting late, and Carolyn came back from the dance. I heard the front door open and close. As she passed my bedroom, she peeked in, entered, sat on my bed, and talked about this very cute older boy who had asked for her phone number. She was feeling good and very happy, but I was feeling good and just as happy as we talked like mother and daughter. It was genuine and our relationship and love grew stronger.

But as the girls and I grew closer, Bill and I grew further apart. And when the inevitable did happen, it again somewhat devastated the girls. They had regained confidence in sharing and feeling comfortable with having a mother-figure around. And now they were about to lose me, too.

I knew when Bill and I got married that Carolyn was not ready for another mother, but that had changed. And Billie, who felt my pain of disappointment and my feeling that I had

The Story of Ruth October 17, 1970

failed them, saw me crying. I was very sad, and she was very angry, blaming her father for the divorce. She felt alone and depressed, and said she felt like she was reliving her mother’s death all over again.

Billie took that anger out on Bill because she didn’t know how to deal with those feelings. And he took his anger out on her. There was a lot of yelling and screaming and hard words between them. Sometimes she would pack an overnight bag and walk across town to come stay with me until things calmed down at home.

I learned years later that Billie and Bill had accepted Christ at some point, and doing so brought them closer together again. In the end, Bill was happy about the relationship his daughters and I held in our hearts, in spite of our breakup, and he knew that bond would be forever.

Everyone had picnic tables in their backyard, but the weather was starting to turn, making it too cold to eat lunch outside. Mother had finished with her gardening, and she set the plates and silverware on the dining room table with the prepared food.

“Muriel and Robbin, wash your hands so you can eat,” I said, as Robbin was running down the stairs.

“Gracious Lord, we thank you for this food we are about to receive, Amen,” I said, still thinking about my other “daughters,” the ones I had left behind.

Still thinking about Billie and Carolyn. Y

Breaking A Mold

I knew the day would come, but I didn’t realize the pain would be so unbearable. He had always been the number one man in my life: Cornelius “Neal” Smith.

Daddy.

Realizing that I wouldn’t be able to talk to him again, hug him again, or even care for him any longer left a big hole in my heart, one that I knew could never be filled again.

I was the apple of my Daddy’s eye, but most of all I was Daddy’s little girl. As a man of God, he always wanted the best for me and Mother. That was his life’s mission, to care for us unconditionally and have us not want for anything.

Daddy and Mother were my world, and nothing could keep me from them. The Ice Man made growing up in Mississippi a little easier. Because of his hard work, we lived a little bit better than most Black folks, including some of my friends, and Doyle’s family, too. But Daddy didn’t pass judgment on anyone. He was shrewd but he was fair and was well respected in the community.

As I rode with Daddy through Amory on Saturday mornings, I would hear “Hey Neal,” or “Good morning Mr. Smith,” or “How you doing today?” coming from neighbors with hands

waving and customers sitting on their porches drinking their morning coffee. Daddy would either wave back or toot his horn, making a dog or two chase after the truck. But what I remember was that it was our day together.

Meanwhile, Mother would stay home and take care of the house. Between the gardening, cooking, and cleaning, home was her safe haven.

“Mr. Smith, y’all be careful and don’t forget to pick me up some more bleach and detergent. And Ruthie, get some grease so I can wash and plat your hair tomorrow for school, the Royal Crown hair dressing kind,” she would say while stooping over to get some wet clothes from the basket to hang on the line to dry.

“Okay Ms. Smith,” Daddy would respond as we pulled out of the driveway.

Doyle had started working for Daddy at twelve years old, and sometimes he would go with Daddy to get the ice and other stuff for work like gloves, ice picks, plastic holding tubs, and tongs. Their bond grew on a personal level as well as workwise. Doyle really was a son to Daddy, and he respected Daddy to the very end.

Daddy’s work ethic never changed throughout his life. His faith in God never wavered. As a matter of fact, it was deepened when they found their church home in True Light Baptist Church in Grand Rapids with Rev. W. L. Patterson as the pastor. As treasurer, Daddy took pride in serving God that way. Each Sunday, while Mother was preparing Sunday dinner, 88

Daddy counted, reported, and deposited the tithes and offerings from the Sunday services.

Daddy was a somewhat quiet man, but he spoke when he felt the need. And when he spoke, you listened. He and Mother’s differences were mild mannered – and the way they showed respect for one another is something that should be taught in marriage counseling books.

He was stern but gentle. And he enjoyed spending time with his six grandchildren. His babies.

I recall a day when Tacky, BeeBee’s boyfriend, came to see us. Tacky and I started talking about the future, and he was telling me about plans he had for himself and my child. First of all, my daughter was only seventeen and still in high school. And while they were in the same grade, he was a year older and more mature than she was.

Now Tacky was outspoken and didn’t have a problem with saying what was on his mind – but I did have a problem with what he was saying. A big problem. And I couldn’t agree with what he was saying, and our conversation became a little combative. Out of respect for Tacky, for a man trying to talk, clad in his overalls and suspenders, Daddy came around the corner and said, “Ruth, let the boy speak his peace!”

So, I did.

I was forty-five and Daddy was just sixty-nine when I was told that he had cancer and didn’t have long to live. His weight

had dropped from the big and authoritative looking man everyone knew.

As I sat in the hospital room, I thought about how much love I had for Daddy and how he had taken care of us. He had been so good to so many, even with Doyle after we divorced. Doyle was there at Daddy’s hospital bedside at the end. Soon it would just be me and Mother, and I worried about her. He was her rock.

Daddy was a fair and compassionate man and as I said my good-byes, I heard God breaking the mold as he called him home.Y

Answered Prayers

Losing Daddy hurt me, but it took a toll on Mother, who had always been dependent on him, even before I was born. They had been married for forty-five years when he passed. Mother felt very alone and lost without the man who was her protector, her provider, and her best friend for so very long.

Aunt Clara and Aunt Morlee, and Uncle Isaiah (also called Tornch), were already living in Grand Rapids. But Mother and I both needed to visit other folks in the family, so we travelled to Memphis to see her brother Roosevelt, one of my twelve uncles and aunts. Little did I know I was about to turn the page on a new chapter in my book of life.

I always looked forward to going South. Going home, or even close to home, was special. The air smelled different, the grass looked greener, the sun felt warmer, and you could smell the fried chicken aroma from every house.

It was a Saturday morning as I was sitting on Uncle Roosevelt’s porch drinking coffee and eating a piece of semi-burnt toast with apple butter. I always preferred the ends of the loaf.

“Hey Roosevelt, how you doing this morning?” the next door neighbor said while pulling a few weeds from around his porch.

“Fair to middlin’,” Uncle Roosevelt said while leaning over the porch rail to look at his weeds and lifting up his cup to finish his coffee. He was about to go to work. He adjusted his suspenders as he was getting ready to leave in his truck. Mother was in the house.

“Who you got over there with you?” asked the neighbor, referring to me as I sat at the far end of the porch.

“This is my sister Avinger’s daughter, my niece Ruth. They came to visit a spell from Michigan,” my uncle said. “Ruth, this here is my neighbor Paul Boyd. He and his two sons live next door.”

“Hello,” I said, barely looking up, trying to act coy.

“Hi Ruth, how you doin’ this morning?” Paul said.

“Fine,” I remarked, and over the remainder of the stay in Memphis, I got to know Paul Boyd very well, and in 1981, I eventually married the widower with two sons (Paul Jr. and Wayne), who came back with me to live in Michigan.

Paul loved the outdoors, and he enjoyed working in the yard. He liked to laugh at a good joke, and sometimes when I heard that boisterous laugh, I’d catch myself when it reminded me of Daddy.

Michigan was a little different for Paul, but he adjusted well with the change of climate, and the Great Lakes fed his fishing appetite. He was an avid smoker, and I thought the outdoors and fresh air would help with his habit.

Wayne, Paul’s youngest son, had graduated from high school in Memphis and was looking forward to attending college.

During one of his visits to Michigan, we went on a fishing trip to Lake Michigan. I had packed a basket full of fried chicken, potato salad, greens, cornbread, and Mother’s sweet potato pie. Wayne and Paul had a cooler full of beer.

It was a sunny day, and I was sitting comfortable in a chair by the bank of the lake. There were chipmunks running up and down a nearby tree, and butterflies were fluttering around the small table where I had put out all the food. And Paul had lit the lantern – to keep bugs away and give me a little warmth. It also helped by giving us a little light when the sun went down.

A ladybug was crawling on Paul’s fishing hat and hung for dear life as he threw his line out into the water.

“Daddy, I do better with these crickets and grasshoppers,” said Wayne, shaking a mason jar full of insects that he used as bait.

“Well, you know I’m old school and grew up with them night crawlers and red worms,” said Paul, showing me how he was putting one on his fishing hook, knowing I would get squeamish.

One thing they both agreed on was using minnows as bait.

All of a sudden, Paul started coughing – so hard he could not stop. I was scared and so was Wayne. We gave him water and tried to help however we could. The coughing was so extreme, his body was shaking, and his eyes were watering. My eyes were watering also but from tears of fear. Oh God, I thought, please don’t take him away. It was a time for prayers and with all his might and strength, Paul prayed.

“Lord God, please take these cigarettes away. It is destroying my life. Remove this urge that is plaguing my heart and soul. Forgive me for damaging my temple for so many years,” he cried out.

And after that day, he never touched another cigarette.

Jesus teaches us to pray and to freely ask our Father for the desires of our heart: “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks, it will be opened.” (Luke

11:9–10)

God hears and answers every prayer, but there are a precious few to which he always says, “Yes.”

Paul got sick again in 1999. And because I was unable to take care of him, he returned to Memphis, where he died in 2003 of cancer.

That fishing day, God answered prayers. My prayer to save my husband and Paul’s prayer to save himself were answered, and that prayer bought us a few more years together.Y

A Gentle Kiss Goodbye

I looked at the clock as I reached for the phone. The morning sun had not risen, and I knew something was wrong.

After saying hello, I heard a female voice say, “Miss Ruth, Michael is gone.”

And my heart sank, then it ached, then it broke as the tears began to flow. I called Doyle. He then called Dan in Maryland.

“Dan, it’s Dad,” Doyle said, crying.

“What’s the matter?” Dan asked.

“It’s your brother. Your brother is dead. I don’t know what happened yet and I don’t know what to do,” he said.

After reassuring his father that he didn’t have to do anything, our son said, “I’ll be on the first plane I can get on leaving in the morning.”

I was relieved to see Muriel’s car pull up to the house from picking Dan up from the airport.

“When the woman called, she said the police came to arrest Mike,” I told Dan, a scream building up inside me, forcing its way out as I continued to speak. “They said they had a warrant, and he took off running into the woods. Lord, have mercy, what has happened to my child?”

My first-born baby had been taken away from me. Thoughts of why, how, who, where, and why kept going through my head. He was only thirty-eight. That unbearable pain, that horrible sense of loss that I felt ten years earlier when I lost Daddy, had resurfaced.

Dan made arrangements to have the body shipped home from Columbus, Ohio, where Mike had been living. My brother-in-law Bobby was in town. He and Dan went to Milo Brown’s Funeral Home, forbidding me to go with them. When they came back, Dan said they both examined his body from head to toe since the police were involved and it had been rumored that he had been beaten.

Michael wore his hair long and processed, and as Bobby, who was a pathologist, ran his hands through his hair, feeling his scalp for lumps, bumps, cracks, contusions, bruises or abrasions, he found there were none.

“I need to look into his eyes,” Dan said to the doctors who told him that his brother’s eyes had been capped. Dan knew that when someone died a traumatic death, you could see it in the eyes, the pupils would be dilated.

“Uncap them,” he demanded. And after they did so, he was relieved to see that his brother’s eyes were normal - no signs of a traumatic death.

It was a very hot day in Columbus, and Michael was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts when a main artery burst, and congestive heart failure was imminent. With his heart pumping and

The Story of Ruth August 26, 1983

cocaine and heroin in his system, and him having the sickle cell, the Lord decided it was best that he come Home.

With a very heavy heart, I sat thinking about moving to Michigan and watching Michael grow up. I thought about him teasing and taunting the hobos down by the railroad tracks, burning a tree infested with caterpillars, and coming home with pillowcases full of Halloween candy. As his baseball coach, Doyle was proud of him on the baseball field. Michael was ambidextrous, switching up to swing a bat with his left arm or right.

Michael was also an artist. During time spent in jail, he did not waste it or his talent. In addition to working on his mind, body, and spirit, his quiet time was spent creating beautiful pieces of art and sculptures, made from home-made paper mâché materials.

But he did grow up quickly and he knew the streets. His circle was filled with pimps and players, hustlers and gamblers. He had his special friends and his special ladies. They flocked to him, and on this day of departure, he left behind ten children to carry on his memory.

The six James children had a lot of friends who came to pay their respects, including the many former little league baseball players his father had coached. BeeBee and her two boys came from Denver. The casket was open during the wake. But after so much pain and suffering with outbursts of crying, tears and hugs from viewing Michael, Dan asked Thurman, his brotherin-law, to thank everyone for coming. He ended the wake early.

It was raining the next morning as everyone got dressed for the funeral. The limousines would be coming soon to pick everyone up. BeeBee was helping me and Mother with our clothes and jewelry, while her boys were sitting on the couch waiting and watching TV.

I suddenly felt alone even though the house was full of people. And the rain didn’t help. “Why did it have to rain today?” I asked, breaking down crying, which was always so easy for me to do.

Dan, seeing how upset I was, tearfully replied, “Don’t let the rain bother you. That’s just God cleansing the earth before we put Mike in it.”

Getting out of the limousine, I could see the church was overflowing as people were standing by the doors to enter. I felt weak in my knees, and I had a pit in my stomach as I was escorted to the front pew along with Doyle, our other five children, and Mother. I could feel Daddy’s presence. Even after ten years, I knew his spirit was in the room with us.

It was a beautiful service, and the many people who came were a testament to how much Michael and our family were loved.

His friends came in masses – pimps, players, hustlers, and gamblers; but also, former classmates, family friends, neighbors, and folks just wanting to pay their respects. Shad Green, the Pimpleton brothers, the Jones brothers, Big Frank Lamar, and Big Mike from Muskegon were among them. Many of them shared lessons about life with “Red Dog” as he was often

called. But those closest to me I saw included James “Fab” Farabee, Otis Clyde, Leon Manning, Blue Goose, and Bobba Ray.

Those who did not have a seat lined the walls of the church.

Michael always kept his children in line, as well as his nieces and nephews. BeeBee’s son Donald was much like Michael. They had not seen each other but on an occasion or two, but Michael had to discipline him for something.

During the final viewing, I think little seven-year-old Donald wanted to thank Michael for the lessons learned. As Donald approached the casket, he stretched his small frame over the casket, and with several of the cousins following suit, leaned over and gave his Uncle Mike a gentle kiss goodbye… Y

Loving Arms of God

“It’s okay, BeeBee, she’ll understand,” was all I could say to my second daughter between our tears of grief. “You can’t do everything. You need to take care of your boys and get your paper out.”

BeeBee was raising her two sons in Denver and running her new business, the Urban Spectrum newspaper. She made me think how Mother always called her “little red-head girl” because her hair would get lighter in the summer.

“I know Ma, but the boys are taking it really hard, especially Donald,” BeeBee said, reminding me of how seven-year-old Donald kissed his Uncle Mike goodbye just five years earlier.

This was a time when I was grateful for having several children. It was a time for them to be together – and if not physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

People say that an only child grows up lonely, sad, selfish, and spoiled. I must add that there were times when growing up with no siblings also brought a sense of sadness. But those times were erased by Mother and Daddy, not by spoiling me but by loving me. Their faith in God and guidance from The Bible was all they needed to raise this child.

I don’t know why I was an only child because in those days it was natural to have big families. Mother grew up with eight brothers and three sisters, so why it was just me, I don’t know, but as I became older, I realized it didn’t matter. I learned that my “special siblings” were my friends, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, who circled me with love, affection, and knowledge. But Mother, she was my everything, and as her only child, I was her everything.

But I, on the other hand, had more children, and I wanted them to experience the love and affection I got as child from my parents, their grandparents. And as the grandchildren of Avinger and Cornelius – Mother and Daddy – and my children became part of a generational love affair.

Mother’s primary goal in life as a woman and mother was to care for me and Daddy. She was quiet and soft-spoken and yes, she loved the Lord. She rarely missed church and served on the Usher Board at True Light Baptist Church. In 1978 she was named the Woman of the Year at the Annual Women’s Day celebration.

It had been fifteen years since Daddy had passed. Mother was eighty-four and getting feeble and feeling alone.

“Mother, do you want something to eat?” I asked while looking for the turkey knuckles in the refrigerator. When she didn’t answer, I looked around the corner from the kitchen to the living room, where she was sitting listening to her gospel music, her Bible next to her on the end table. When I asked

again, adding, “There’s a little cornbread and cabbage in here,” I heard her slippers sliding on the floor as if she was getting up.

When I came around the corner, Mother had her hands pressed on the arms of the wooden chair attempting to rise. She did rise but sat back down, took a breath, and then closed her eyes.

I pulled up the other chair and sat next to her and held her hand. I thanked her for giving me life. I thanked her for never judging me for my shortcomings. I thanked her for her special way of protecting. I thanked her for raising me in the church and teaching me at an early age to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. I asked for forgiveness for any pain that I may have ever caused her. I thanked her for being the best mother a daughter could ever have.

I removed her glasses, brushed her hair, and I told her that I loved her. “It’s okay Mother. God has wrapped you in his arms and Michael and Daddy are waiting for you.”

Now it was Mother.

And the pain resurfaced again, the same pain I felt in 1973 and 1983.

I sat there thinking about the good times she and Daddy had; even the house parties with friends and family when Michael was just a toddler. They were devout Christians, but they still enjoyed social gatherings. Many of their friends and family members had already passed on as well. Their journey together from Amory, Mississippi, had now come to an end.

It’s so hard to say good-bye. First it was Daddy, and then it was Michael, and now you Mother. But losing you, Mother, was the worst day of my life – loving you was my life.

Families come together for weddings and funerals. So, this time, once again the family gathered for the latter. All my children attended Mother’s funeral except BeeBee, who couldn’t afford it financially and because of the time it took building her paper. But she would not let her Grandmother’s life and memory go in vain. She published a poem in her honor in the Urban Spectrum on how her son cried out to her.

This is what she wrote:

In memory of Grandma Great,

He’s at peace now and going to sleep.

Much like you Grandma Great, but not quite the same.

Two hours ago, I didn’t know what was going through his head. As the pain struck him on the news of your passing, he struck out at the world. As tears streamed down his face, he refused to let me hold him or touch him. He jerked and pushed my arms away.

He’s only 12 years old, but in his short life he has seen a lot of death.

Death that was close. Death that was home. Death that was love.

I encouraged him to lie down, knowing he had to rise for school in several hours.

An hour ago, he cried out to me, arms outstretched and still crying. I held him close like any mother would. We talked about you Grandma Great. He had not seen much of you, but he knows you and loves you, as we all do. He never knew “Big Daddy,” but he knows that you have gone and joined him.

We talked for a while. We talked about you and life.

More good times than bad. More happy than sad.

When I told him you never learned how to drive a car, I managed to get a little smile. But he realizes you had a long and happy life. He realizes you had a good life, and he realizes the Lord decided it was time to bring another one of his children home.

Grandma Great! That you are and will always be.

Our bodies are not there with your body, but our hearts and souls are there with yours.

Grandma Great! We’ll miss you and love you always.

Speaking for all who know you and love you, your red-head girl from Denver.

BeeBee

—

and the boys

Place of Salvation

It had taken fifteen years of spiritual growth and I was finally coming into my own being. Losing Daddy, Michael, and Mother helped me to find purpose outside of the confines of a house that was my home and my foundation.

Jackie, Dan, and BeeBee were all grown and living in other parts of the country, but they would come home for class reunions and some holidays. My grandchildren were plentiful, but out of all of them, I could always count on Dante, Dan’s son, to share a good laugh with me as we would journey through a day. He’d take me to the store or go to the store for me. He’d take me to church, and when I didn’t get on the Go Bus, he’d take me to the Salvation Army. I looked forward to going there because it was a place where seniors gathered to participate in senior-designed programs.

Actually, the Salvation Army had been part of my life and children for many years – long before I was a senior. The Salvation Army Little Pine Island Camp focused on mothers and their children having fun out in God’s creation. It was about serving the physical, social, and spiritual needs of campers.

The Story of Ruth Year of 1988

It was a mainstay in our summer ventures as my children, and I experienced life outdoors in cabins that had wood carved Indian names hanging near the doors. The girls would have the lower bunks, boys would take the top, and my single bed would be near the door. Activities over the three-week “mother-children-only” camp included swimming, hiking, and sitting around a bonfire singing songs at night. Craft time was fun, and we looked forward to filling our suitcases and taking home handmade souvenirs like weaving baskets, paper mâché crafts, popsicle stick houses, twisty three string lanyards, and moccasins.

But my family took pride in the many certificates we won and took home for having the cleanest cabin. After we had our breakfast in the town hall, it would be time to clean the cabin inside and out with the goal of winning the daily certificate for cleanest cabin during lunch time. We would clean that cabin up and down, making sure the floors didn’t have a speck of dust, that beds were made with the blankets tucked in at the corners, and the pillows were fluffed up with the ends facing the same way. The outside would be swept rid of candy and gum wrappers and the dirt and rocks that lined the short walkway on both sides to the door. Fresh-picked flowers we found from the campgrounds decorated our cabin sign so the judges would remember our cabin name.

Dante did not go to camp, but our time spent together as he was becoming a young man was just as enjoyable as going to camp.

He laughed when he saw how excited I was about our upcoming Keenagers Gala at the Salvation Army. It was a fancy affair, and I was in charge of the planning. It was a dream come true for me and I pushed the envelope with it. I was proud to see all the seniors dressed in gowns and tuxedos, and in my remarks, I thanked everyone for coming.

A few days after the event, I was still excited about the success we had. I called and said, “Daaaanntae, come over here and go get me some ice cream from CVS. You know I want that New York Cherry flavor – nothing else.”

He would laugh through the phone and say, “Okay Big Ma.” That was what all of the grandkids called me: “Big Ma.” I liked it, especially since I wasn’t all that big.

“And get me two so I can have a backup,” I would say, and we would both just bust out laughing. “If they don’t have it, bring me anything else, but just don’t bring me no lemon.”

That soon became a running joke with me. He would repeat back my grocery list and then say, “and a gallon of Lemon Ice Cream.” We would both crack up laughing all over again ‘til tears ran down our faces. It reminded me of Daddy, and how he couldn’t get enough of laughing when he heard something funny.

Me and Dante would spend hours talking about good food and cooking. Many of those conversations took place during our shopping trips together. Later on, after shopping so much with me and knowing what I wanted, he would shop on his own for me.

Our time together was just pure fun. We laughed, we ate, we nodded out, then would get up and go home.

One evening his phone rang and woke him up. I was still nodding out in my Lazy Boy, but could I tell it was Bobbie, his mama.

“Yeah, Big Ma is sleep. We ate some turkey knuckles, cabbage, and cornbread. I had a piece of sweet potato pie and some Kool-Aid,” I heard him say. “Yes, she is, such poise, grace, and full of love. She is good and gracious to everybody she comes in contact with,” he continued as I caught myself dozing hard and catching myself starting to snore.

“But she is also a fighter, you don’t want to piss her off. I’ve seen her in action,” he said laughing and then before saying good-bye, he said “And she has a mean one-two punch.”

I could see him through sleepy eyes getting up, turning off the TV, kissing me goodbye on the forehead and locking the door behind him.

Thanks to my children and grandchildren, my life was full and vibrant. Thanks to Daddy and Mother, I was full of grace and full of love. I had found purpose through them.

I had found salvation. Y

A Decade of US

I was looking forward to going back to Denver to see BeeBee.

“I like this kind of attention,” I said to my daughter, Jackie, as she was walking alongside me, the attendant pushing me in the wheelchair down the runway to catch my flight.

“I know you do,” Jackie said laughing and smiling as she carried my walking cane. “I guess you feel a little special, huh? Well, guess what? You are!”

We were getting ready to land in Colorado, and I could see the snowcapped mountains as the flight attendant said we were six-hundred miles away from the Mile High City.

I couldn’t believe BeeBee had been running her paper for ten years now, and that we were going to celebrate with her and Robert, her partner. Her boys were young men. Donald was twenty-one and Lawrence was twenty-eight. BeeBee was always the adventurous one of my three girls. She was determined, and she did what she wanted to do. I am so proud of her.

“Hi Grandma. Hey Aunt Jack,” Larry said, grabbing the luggage from the curb. “How was your flight?”

“Smooth as smooth could be,” I said, even though I slept most of the way.

When we arrived at the house, BeeBee was doing her thing as she was getting ready for her big event. Her newspaper was ten years old, and she was putting together a big party to celebrate it. There were awards, and gifts, and centerpieces scattered all around her house, and the phone was jumping off the hook. BeeBee was busy as, well, a bee, taking care of business and making sure everything was ready.

Our limo pulled up in front of the Casino Cabaret in Five Points, and I saw the bright sign, “A Decade of US Party, with Bobby Wells – April 25.” I felt like I was in New York or Hollywood or somewhere.

As we entered through the big white door, there was a lot of crystal glass in the middle and two on the sides. The ballroom was filled with Black folks dressed in gold and silver and glitter – it reminded me of Duke Ellington playing “Take the ‘A’ Train.” Duke didn’t perform, but the program was one I will never forget.

“Doesn’t she look like an African Queen?” I asked Jackie about Opalanga Pugh, this local griot, or historian, who welcomed everyone as she performed what she called a libation ceremony.

“BeeBee featured her as a cover story last year,” Jackie said. “She is a professional storyteller. If I remember correctly, I think she studied in Nigeria and spent time working, traveling, and studying in West Africa and learning African oral tradition. Maybe that’s why she looks like an African Queen.”

“BeeBee sure has met a lot of people these last ten years –important people too. And the boys have just grown up,” I said, looking at Donald and Lawrence at the table with their girlfriends.

“Yeah, I got some handsome nephews,” said Jackie. “They are good boys, too. Hey nephew,” she said loudly to Lawrence while peering across the table and peeking around the centerpiece, “Will you go get me and Grandma some more of that shrimp cocktail?”

“Okay, I’ll go now” he said as he was getting up. “Cause I want to hear September.”

A heavy-set woman dressed in a flowery blue flowing dress appeared on the stage. Her short coiffed auburn hair circled her face and accented her sensual eyes. Her name was September.

“I hate kids. I just had one to see if I could. When the neighborhood kids ask me why you so fat, I tell them because I eat kids. I grabbed one and yelled to my husband Gordon to bring me the hot sauce. With piss running down his leg, he hauled ass running calling for his mama,” September joked with a serious tone that brought down the house in laughter.

Everyone was laughing and clapping and yelling for more. She was funny. I had tears in my eyes from laughing. I think Daddy would have enjoyed the jokes.

People were mingling. Old friends were reuniting and hugging. Our table was busy with people welcoming us to Denver and saying how they were connected to my second daughter. Many were friends, some worked for the paper, others were

readers, there was a bunch of advertisers and sponsors, and then there were just the community folks.

The buffet line was busy as everyone kept filling their plates and their drinks while enjoying the live entertainment.

“That Chester McSwain can really sing the blues,” I said. “I’m happy that he is close to BeeBee and the boys. He’s a good uncle to BeeBee’s boys. He is so charismatic.”

“And that Bobby Wells band is great,” said Jackie. “His vocalist has a beautiful voice.”

“Hey Jack, look over there. Look at him dancing. His name is George Gray. I think BeeBee said he is eighty-five years old. She said he walks really slow, but when he gets on the dance floor, he can cut a rug. Look at him, he’s showing up everybody else.”

The night was coming to an end. Everyone had a great time. It was time to give thanks. Sponsors were recognized with gifts and awards. Supporters were recognized. Writers and other folks were recognized.

“Tonight would not have been possible without the support of family and friends. And tonight we would like to give this special award to Ms. Ruth for her support over the years,” said Robert, as my daughter waited to present me with a plaque. My grandsons escorted me up to the stage, and I was speechless as my eyes welled up with tears.

It may have been a “Decade of US” celebration, but it was a once in lifetime celebration for me.Y

A Song for Mama

“Miss James, it is so good to see you. How you doing? You look great,” were just some of the comments I heard from the young men as they piled into the Ramblewood Party House for “The Gang’s All Here” surprise birthday party for Doyle, who was turning seventy.

Baseball was an important part of our lives, and seeing the Little League players all grown up from thirty-five years ago was a very special occasion. Many of the players looked more like Doyle’s brothers than the young boys who saw him as a father figure. Some of those boys who played for him in the early 1960s were nearing fifty years old, with heads full of gray hair, and a few others looked a whole lot heavier.

Looking at them, I remembered the ones who wanted more hot dogs after a game. I remembered who the best players were, and I really remembered who had the nerve to ask me about going out with one of my three daughters.

“Miss James, can I get you something to eat?” one of them asked right before Doyle arrived. I didn’t get a chance to answer him before everyone jumped up and yelled “Surprise!”

In came Doyle, along with his daughter Kim. Geri opted not to attend for obvious reasons, but David, their son, was already there. Doyle was both surprised and very happy as he looked around the room seeing some of his little players all grown up, many he had not seen for several years. Doyle was, deep down, a sensitive man. Tears streamed down his face as he continued to scan the room, focusing his gaze on our children: Muriel came with her daughter Robbin and son Ronnie, and her friend Chester Huff. Robin was there with his friend Debbie McLiechey.

And BeeBee came all the way from Denver with her friend Herb Brown. Doyle was the most surprised by her visit. She was a graphic designer, and she created “The James Gang” birthday invitation that included the baseball team photos from 1961 to 1964 – flashbacks of days gone by.

“Rozzy,” Doyle said to BeeBee as they embraced. That was his pet name for her. “When did you get here?”

Wiping away his tears, “surprise” was all she could muster up, followed by, “Happy Birthday, Daddy.”

It was a little cool outside and it was starting to get dark, but inside it was warm and welcoming. There was plenty of food, gifts galore, and enough drinks for an entire baseball team. Hugs and high-fives were shared among everyone. It was a wonderful reunion.

Doyle was also surprised to see me. To be honest, we were both happy to see each other.

“Hi Ruth,” he said, as he kissed me on my forehead. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good, Doyle. How are you?” I answered back with a smile.

“Well, they got me on this one. I wasn’t expecting this,” he said happily and gratefully, through tear-watered eyes, taking it all in, being in that moment with all of his good memories.

“Yep, they’ve been planning this for a while,” I said. “This is really special. Happy birthday, Doyle.”

“Look at these fellas. They’re all grown up, and some are as gray as I am,” he said, looking around the room at his baseball boys. “My goodness, look at Steve over there! That boy, could he play some ball or what?” he said slightly under his breath.

“Look Doyle, there’s Joey! See he’s over there with Philip. That’s Joey,” I said, talking about my friend Gloria’s son.

Seeing Joey reminded me of the unique bond his mother and I had, a bond that no one would ever understand. It was a special kind of friendship between two women.

Joey and Robin were the same age, and they were best friends in grade school. They became close while at Sigsbee Elementary, and as their mothers, we became friends as well. She and her husband worked at General Motors along with Doyle and many other Black people in Grand Rapids. It was the main industry of work for the city. The end of the school year picnics brought memories for the mothers and their children.

Gloria often told me that Joey missed Robin after my son changed schools and went to St. Stephen’s. She told me how Joey would walk from 1057 Bemis Street, taking shortcuts though the Grant’s backyard on Baxter Street to get to Doby Street, and then head up to 1111 Dunham Street to spend time with Joey. Those boys would often play in our backyard. Joey seemed to take comfort in spending time at our home.

I don’t know who started it but the “remember when’s” came fast and furious out of everybody’s mouths.

“Remember when Herman Green was up to bat, the bases were loaded, the score was tied, and it was the bottom of the ninth? The other team was leading by one. And remember when other team’s coach threw his cap on the ground in anger?” asked one of the players whose hair was as gray as Doyle’s.

“He knew that was all she wrote, and the fat lady was about to sing,” said Rob, joining everyone in laughter.

Most of the talk was about the players and their Little League games, but the now grown men congregated and talked about grown-up baseball news and other news as well.

“Did you hear that Gary Sheffield was traded to the Los Angeles Dodgers because the Marlins couldn’t afford a contract extension?”

“He’s that outfielder who was the first player in Florida Marlins history to hit two home runs in one inning, right?”

“Yep, that’s him.”

“Did you know Ole ‘Blue Eyes’ Frank Sinatra died a couple of days ago on Mr. James’ birthday. He was eighty-two.”

“What about that dude in Oregon who brought that military gun to that school, and shot up that classroom killing those kids and a bunch of adults too?”

“Yeah, I heard about that. They said he killed his folks before he went to the school.”

“Was he white?”

“Do you have to ask? You know he was. These white folks are going crazy.”

Yes, there was a lot of violence in those days, a lot by white folks all over the place. Then I read that Black folks got it worse than white folks. And so did Indians, Asian people, Mexicans, and pretty much anybody who wasn’t white.

But this night gave us a break from all of the craziness around us. I was proud seeing how those young boys had developed into well-rounded men, and how well their lives turned out. Of course, we lost a few over the years, but for the most part, many were still with us.

Reflecting back, I remembered it all as the warm feelings of a more innocent time came rushing back to me. Getting the hotdogs ready for after the games. Making sure there was plenty of Kool-Aid for the players. Watching Doyle put in long hours of practice with the boys. Making sure they all got home safe from the baseball field.

This was Doyle’s seventieth birthday party, but it felt like it was mine as well. We shared so many hours together with his

players, and I’m grateful that I was a part of that. After everything was said and done, the now grown men thanked me for being in their lives. Their tribute to me came as a surprise, and it brought tears to my eyes. As the Boyz II Men song “A Song for Mama” was playing, each of them walked by me, one-byone, and presented me with a rose.

Some gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Yes, it was Doyle’s night. His special celebration. But in a way, it was my night, too… Y

Magnolia, Lilac, and Honey Suckle

The smell of lilacs would tickle my nose, making me smile, as me and Daddy we rode through those Mississippi neighborhoods that didn’t look like mine, and definitely didn’t look like Doyle’s. I would jump in the truck and wait for Daddy to start the engine so we could go into town. His order of ice and other needed items would be waiting for him to pick up for his deliveries for the next week. As we drove down the hilly road, I would see white kids playing in their yards. They would stop in their tracks when they saw my two little black hands hanging out of the half-closed window as I peered out feeling the warmth of the sun and a warm breeze in the air.

“Miss Smith, we should be back by seven,” Daddy would always say to Mother, and her reply would always be, “Okay Mr. Smith, don’t buy Ruthie no candy. It’ll spoil her appetite for dinner.”

But I was Daddy’s little girl, and he would always buy some Hershey’s Kisses for an after-dinner treat – for me and for Mother.

Hershey’s Kisses were pretty popular. I had my first one at ten years old. They had this machine wrapping round them, along with the “plume,” letting you know it as a genuine Hershey’s Chocolate. It was the real deal.

I’m not sure if I ever became totally used to the cold Michigan weather, or if I ever got over missing my Southern upbringing. Visiting Jackie in Atlanta during my annual three-month getaway visit from the bitter cold Northern winter was the closest I could get to being back in Amory.

“Atlanta is so big. It’s like a city in a city,” I said to my granddaughter Lisa, who would always laugh when I said that.

“Big Ma, it’s not that big. You’ll get used to it. Grand Rapids is just small compared to Atlanta,” she explained.

Inside that “city within a city,” I found my way around and joined in just like I was at home. I would schedule a Go-Bus to pick me up, and I would spend the morning, afternoon, or even a whole day at senior citizens programs. I enjoyed meeting new friends in Georgia. Traveling through the different neighborhoods, I caught the smell of honey suckle which reminded me of Mother. Other neighborhoods would smell of Magnolias, reminding me of home.

I was enjoying the best of two very different worlds.

In the evening and before going to bed, I enjoyed watching the “Price is Right,” “The Love Connection,” “The Love Boat,” and “Family Feud” with Lisa after she finished her homework.

“Big Ma, if you went on the ‘Price is Right,’ I know you would win,” she would say laughing because I was known as a

penny pincher and could squeeze a dollar out of a quarter. “How do you know those prices like that?”

“After having six children by the age of twenty-eight, I learned early how to manage money, and I learned a lot from Daddy, too,” I told her.

In between our watching TV, we’d talk about my other favorite pastime – food, and how much weight I lost or needed to lose because of my love for it.

“Today at the senior center, they served cod fish with green beans and a tossed salad with French dressing. The dinner rolls were a little dry but was okay with some butter. The dessert was apple crisp, which was good with my coffee,” I told Lisa.

She knew I appreciated the senior program meals, but she also knew I had two favorite restaurants that I always wanted to go to during my visit.

“Big Ma,” she said. “Let’s go to Piccadilly’s for dinner tomorrow, and on Saturday, and maybe we can go to the Atlantic Breakfast Club for brunch. I hear they have good salmon croquettes since you like them so much.”

Our Black-owned and so-called soul food restaurants in Grand Rapids were scarce and often short-lived. The Southernatmosphere restaurants in Atlanta, adorned with lilac centerpieces, were akin to what I was accustomed to while growing up in Amory.

Food in the South was the real “soul food,” which included fried chicken, fried chicken, and more fried chicken – with

dumplings, potatoes, and gravy – and anything else that would contribute to big bellies and fat butts in Mississippi.

“Big Ma said after she gets back home, she’s going to get back on her Weight Watchers. You know she joined Weight Watchers when it first began,” Lisa said, talking to her friend on the phone. “She loves her some Weight Watchers, and she loves ‘American Idol,’ too.”

Jackie, Lisa’s mother, had just prepared dinner and the smell of fish was in the air. She stopped eating any kind of meat years ago so some form of seafood was commonly served. Tonight, it was Tilapia.

“Lisa, get ready,” I said calling her to join me to watch “American Idol.” “That Ruben Stoddard is so good. I hope he wins this year.”

We would talk about who should get kicked off the show. Most times we would agree, and even after I went back home, we’d still talk about the show on the phone.

“Big Ma, it was close, but I knew he would beat out that Clay Aiken,” Lisa said when she called me to talk about the 2003 American Idol finale. And we were both glad.

I looked forward to my Atlanta journey every year, which included many trips within the trip, like going to Memphis and other places in the South.

And every place I travelled, the sweet scent of magnolias, lilacs, and honey suckle was in the air, reminding me of my life as a little girl in Mississippi, and the sweet memories of home.Y

Turning Pages

I didn’t really read many books. No time to turn the page. My energy was spent raising our six kids and working. And at seventy-nine, I was starting to reap the benefits of all that hard work.

Michael was gone. But I must say, we did a pretty good job with the rest of the children. And this year finally made me understand what turning a page really meant. I came to realize that I had turned several of my own.

It was August, hot and sunny, and I was back in Denver for another of BeeBee’s milestone celebrations. Her Denver Urban Spectrum was turning another page with a four-day celebration of what they called “spreading the news about people of color” for two decades. And I was so looking forward to the festivities my daughter had planned for her award-winning publication.

I always enjoyed coming to Denver, but this time it was extra special. I travelled with my grandson’s other grandmother, Trudy, and we were treated like Queens.

While we were all getting ready for the black-tie event, all of a sudden, all Hell broke loose. Banneker, the family puppy, had got through the partially closed front door and was off and running. He was only a few months old, adventurous, and was still being trained to stay in the house.

“What’s wrong?” I said as the voices and excitement got louder.

“Banneker ran out the front door,” one of the kids said as Larry darted out to catch the little rambunctious Shibu Inu.

“He still likes to run, and sometimes it takes a while to get him,” said BeeBee. “I think he thinks it’s a game like cat and mouse.”

Returning very frustrated, Larry said, “I couldn’t catch him so I’m just not going to go.”

The clock was ticking and with everyone dressed, Larry not coming with us put a damper on the evening causing more frustration and even some tears.

It was all hands on deck, as the kids gathered and headed out the door in search of the family pet, and shortly thereafter, after several prayers, Larry, with everyone’s help, returned with Banneker in his arms.

As I sat at BeeBee’s special event, ten years after the last really big one, watching those being honored and learning about their journeys, I thought about my own journey, my own travels, and my own life. It may not have been perfect, but it is good – Godly good. And Denver has been a blessing to me. I watched twenty notable people get honored, many I had met,

The Story of Ruth August 16 and December 9, 2007

including Denver Mayor Wellington Webb and First Lady Wilma Webb; promoter Lu Vason; astronaut and artist Ed Dwight; and the very blue-eyed Charles Cousins, a businessman who shared with me some very nice words. I think he was flirting. And I was especially happy to meet the special guest, actor Bill Cobbs, who travelled in from Los Angeles.

Everyone has a story, and I was proud that my daughter had the audacity and fortitude to recognize so many folks from her community and share stories that impacted so many lives. I only wish Mother and Daddy could have witnessed the foundation upon which their grandchildren stood.

After an event-filled weekend that included a play about actress Hattie McDaniel, performed by Vickilyn Reynolds, we went on a chauffeur-driven trip to the Rocky Mountains.

My heart was full, and it was time to turn another page.

In December, BeeBee and grandsons Tyrell and Dylan all came home to Michigan to celebrate Dan being given an honorary doctorate degree from Grand Valley State University. They called it the “Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters” degree.

“Hi Big Ma,” BeeBee said as she arrived on the train with Tyrell and Dylan.

“That train ride was tight, Grandma,” Tyrell said with excitement as BeeBee talked about every mode of transportation they had traveled – plane, bus, train, and car – for the journey.

The Van Andel Arena was overflowing with family and friends, filled with adulation over the success of their loved ones. Dan’s honor made me a really proud mama.

Watching my children flourish over the years has been my greatest joy as a mother. I thank God every day for making it possible for me to see them lay down their own foundations, and to build a future for their children and their children’s children.

It’s been twenty-four years since Michael passed. But I see so much of him in his brothers and sisters. Jackie is an educator and has been teaching for many years in Atlanta. Dan is an award-winning filmmaker in North Carolina. And BeeBee owns an award-winning publication in Denver. My baby girl Muriel is a bondsman, and my baby boy Robin is working as a counselor.

They all did okay, so I guess Doyle and me, we did okay.

But Michael’s real legacy is his many children and grandchildren, who each carry his spirit inside of them. They are the embodiment of his dreams, just like my children are the embodiment of mine.

Generations will come and generations will go. And with each one, you realize that life is a journey with very interesting chapters – from chasing puppies, to telling stories, to enriching lives.

And as we all travel that journey, we all turn pages of our lives. Y

Family: Old and New

It was August 3, 2008.

“It’s a beautiful day for this family reunion, Ruth,” said Kennard Whitfield, my first cousin. “I didn’t know it was just a James Family reunion and not a Whitfield reunion, but I’m glad me and Jean came. It’s good to see all the family we didn’t know or know about.”

“Yeah, I kept thinking, I got all these grandkids and great grandkids and don’t even know some of them. And haven’t seen some in years,” I said looking at all the kids running around and playing. “I needed to see my family.”

The park tables were full of food with BBQ ribs, fried chicken and fish, potato salad and baked beans, and a lot of desserts. There were several coolers on the ends of the tables filled with water, pop, and beer. Music was blaring from two different boom boxes, and everyone was giving hugs, kisses, and high-fives, while others were playing dominoes or cards in their own private spaces.

“I wish we had more T-shirts,” said BeeBee as she came over to get something to drink. “Everyone keeps asking ‘where are the shirts?’”

BeeBee had designed the t-shirts and brought them from Denver. She and Michael were the artists in the family. The T-shirt depicted a family picture from a reception following Dante’s honorary doctoral degree reception.

“Those are some nice T-shirts, Ruth,” Kennard said, which made me think about Mother’s brothers and sisters. Kennard was about five years younger than me and Doyle and was born in St. Louis. He and Ettie Jean Phillips got married in 1937 and they were still together. He was mayor of Rock Hill, Missouri, holding office from 1994 to 2008.

I thought I had a lot of children, but my grandmother Patience and Andrew Whitfield (Mother’s parents) had me beat. Ossie was their first born and the oldest of eleven children. He and Nettie had two sons: Kennard and Harold, who were later raised by Irma Whitfield. Mother was the second born. The next nine siblings were John Wesley Jr., Arthur Green, Morlee, Roosevelt, Wilson, Clara Florinda, Tommy, Tornch Isaiah, and Christine.

Because they lived in Grand Rapids, I was especially close to Aunt Morlee and Aunt Clara, who was a real pistol. Clara drank and smoked and loved a good party. Morlee was quieter and more subdued, kind of like Mother. I leaned on Uncle Tornch quite a bit. His children grew up alongside mine.

“Yeah Cousin,” I said, “I’m glad you came too. And it’s always so good to see Jean. So, what do you think about Obama? Won’t that be somethin’ when he becomes the first Black president?”

Admitting that he still didn’t know much about the man, Kennard said, short, quick, and to the point, “I think he’ll win.”

“Hey Dante, get me my walker,” I said calling my grandson. “I need to go to the car and get something.”

“Big Ma, sit down. What do you want? You don’t need to be going to the parking lot. I’ll get it for you,” he said.

“It’s getting hot. I need something to cool me off. Get my little portable fan from the back seat. And before you go to the car, grab me one of those icy cold bottles of water from that cooler over there,” I said as I sat back down and reached for a piece of sweet potato pie.

“Yeah, Kennard, it’s been a long time since we had our family reunions over in Gary. That was at least fifty years ago, right?”

“Yeah, I guess it was, Ruth. Things sure have changed – and we have just gotten older,” Kennard said laughing. “But I’m really glad I came to see you and to see Doyle.”

“And we are really in a good space now,” I said. “And my kids are here, and most of their kids – and even some of their kids,” I said as we both laughed.

“BeeBee’s youngest son Donald ain’t here but his two sons are and so is her other son Lawrence,” I explained. “Jackie is here with Lisa and her girl Kaylen. And Muriel got her two, Ronnie and Robbin, with all their kids. Look over there at Rob with his bunch. I don’t know how many of his kids are here, but I think he has the most. And I think that’s Dan, Deb, and

Dante over there talking to Doyle. Michael ain’t here but his spirit is… Mia… Melshunn… Keith… Tony...”

And a lot of BeeBee’s high school friends are here because her South High School fortieth class reunion is also this weekend so a lot of them are at home,” I went on, pointing folks out for Kennard. “There’s Zoe, Debbie, and Eva over there talking to Jackie and BeeBee. And there’s Muriel and Billie sitting over there on the grass. And that Atkins boy, Michael, is over by that tree with two of those Carlisle boys. He and BeeBee were good friends. He was a year younger, but they went to a high school dance together.”

“Well Ruth, I’m really glad I came,” Kennard said with a smile. “Everybody here shows how much love and respect they have for you, Doyle, and your kids. And we have come a long way from our Mississippi roots.”

“Yes, we have, and I am really glad to see you and Jean, Kennard,” I answered, “because family is so important. Generations come and generations go, and today I was able to remember my older generation with you and see my future generations in my family, young and old. I am happy today.

“And I want to see more generations because today was a blessing, a gift from God, and truly a family moment.” Y

Mother, I’m Home

“Bessie May, hold on. Let me turn up the TV. Obama is speaking,” I said while slipping on my house shoes to get up from my recliner.

It was early in the morning, so I grabbed another cup of Sanka before I sat back down. I grabbed another piece of bacon too, and a slice of toast since I was still a little hungry.

“Bessie, let me call you back. I want to hear what he is saying. They showing his grandmother on TV.”

I sat back down to finish my second plate of breakfast.

“Um, um, um,” I said, hearing Obama say that his grandmother had just died.

Madelyn Dunham was eighty-six. She was Senator Barack Obama’s grandmother. She passed away in Hawaii after battling cancer, and on the eve of Election Day, the day her grandbaby was about to become president of the United States.

“She has gone home,” Barack said on the TV newscast as I watched, “peacefully in her sleep with my sister at her side, so there’s great joy instead of tears.”

He said he called her “Toot,” his shorthand for “tutu,” a Hawaiian term for grandparent.

My heart was heavy hearing the news as I thought about how happy I was that I had already mailed in my ballot. I still couldn’t believe that I could see a Black man become president in my lifetime. I only wish Daddy and Mother could be here –they would be so happy to see this moment.

I could see Daddy now, scratching his head and rubbing his suspenders up and down in pure joy, saying to Mother, “I declare, Miss Smith, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. A Black president.”

And Mother would simply nod and say, “You sho’ is right, Mr. Smith. And he is such a good man, that Barack Obama,” while still doing what she was doing.

I was happy that I had caller ID as I quickly snatched up the phone and said, “Dante, when did you mail my ballot?”

“Big Ma, I told you I mailed it two days after you got it, about two weeks ago,” he answered.

“Okay Daaaaaante, cuz you know I want my vote counted. I’m so excited! Hey, this is Bessie May calling me back. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay Big Ma. I’ll talk to you later,” he said. Shoot! I missed her call. I’ll call her back after I heat up my leftover turkey knuckles and greens for dinner to eat while I’m watching Joel Osteen. I’m so glad Dante got my ballot in. I’m so happy and will be so proud when Obama becomes the first Black President. And he has such a beautiful family. I just can’t

believe it. Thank you, God, for making this happen in my lifetime. It’s been a long time coming.

And growing up in Mississippi at a time when hate and lynching was an everyday occurrence – and not that long ago –it made me think about fourteen-year-old Emmett Till and what his mother, Mamie Till, went through. Lord knows I’ve feared for my sons’ safety like other mothers still do today. I thank Mother and Daddy for bringing me up right with love, faith, and a belief in Jesus Christ. I’m grateful for my six children, their children, and their children, and I am proud of what they did with their lives. That’s all Doyle and I ever wanted, for them to have a better life than we did growing up. Tomorrow, history will be made, and I can’t wait.

“Hey, Bessie, did you mail your ballot?”

“Ruth, you know I got my ballot in,” she said. “I filled out my ballot and mailed that envelope as soon as I got it. I don’t remember the other boxes I checked but I sure know I checked the box for Barack Hussein Obama for President.”

“Yeah, me too,” as we shared a laugh that quickly turned to sadness. “And did you hear Obama talking this morning on the news about his grandmother dying? You know she was the one that raised him. She was sick, but I guess she knew he was going to be elected.”

“Yeah,” Bessie May said. “I guess, but it would be nice if she could have hung on another twenty-four hours.”

“Hold on, Bessie, let me get the door... It’s probably my grandson,” I said. “He probably wants some money but he ain’t

getting none today. He’ll have to take it from me. Hey, let me call you back.”

I said good-bye to Bessie May and headed to the door.

The wind was blowing from the November chill, and I heard the kitchen window whistling as I walked to the back door to unlock it.

“Hold on, chile’, I’m coming,” I said as the knocking continued and became louder. The door was barely open before he was in and barreling down the stairs to the basement.

“Boy, what you doing?” I asked, hearing him rumbling around downstairs. “Boy, what you doing down there?”

“Nothing granny,” he said.

I had just enough time to heat my dinner and sit to watch Joel Osteen and the news. Still hearing noise from the basement, I walked to the back door leading downstairs. There was a pile of clothes at the bottom of the steps.

“Pick these clothes up and move them to the laundry room,” I said while holding on to the loose rail to go down the stairs.

“I will later, Granny.”

“I told you to clean up this place a long time ago,” I said, “and this fish tank needs cleaning.”

I heard a sound, but I couldn’t place it. I felt a headache coming on. Why is my head suddenly hurting? Did I take my medicine today? Maybe I need to take my medicine. I’m feeling dizzy. Where is my medicine? And why is everything so hot?

Maybe if I ride my bike I will cool off. Or maybe I can get some ice off Daddy’s truck. Or maybe Mother will let me go down by the creek with Doyle for a swim.

It is so hot!

I need to change my clothes. They’re all hot and wet. They’re soaking wet from all this red water.

I want to put on my new dress that Mother bought for me yesterday. I need to wash my hair. I always liked my fresh Shirley temple curls. So did Doyle.

Hey, Maybelle! Where you been, and what you doin’ here? I missed you, girl. I’ve been looking for you. You got your hair done? It sure looks nice. I like those purple butterfly barrettes.

Hey, let’s walk through this Red Sea of water like we learned in Sunday school. It’s not far. It’s not too long. See the light down there? Isn’t it beautiful? Look at all these people. Hey, there’s Miss Toot. And look over there by the tree – Michael talking to Bobby and Doris. Dan was always Doris’s favorite. And look at Morlee cooking up a storm on the grill while Clara and Minnie are turning it up. I wonder who is it that they playing cards with - ain’t no telling.

Look at Daddy, sitting in his recliner watching the news with his newspaper on his lap.

Mother’s standing on the porch. I know she must be cooking something good, waiting on me to get home. She can’t see me yet because of the big oak tree so she goes back in the house.

Maybelle starts running down the hill to her house. Waving goodbye, she says, “See you later, at church on Sunday.”

I am tired, very, very tired, and a little bit out of breath. But I am blessed. The screen door squeaks when I open it as Mother turns around to hear me say, “Mother, I’m home. Where’s Daddy? What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”

And then, the lights come on…Y

You Live In My Heart

A Poem for my Mother

It’s my first Mother’s Day, that you are away, asking how I am doing, I will miss hearing you say. My days are often lonely, with thoughts of you, bringing much sadness, and feelings that are blue. Although you are gone, and we are apart, you are still here because you live in my heart.

For some unexpected reason, you were taken from us, at a time when we still needed you so much. But God had a plan, that we’ll never Understand, He took you in his arms, and held your hand. I ask myself and others, where is my beauty of art? Don’t worry they say, she’s there in your heart.

This poem was written and published by the author in honor of her mother on Mother’s Day following her death on November 3, 2008.

You left behind to cherish, a legacy of love, one that was created, by the only one above. Family and friends, will forever miss your touch, but especially the smile, that we all love so much. Fond memories of you, are not difficult to start, because Big Ma, you are part of my heart.

I know one day, I will see you again, erasing the sorrow, and much of the pain. I miss you so much, and the times that we shared, Laughing, joking and smiling, while just coming our hair. You are not gone, we’re just temporally apart, because Dear Mother, you’ll always be in my heart.

You Live In My Heart

Message to My Daughter

Don’t worry BeeBee, I know you are torn, but I want you to know, that I have been reborn. I’m wrapped in the arms, of our God here above, protected and cared, by his un­denying love. No longer should you tarry, that we are apart, I will always be with you, because you live in my heart.

Baby Michael

Daddy and Mother Neal and Avinger Smith

Me with Daddy and Mother

Me and Mother

My children Michael, BeeBee, Muriel, Jacqueline and Dan

Me and Doyle’s 8th Grade Graduation in Amory. Doyle is first in the front row and I am 3rd from right.

Little League Baseball Team

Me and Paul

Dan and Michael

My grandsons Dante, Melshunn, Donald, Little Ronnie and Little Larry

Family portrait: Michael, Doyle, me and Jacqueline Robin, BeeBee, Dan and Muriel

Me and my granddaughter Lisa

My other daughter Billie

Daddy and Doyle

Me enjoying the James Family Reunion

Doyle’s 70th Birthday Party

James Family Reunion August 3, 2008

House party with family and friends

Doyle as a young man

All my children grown up Me with Michael and Jacqueline

Me and Mother with grandchildren, Melshunn and Mia

Me and daughter Muriel

Miss Lula holding Doyle as a baby

Miss Lula as a younger woman Doyle as a young man

Miss Lula as an older woman

Miss Lula with Doyle, BeeBee and her sons in Amory

Mother at True Light Baptist Church in Grand Rapids, MI

Michael hanging out at a nightclub

BeeBee and her high school boyfriend James Michael Davis (Tacky)

Miss Lula with great grand children

Aunt Clara and her husband

Michael in grade school

Michael in high school

Aunt Morlee, Aunt Clara and Mother

Me and my daughters and granddaughters Robbin, Jacqueline, Muriel, Lisa and Mia

Daddy and Mother with family and friends in Amory, Mississippi

Mother

Muriel, Dan, BeeBee Robin and Jacqueline

Ruth Juanita Smith James Boyd

January 2, 1928 -

November 3, 2008

About the Editor

James Michael Brodie is a Baltimore-based seasoned writer/journalist/author with a strong background in news gathering and news analysis, as well as experience covering a variety of topics on a national level. He is a former contributor and editor with Denver Urban Spectrum. Over the course of his career, he has worked at every level of the profession – in print and online publications – from reporter and researcher to copy editor and editor-inchief to published author. His books include Created Equal: The Lives and Ideas of Black American Innovators, and Sweet Words So Brave: The Story of African American Literature. The experienced educator taught in both the Baltimore City Public School System and the Anne Arundel County School System. A graduate of the University of Colorado-Boulder, he is president of the Black and Gold Project Foundation, a group that exists to increase the number of African American students, faculty, staff, and administrators on the Boulder campus, while chronicling the narratives of Black people who studied and worked there.

About the Associate Editor

Pattie J. Mallet is a thirty-year human resources professional who resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan. In this profession she has written, edited and published a diverse range of publications. Currently, as a retiree, she currently accepts special assignments in the educational field as a K-12 substitute teacher working with special need students. And in her spare time, she also provides freelance copy editing services.

Acknowledgements

With God’s grace, Mother’s blessings and faith, “The Story of Ruth” was conceived.

I send gratitude, peace, and blessings to all who helped me walk this journey to honor the life and legacy of my Mother.

Thank you,

Y former Denver Urban Spectrum editor, contributor and friend, James Michael Brodie, who jumped in head first to edit the book and assist with photos;

Y longtime childhood friend Pattie Mallet, who helped with editing and proofreading; Y Misti Aas and Sara Schaller, who assisted me with the book publishing business;

Y my sneak-peak pre-readers, Beth Cathcart, Marlina Hullum, Norma J. Paige, Princess Asie Ocansey, Vickilyn Reynolds, Leslie “Brave” Daniels, and my second grade teacher Mrs. Mary Hardin;

Y Geri, Kim, David and Jeremy for being a part of my journey, I love you.

– Rosalind J. Harris Author

“The Story of Ruth”

Ruth Juanita Smith was an only child who was very close to her mother and father. They moved north leaving her in Mississippi at the age of 17. In 1948, Ruth and her young husband and baby eventually migrated north also in pursuit of the American Dream, but more importantly to be closer to her parents.

She was a devoted wife and mother and after being a homemaker for many years, she worked in hospitality. She was the mother of six children who gave her a multitude of grand-, great- and great-great grandchildren.

At the time, and shortly before her untimely and tragic death at the age of 80, she was happy to have cast her vote for Barack Obama, the first African American US President.

Author Rosalind Juanita Harris is the daughter of Ruth Juanita Smith

James Boyd. She is a mother, grandmother and great grandmother.

Based in Denver, Colorado, she is the publisher of the award-winning Denver Urban Spectrum (DUS), a community publication that has been spreading the news about people of color since 1987.

The monthly publication has been hailed as the go to publication for news and information. It has profiled national personalities including Oprah Winfrey, Quincy Jones, U.S. Vice President Kamala Harris, President Barack Obama, First Lady Michelle Obama and many others.

Rosalind Harris is recognized as a well-respected community and business leader. For over three decades, she and DUS have received hundreds of media and journalism awards locally and nationally.

This book is her proudest possession and most important published work, thus far.

For the many lives she touched and for those who loved her, Rosalind Harris has penned this book in memory of her mother who passed away on November 3, 2008, the day before Barack Obama’s election.

“The Story of Ruth” is a first person narrative about the life and journey of an African American woman who grew up in the deep south during the Jim Crow era.