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admin writes, "The Saga of the Morgan Family: A Normal Blak Family in Ameca, from Slavery to the Present Day."
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Pigchin is a town in the southern part of West Virginia. When we lived there, it was just a small village of about 25 homes set on the incline of the Northern slope, divided by a dirt road that ran the length of the town, from the highway at the top of the hill, where the bus stopped, down to the railroad tracks crossing, the distance of about three football fields.
On the west side of the dirt road, the houses seem to be spotted almost purposefully at random in the hillside from the dirt road at the bottom, at the crossing, all the up to the paved highway at the top of the hill, about a half mile up from the crossing, forming a triangle where the highway met the dirt road at the top. It was a picturesque sight, fit for a postcard
On the East side of the dirt road, our house was the last in a single row of about six or seven homes, running the length of the dirt road. Behind the row of houses and beyond the backyards ran as a stream, just below my mother’s veggie garden, from one end of our little village to the other, from the top of the hill (which was as far in that direction as I thought to venture,) down under the railroad tracks to the creek below. Oftentimes, when the hard rain battered the valley, for some reason, the stream overflowed and the water would back up at the trestle, causing a huge swell, sometimes five or six feet deep towards the center. The bank on our side of the stream was too high so the gathering waters would spread out across the greenage in the opposite direction twenty to twenty-five feet and thirty to thirty-five feet upstream to make a huge pond--which was an invitation to Aunt Irma, the Village drunk, to use the bank on our side of the pond as a diving board whenever she felt the notion to take a swim. But that was alright…Irma loved to swim. Besides, it was safe enough, I guess, during the daylight hours with the sun beaming down, and sometimes, in calmer weather, you could see Goldfish the size of mackerel frolicking about before ducking back under the trestle bridge and out of sight; but on dark and stormy nights, such as that night, torrential rains still pounding the valley, that area was menacing and dangerous, and sometimes even treacherous.
Perhaps that is why my sister Lillie, normally quiet and reserved, was so agitated, transforming herself from the sedate and reposed sweetheart that we all knew and loved into this out-of-control banshee, yelling and screaming at her father. What was going on? I peeped in to see what the matter was, and there she was holding her ground in defiance of my father’s demands. Had she lost her mind! She was as loud and boisterous as I had ever known her to be, and she was not going to back down or allow Dad to come near her. He was not going to whip that girl that night or ever again. He had whipped Lillie for the last time in this life. “You’re not going to hit me again,” she yelled, while holding tight to her mother’s hand, supported by her little sister Beaulah. “If you try, you’ll be sorry! I’m going down to the railroad tracks and…and...”. And every time my father took a step in her direction, Lillie would disentangle herself from her mother, say goodbye to Beulah, and start towards the door.
I was terrified. My sister was threatening to kill herself, and I desperately wanted to save her life. You've got to understand…I was a kid, and my sister was going out there in that weather to kill herself. This was a real and traumatic moment in my life. I loved my sister Lillie. For some reason, she was special to me. I guess it was because I thought she loved me. I know she tolerated me more than the others, that is, and, when my mother was away, it was Lillie who took care of me, took care of all of us, and fed all of us, sometimes better than our mother.
The reason for Lillie’s receiving an isolated whipping and her concern about it was not clear. She must have done something really, really bad. Though my father preferred group punishment, to individually punish one of us was not out of the question. If an infraction was severe enough, he would resort to immediate and singular punishment regardless of the situation. This was one of those times. He thought so, anyway. But what had Lillie done that was so bad? You see, my father had his own rules about whipping us. He whipped the boys because of something we did or did not do, like wetting the bed or not chopping the wood when told; the girls, on the other hand, were whipped because of something they might or might not do, like talking about kissing boys. At my age, I didn’t understand the logic…the girls did as much “devilment” as did the boys. (A word created by my mother, I believe.)
“Com'er, Gal!” my father demanded. “Don’t you run from me!”. Lillie didn’t move, standing her ground in defiance. I stood in the doorway, as though big enough to block her egress, weeping and wiping my nose all the while and begging her not to kill herself. Everybody else in the family, including Rufus, my oldest brother, who seldom cried about anything, stood around the kitchen in varying degrees of sorrow and whimpering. My mother held Lillie’s hands in her own, tarrying, hoping, and praying for the intervention of some divine inspiration, weeping with her daughter, while Lillie would not stop her mouth from moving, egging him on,” You’ve beaten me for the last time. I’m a grown woman (at age 17) and I won’t live like this, and I’ll do what I have to do. Hit me one more time and you’ll never see me again. I’ll go down to the tracks and kill myself.”
My father had one answer for all occasions. He stood there this time, however, in complete indecision, with his strap dangling at his side. But he was not stupid. My father did not move another step forward. I guess he never thought this was possible—his daughter, Lillie of all people, refusing to obey him--and talking back to him like he was one of her siblings. This could not be tolerated, but this one was out of his league…his daughter threatening to kill herself because of him. No strap was going to solve this problem. He admitted later he felt much like he felt when Lit’le June died--Helpless. There was just nothing to do. Being the religious man that he was, he had no choice but to put his trust in God.
Up to that point, my father ruled his household with an iron fist. He was not only physically stronger than anyone else, but he was also smarter. He got his spiritual (academic) credentials from THE Church of God and Christ, in other words, straight from God himself. Seeing one of his more timid children stand up to him was impressive, but my sister defying him in his own house was remarkable. I know, I remembered that night when my moment came years later.
I don’t remember much else about that night, but what I do know is the rains stopped, Lillie didn’t kill herself and my father didn’t whip her that night, or any other night after that as far as I can remember. My mother stopped crying long enough to thank God! And I was relieved that it was all over. Except…it was not all over. It was just the beginning. That night altered the course of the Morgan family's history and ended my father's reign of terror over his children forever.
The next morning was dry and bright, and everything seemed to be back to normal. When I got out of bed, after a few minutes, I forgot all about what happened the night before. The rain had stopped, and the sun was out. My father had gotten up early as usual, as though going to work, but instead went to his study—a wooden makeshift desk beside his bed-- to go over the sermon planned for the next day. My mother was in the kitchen cooking breakfast and looking out the kitchen window from time to time to see if the streaming water that threatened her garden had subsided. This was when she, along with the rest of us, learned what the night before was all about. And she was just as surprised as the rest of us.
The story was that Lillie had told Beaulah in private a couple of days earlier that she was about to be married to the guy who comes into the store every time they’re there together. “Yes, Theodore, he wants to marry me. He asked me about a week ago, and without thinking, I accepted on the spot”. He is going to stop by today, Saturday, to ask Dad for her hand in marriage. A little wimsicle, I know, but that’s the way Theodore did things. He was much older than Lillie and had had his way for many years. The owner of the Green Book rooming house and bar in Log Alley, a night spot about three mile down the road, he was considered “well off” and, because of his success, his judgement was the only judgement that mattered. My father overheard the two girls talking, and was shocked, especially when Lillie mentioned their kiss, which only confirmed their intentional union. Hearing the whole conversation, however, might have been worse! Nevertheless, my father, of course, could not let her “willful ways” with boys go unchecked. He had heard that kissing stuff before and had warned the two girls that kind of behavior would not be tolerated in his house. Both of them had been warned, but Lillie had chosen to try him again—and in the same month. She had to be taught a lesson; this sort of behavior could not go unpunished. Instead, this time it would go unpunished, and it was my father who was taught the lesson.
All we kids wanted to know was how to preserve our spot at the window. We just couldn’t wait to see this man who had caused all the trouble the night before. Needless to say, it was a long morning, and we moved like zombies around the house. The time finally came and that afternoon we-- the boys--gathered in the boys’ bedroom, looking out the window, waiting for this man’s appearance way down the railroad track, waiting for Theodore to show up and take our sister away. Why? I don’t know. We had no reason to believe that Theodore even existed. I had never seen him, so I wouldn’t know who he was if he stood on my front porch—no, that’s not true. I would know who he was if I saw him a mile away—even though I had never seen him before.
We did see him a mile away. This tall man, broad shoulders and big chest, way down the trail, basket in hand, trudging up the railroad tracks, like a man on a mission. None of us had ever seen him before—except maybe Rufus--but he was a compelling figure to watch, as he came out of the blur of sunshine and drew closer and closer to the dirt street where we lived. “It’s Theodore,” Rufus blurted out, as the man turned the corner, and we tracked him all the way to our front porch. With flowers that he plucked along the way and all the trappings of a man in pursuit of a bride, Theodore had arrived to ask my father for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
This did not bode too well with my father. Beside himself with anger, especially after the wild activity of the night before, my father hurried to the door. With obvious intentions in mind, he couldn’t wait to get this man alone. As soon as Theodore set foot inside the house, my father took him by the arm and Lead him into the open space right outside his bedroom to have this talk Theodore had walked three miles to have, the space where my father always had his more serious conversations, a space that could be called a living room; but for the fact that we knew nothing about living rooms at the time, it was just a space outside my father’s bedroom..
He was not shy about his feelings. We all felt his rage before he left the kitchen, so we waited there to catch the fireworks, fireworks, I’m sorry to say, that never materialized, but more than that, dad never really raised his voice. As the meeting went on, I felt my sister slipping further away. My father was handing her over to Theodore with his blessing. Not what I expected. Lillie was really going to marry this Theodore and leave the house for good. That was painful.
My sister Lillie and I had always been very close. She was not only my eldest sibling but also my caretaker in the absence of my parents. When they were out of town or doing some kind of missionary work or other church activity, (usually on Sundays) it was Lillie who took care of us. She did all the things a mother would do were she home. Ensured we were appropriately dressed in the morning, prepared our meals, and managed all other activities accordingly. She was a mother without a title. And we all, even Beaulah, depended on Lillie, as though she was indeed our real mother.
That Saturday I was not very proud of my father, though. Lillie was gone, and he allowed her departure. She married Theodore the following Sunday. My father conducted the ceremony and put all the love and hope into that union as he would have in any other marriage ceremony he presided over. When he was done, he wished them all the luck, love and happiness the future could hold “and may God be with them every step of the way.” Funny thing, that is the only time I can ever remember my father deliberately lying. People just didn’t lie in those days the way they do today, so it was easy to detect. My father never lied before since he became a minister. It was evident that he conducted this ceremony under challenging conditions.
The last I heard of Lillie before she left the house to go stay with her new husband was about her Honeymoon. They were supposed to go to Beckley, a “big” town with the only movie house within miles. It would have been the first motion picture Lillie would have ever seen. However, that was not to be; she would have to see her first motion picture some other time. At the last moment, Theodore had to get back to the store because of some trouble in the bar. (Don’t ask me how he found out about it—at the last moment. We had no phones.) Lillie tried to persuade him to let Rufus handle it, but Theodore couldn’t trust Rufus—he didn’t trust anybody; he had to do it himself. Lillie never saw her first motion picture in Beckly and spent her honeymoon at the Green Book rooming house and bar, admiring and customizing her new living quarters.
I missed my sister, more than anyone else in the family could have. I know we all missed her, but she was special to me. It seemed that most of my siblings did not have much regard for me, and I believe my father shared this sentiment (I always suspected he disciplined me solely because I was a boy). However, Lillie was an exception. I always felt she was my friend--not just my sister. She didn’t mind my being around her. In fact, she seemed to want me with her everywhere she went. Anytime she was asked to go to the store or to the milk farm up the road, she would ask for me, “Can Willie go with me?” or to do a chore, “Can Willie help me?”. Other than that sort of thing, oddly enough we did not spend much time together; she was primarily with her sister Beaulah. But when she wasn’t she wanted me at her side. Maybe it was because I would do anything she asked. As I look back on it, maybe it was because I was her partner in crime.
Lillie liked doing things for me, or maybe she liked doing things for herself and knew she could depend on me to help. I know I had a dependence on her. I didn't mind my parents being away for their Sunday evangelistic work; I was glad to be left in my sister’s care. Lillie was my caretaker, and often times I felt she was doing my bidding. You see, I loved to eat—because I was hungry most of the time. And I ate better when my parents were away than any other time. And Lillie was a great provider, almost as good as my father; but she was also a good cook, almost as good as my mother. Everybody enjoyed Lillie’s cooking. She made the best coleslaw in the world—and that was before we ever heard of mayonnaise. She made gravy from scratch, and potato salad mainly from my mother’s garden alongside the house. But the treat was always her southern fried chicken.
We raised poultry! Of course we didn’t raise poultry. When our parents were gone, oweer, we stole the chickens that we ate from our neighbors—well, maybe not all of our neighbors—mainly from Aunt Irma, who lived right next door. And why not? We did a lot of work for that woman, and she never offered anything for our services—not even a cookie, which were supposed to be very good. She never even paid me for the many baskets of wood that kept her warm during the winter months. My brothers were too smart to sell Wood to Aunt Irma. But we all did everything else she asked us to do, so I felt why not give her the wood too. We washed her windows, cleaned her porch, fixed her roof, etc. When we first moved in, our father told Irma we would be happy to help her in any way we could. She took that to mean we would do everything she asked us to do. Anyway, she was drunk most of the time and never ate chicken as I can remember. I guess she thought they were there for decoration, to support her country living style. Lillie felt having her chickens for a Sunday meal was justified.
Lillie had the right recipe (pun intended.) She knew just how to get those chickens without drawing attention. Aunt Irma's house had only one window on our side, located in the kitchen at the front of the house. This was an area where Irma was not typically present. (Aunt Irma was a very thin—skinny-- woman and sometimes I felt she never ate at all.) Her chickens were in the backyard, however, where she had no windows on our side. We would spread breadcrumbs in a straight line to inveigle the chickens from Aunt Irma’s back yard, across our side yard, on to our back porch and into our kitchen, where I would be waiting behind the door. After we got as many as we wanted inside the house, two or three at most, I would slam the door behind them. They were trapped. We swept the crumbs away to get rid of the evidence. After that, we took the unwitting captives to the other side of the house to finish the job.
Now, I have told you how we captured the chickens, but I dare not tell you how we slaughtered the poor things and readied them for the frying pan. I will tell you this: what I did back then, I could not do today. Looking back, it seems so cruel and unusual to treat any living creature in that manner. But that’s the way things were done back then, nothing like buying package parts today, taking them home, throwing them in the freezer for preparation on a later date, never having to ponder the thought that they were parts and pieces of living, breathing creatures just five minutes ago.
I don’t know whether Aunt Irma ever knew what was happening to her chickens or even knew whether any of them had ever gone missing. In any case, she never spoke to our parents about them. I may have been too young to understand everything, but one thing was clear: Aunt Irma was an alcoholic. Sometimes, she got so drunk that she would stumble onto her front porch, crying and cussing out the world. On occasions, she would go on for hours, preaching to and blaming everybody for her situation, getting everything she ever thought about during her hibernation off her chest, ranting and raving about all those hypocritical people around her. Once in a while she may complain about her “missing” chickens and hinted at her knowledge of their whereabouts. But she never pointed out anything specific. Knowing Aunt Irma, those hints could have meant—whatever! She was educated, but when drunk, she might say anything. When she was in one of those moods, however, everybody in the neighborhood was afraid to go near her, including my father. Not even he had the nerve to go over and try to calm this woman down. Like the rest of the good people of our community, he would just cower down behind darken windows, watch and listen until Aunt Irma exhausted herself. She always started her tirade with a bang and ended with a whimper.
Every time I saw Aunt Irma these days or smelt Southern fried chicken, I was reminded of my sister Lillie. I hadn’t seen her for months. It was like she had fallen off the face of the earth and I would never see her again, when in fact, she was really only a few miles down the road. Considering the number of miles we walked every day in search of blackberries and adventure, exploring the wilderness across the creek, etc., three miles was not a great distance to travel to see your best friend. Besides, the school kids walked that distance every morning on their way to school and thought nothing of it. So, the distance was not the problem. Though it was clear my partner in crime wanted me to come visit her at her new home, and I was always ready and willing to do her bidding, getting somebody to “take” me there was problematic. Although I did see her once in her new home, I was never offered the opportunity to go to Log Alley again. I eventually got used to the idea that I would never see my sister Lillie again and forgot all about her.
Sometimes forgetting about a person and forgetting about a person are two different things. Although I no longer thought much about seeing my sister again, information occasionally trickled down to me. As we used to say, “it went in one ear and out the other,” but it was there. After six or seven months of disseminating information, we all became aware of the situation in the Franklyn household. Although spousal abuse was in full swing back then, Theodore never really struck Lillie with his hands. He was a jealous man and accused and browbeat his young bride, after a while, on a daily basis. How long would Lillie tolerate such treatment? She had only recently extricated herself from the dominance of one man—her father—now found herself in the clutches of another. No, we were not taken completely by surprise to learn my sister wanted out. We all knew the marriage was in trouble, and we all suspected an imminent end was near. None of us expected it would come in such a dramatic fashion.
In the valley, sometimes the nights were particularly dark, especially with no moon out and the raindrops smothering the reflection of light from the other side of the mountain. The rain had calmed down, however, and the sound of wind-driven raindrops hitting my windowpane was no longer audible. I think that’s what woke me up-- that, along with the loud snoring of my brothers. But there were other unfamiliar noises in the house that night. Along with the hysterical voice of a frightened young female emanating from my sisters’ bedroom was a wailing outcry from time to time. Lillie was telling a story of horrifying proportion, a tale of inconceivable fear, as she ran and ran as hard as she could down this long dirt path, trying to evade the footsteps that followed behind. She was almost in the woods when another shot rang out. “Oh God!” she shrieked” Help me, Jesus! Where am I, where am I? Help me! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” She cried.
Now, I don’t know what happened to Lillie that night. I have heard many versions of her escape, especially how she got out of that water, and they all seem plausible to me. But I will tell you the story that my sister conveyed to my father the night of the incident. Given the fear displayed while recounting her flight that early morning, I consider it to be the most credible.
“There was a flickering light way up the dirt path, Daddy, so I kept running toward the light. After a while I knew no one was following me any longer. But that didn’t stop me from running. Daddy, I ran harder and harder. I didn’t know what I did to anger him, but I was afraid he would kill me if I let him catch me. So, I ran. I was getting closer and closer to the light when I realized the light was coming from the twin landings. As I got closer, I thought I saw ghost dancing around a fire. I was afraid to get any closer to the landings, but I was too scared of him to stop running. Daddy, I was running for my life! I couldn’t stop, but these men ahead dancing around this fire were really terrifying too! I felt trapped, but I didn’t give up. I would have to do the one thing I could, quickly climb down the hill to the railroad tracks, and run as fast as I could past the waterfall. That’s the only thing I could do. But suppose Theodore was down there waiting. I had no choice. The men at the twin landings looked more menacing than did the thought of running into Ted at that moment. But when I came off the hill and saw the spotlight gliding along the railroad tracks, I knew he was using that trolley car and would catch up with me soon. But it was too late. I had to go under the waterfall to get to the other side. I quickly scrambled back up the other side of the fall and kept running I had to move faster now that I knew Theodore was using that trolley car.
“When I came out of the woods near home,” Daddy, “I saw a light darting here and there, and looked down the railroad tracks and saw the trolley car standing at the dirt road. I knew it was him. Nobody else uses that thing but him. Then I saw him with the headlamp on his head, turning towards me, so I ducked back into the bushes. I thought sure he saw me, so I squatted down to move out of sight and kept quiet. Daddy, I was trembling and the drizzling ice-cold raindrops felt like punishment to my skin as he got closer to where I was hiding. I could feel the tingling all over my arms. But I had to be quiet and bear it, even though I was sure he had seen me. I was about to die; I was about to die!—what could I do? I was so scared I nearly gave myself away, but just then a scream comng from the direction of the waterfall caused him to turn away suddenly. “Lillie May!” I heard him call out, “Is that you? (In those days every female had a “May” added to the end of her name at some point in time.)
“When he turned and started toward the house, I took off. I was headed straight for the pond. If I could make it to the bank before he could spot that light on me, I would be safe. I was running fast, and I was running hard, Daddy! I ran so hard I felt my legs give way, but I would not fall, I would not stop, I would not give up. I had to make it. I just had to! My life depended on it. I was scared, that’s all. Daddy, I didn’t’ want to die! I just ran! I was a few feet away from the bank when I knew I would not make it, so I leaped before I thought, hoping, somehow, I could avoid the water. I didn’t. Daddy, I can’t swim! I was in the air for sooooo long, long enough to know this was not going to end well, before I was swallowed up by the cold water. I guess I blacked out. I don’t know! I don’t remember. I don’t remember how I got here. I was so hppy8 to see Beaulah May.”
What she was trying to say was, she just ran as fast as she could and jumped into the water moments ahead of the headlamp beam. That was hard to believe because Lillie didn’t learn to swim until she was sixty-five years old, about fifty years later. When Beaulah smiled, we all assumed that it was her that pulled Lillie out of that water, even though Beaulah had said only that she found Lillie disoriented and drenched. But Beaulah was not wet at all, and though it wasn’t a big deal at the time--Lillie was safely inside the house--how she got Lillie out of the water without getting wet always bothered me, but never enough to inquire about it.
Anyway, about that time we heard a banging on the front door. Startled, we all knew immediately there was a problem. My father got to his feet and started toward the door. “Wait, Daddy,” Lillie grabbed his hand, “tell him I’m not here. Tell him…tell him I’m not here.” Her sentiment annoyed my father, and he shucked her off, dismissing her entreaties with, “I’ll tell him what I tell him!” Pops was visibly angry when he headed for the door, as much with his daughter’s entreaties as with Theodore’s blatant nerve, coming to his house this time of night after almost killing his daughter, banging on his door.
As I said before, Theodore was a big man, much taller than my father, and sort of angular. Because of his size and built, he struck fear in most men coming into a fray. Lillie knew she was no match for him and had seen other men fawn at his feet, and was afraid for Dad, afraid also that Theodore would just push him aside and get to her anyway. Her body trembling, she could barely contain herself. My mother and I were not so sure. We were confident nobody was going to just push past Dad. He was not the tallest man in the world, but he was strong and thick and had held his own against greater odds than Theodore. If anything, it would be the other way around; my father would pick Theodore up and hurl him over the Bannister into the frog Barrell below. (My mother believed that, and so did I, because of stories my mother had relayed to me about my father’s prowess and strength.)
When we heard the scuffling at the front door, it seemed like that was exactly what was happening. Theodore had tried to push past my father and a tussle ensued, and after a few seconds, a battle of words and loud shouting and a little cussing, the door slammed, and my father returned to the girl’s bedroom. He seemed befuddled. “Where were you shot?” He growled at my sister. Shocked out of her wit, “I was shot?” Lillie answered incredulously.
“Yeah. Where?”
“I was shot?” Lillie asked again. “I was shot! He was shooting, Daddy. That’s why I ran so hard. He was crazy. But I wasn’t shot!”
“You weren’t shot?” my father asked. “He said he didn’t mean to, but he was sorry he shot you…one of the bullets must have struck you…where?” In the dimly lit room, my father looked down to see the blood all over the wooden boards of the floor.
“I was shot!” Lillie looked down…and suddenly she was uncontrollable. Blood was everywhere. She brushed the blood away and saw a tiny hold in her right foot, above the toe, as my mother reappeared with the lighted candle. A bullet had penetrated Lillie’s foot, and she had felt little more than a prick, like, in her hasty flight she had stepped on a sharp rock. Nevertheless, blood was all over the place. ‘I’m shot, I’m shot!” she cried out, changing her tune,” I’m shot, Daddy! Daddy, I’m shot, I’m shot!” she was suddenly screaming repeatedly. My father struggled to keep her down, as she attempted to stand while attending to her foot at the same time.
“Daddy, Daddy, I’m shot!” crying out of control. “I’m shot; I’m shot!”
“Get some water” my father called out. “Get more light, Lit’le Bit! Quick, Quick!”
There were no hospitals around, and of course, Pigchin did not have a Police force. I had never seen any law enforcement people, not even a truant officer, in my life. Theodore was the closest thing to law and order in the area, which was the main reason he carried a 32 revolver on his side. As I said, he was a big man, and owning that Green Book rooming house and bar, he encountered a lot of disputes to settle and had the blessings of both whites and blacks to do so at his own discretion. But since he was the culprit in this case, there was no place for my father to turn for justice.
I never knew how my father fixed Lillie’s foot, because after we stopped the bleeding—or slowed it down—I was sent to bed again, while they figured out what else to do. My father, always doctor, lawyer and Indian chief all in one, never trusted the medical profession, so after his experience with the Windgrow hospital not just a few miles away, where my dying brother Joe was denied admission to the hospital because he was colored, and was advised to “throw him in the morgue because he would be dead before morning,” he refused to go to hospitals again. (Oh, by the way, Joe recovered and lived to a ripe old age.) But I had confidence in my father. I knew he would find a way. He always did. And Walla! next morning everything was all right. Lillie’s foot was wrapped, but she was able to get around on it as though nothing had happened. She was even helping Lit’le Bit with breakfast.
I often think of that night, especially after years later when my brother Joe broke his arm. How well did my father fix Lillie’s foot? As far as I know, he did a satisfactory job. That is, Lillie never let it bother her, or maybe she just never complained. But Joe’s arm was another story. Years later my brother Joe broke his arm while playing a follow-the-leader game with us—my brother John and me, and a couple of neighborhood kids. I was the more athletic, so I always took the lead, leaping rails, jumping fences, running races—that sort of crazy thing in the concrete city. In the final sequence, the task was to jump from a stoop to catch a branch of a tree planted at the curb of the sidewalk, similar to the actions depicted in Tarzan movies or Joe’s comic strips featuring Lion Man. It was easier on the lower steps, but the higher we climbed the more difficult the task became. As I remember, we made it to the fifth step. I was first and I barely caught the limb, swung a few times and dismounted. Joe unfortunately did not make it. His hands slipped off the limb and he came crashing down to the concrete. His left arm hit the curb of the sidewalk and broke the bone in his wrist, which splintered through the skin. Ah, it was nasty gash!
Oh, but when we took him home, my father fixed it, alright. Maneuvering the bone back in place in my brother’s wrist--or, at least, he thought he did--he used two slats from a fruit crate we picked up from the Bellmont Produce Market as splints, placing one on each side of my brother’s wrist and wrapping them tightly with what looked like an ace bandage, but was really strips of cloth torn from a cotton shirt. And then said in complete satisfaction, “Now let it heal!”
Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way. I was the athlete, but my brother Joe was an artist, sketching since he was only four years old—or maybe younger--and going to school on a scholarship at the time. Because he was left-handed, needless to say, his schooling was interrupted due to his inability to use his left hand. He was out of class longer than he should have been, much longer, as it turned out. Joe’s arm healed all right, but he still could not use his left hand. My father couldn’t figure out what went wrong, but the school kept writing letters enquiring otherwise about Joe’s health and attendance. Eventually, my father had to take Joe to the hospital to see if a real doctor could correct the problem he caused.
We learned that the bone had healed wrong, and Joe’s wrist had to be broken again to put the bones together correctly so that the proper healing could take place. That didn’t happen. The wrist needed to be broken a third time. Joe's left hand never fully recovered its functionality. He eventually learned to write, draw and do everything necessary with his right hand, but he was never the artis promised to become.
But back to the story. For a long time, my father had hope to get his daughter out of Theodore’s “den of iniquity,” even though Lillie did not actually live in the rooming house. She lived in Theodore’s home, a house two or three hundred yards away from the Green Book rooming house and bar. But that was sinful enough, only coincidence. My father never did like the idea of Lillie’s living with “that man, twice her age!” but that was coincidence, too. (Theodore was not twice Lillie’s age, but he was much older than she. When you are young, the spread always seems greater than it is.) He just never could approve of the man who had broken the bond between himself and his oldest child. But this latest incident was as much as he could take. He had already contacted his sister in East Beckly to enquire about Lillie’s staying with her for a while, until he could find a place to live in or around Beckly and had received an affirmative answer. He seized the opportunity. Early the next morning Lillie was swished out of Pigchin for good.
I was talking to my niece Reese, Beaulah’s daughter, the other day (This is about 80 years after the incident) and was reminded that Beaulah couldn’t swim either. None of us had learnt to swim, except for maybe Rufus. Besides, Beaulah never claimed that she pulled Lillie out of the water. I harkened back to that night Lillie returned home. When I was sent back to bed, while passing by a window on the way, I noticed the lights in Aunt Irma’s kitchen and saw her twirling about like she had a date with the new industrial Insurance Agent, the cotton dress she wore clinging to her skin and bones like fuzz on a peach. I wondered then why she was up so late, and why she was in such a great mood, but concluded, the old girl must be drunk again. But now I’m not so sure. The dress clung to her skinny body because it was wet, she was wet. Irma had been out swimming! The eighty-year-old mystery was solved. Irma was a great swimmer. That was what we all admired so much about her. She could swim! She was confident swimming anywhere and anytime and would have gladly jumped into that angry pond and dragged Lillie to safety. She must have brought Lillie to our back porch doorsteps, where Beaulah found her and helped her inside.
Theodore? Well, he searched all over the area for his wife, Bluefield, Oak Hill and even Beckly—everywhere he thought she might be—to no avail. He wrote letters and talked to friends and relatives as far away as Scarbro, but nobody seemed to know her whereabouts. He even came to the house on a couple of occasions to ask my father where she was “hiding.” I don’t have to tell you how that turned out… Lillie was gone, and he never saw his wife again.
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Posted on Jun 12, 2025 16:08pm.
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