On a warm summer evening of my twelfth year, my mother and father and their five children finished their farm chores earlier than usual. The cows were milked and the chickens and pigs were fed. My mother prepared supper. We ate. Bathed and dressed and got into the mule drawn wagon to attend the third night of a revival series at Wampoo Baptist Church in England, Arkansas. The minister, whose name I have long since for gotten, chose Noah and his Ark for his sermon.
The minister had come to us from Little Rock, Arkansas. He was appropriately dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and a blue tie. During the worship and praise part of the service, he seemed preoccupied with the congregation. Our preacher occasionally took a large white handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabbed his forehead.
The sermon began with God telling Noah to build the Ark. God gave him measurements for an ark large enough to hold Noah’s family, his sons and their wives and children and male and female of every kind of animal. God instructed Noah that the ark was to be built of “goofy wood”. The minister continued with a question: Do you know what “goofy wood” is? He looked expectantly at the audience but did not wait for an answer. “Goof wood is cypress” he stated as a generous explosion of saliva sprayed from his mouth. As he turned his head from one side to the other to address everybody in church, all could see that he had four front upper teeth but none on either side. At this point, my brother George, the family Comedian, said to Flora and me, his sisters, “I think you could put a bridle on him”. The statement sent my sister and me into peals of pent up laughter. We were sitting directly behind our mother which meant we had to be on our best behavior.
“When the rains started, Noah called the cattle from a thousand hills”. The comedian then said, “Noah’s math is all messed up”. My sister and I, not recovered from the last commentary, are now flooded by tears of laughter instead of laughing out loud. The ushers proceeded in our direction and while we were crying they fanned us with their funeral parlor fans until the sermon was finished. My mother had a strained look on her face. By now I am sure she knew we were not crying in the spirit.
As we rode home that night in the wagon, ( the truck needed repairs) we were then able to laugh but it was too painful. About sixty-five years later, I noticed a painting on the wall of a dentist’s office of Noah and his sons building the ark. The sermon played again. Even today, when we gather as a family, we still remember about Noah and the his ark.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The Memory Fades Slowly by Martha
More than fifty years have passed since my high school days. Periodically I go back to my high school for different presentations and each time I look for any changes that might have been made.
One thing that remains the same in my memory is the very large auditorium and the stage with double curtains that remind you of Carnegie Hall or a Broadway stage. It was and still is very impressive.
Recently I went there to a Martin Luther King Jr. celebration and found out that the Olympic size pool was no longer there and the lunchroom was in the basement. During my three years there (I came from Jr. High) the lunchroom was on the top floor, fifth I think and the pool was in the basement.
I remember how the lunch bell would ring and you would have to get up all those stairs fast to avoid being on the end of a very long lunch line. On this particular day, I remember racing up the stairs, rushing in the lunch room with many others and getting in line. Suddenly I was accused by a male teacher. I did not know him and now I cannot even remember his name. “Get out of that line” he said “and go to the back. I saw you break into that line”. I was indignant, still breathing heavy after the race up the stairs. “I did not” I said, “You are a liar!” “What did you say” he said. By now a crowd was gathering and I was embarrassed while also feeling obliged to say something profound. “You are full of shit and you don’t eat regular either” I shot back; this was on of the hip street saying of the day. I was not one who used profanity normally, but now I was on stage. The teacher grabbed my arm and took me out of the line.
We went down to the principal’s office where Mr. Mole teacher told his story. My memory of the principal, Ms. Ficks was that of a Caucasian woman with crimped style waves in her hair (we use to call it crookinal (sp) waves, or was a cropped style? May be she was not even tall because at fifteen years of age, I was barely five feet, but I digress.
The teacher listened to Mr. Mole teacher’s version of the incident and then told me to go home and not come back unless my parent was with me. I even got the impression that Ms. Ficks was sorry that she cold not put me out of school permanently. (Remember I was fifteen). I was flabbergasted because I had not yet said a word. “Wait I said, is that the end of it? Don’t I get to tell my side o the story? That is not a sign of Democracy."
As memory fades, I can no longer clearly remember the names and faces of the teacher or the principal, but I will forever remember what the principal’s response was. “Young lady” she said as she straightened up to her full height, “If this (school) was not a democracy, you would not even be here”. And with that remark, she opened a door that I did not know existed and I found myself outside on the street.
I was stunned! What was she talking about? I would not even be there. It was not my grades. My grades were fine. I did not have a problem with tardiness. Then it hit me the letters R.A.C.E. loomed large in front of me. Even though I was among just a handful of Blacks in the school, I nor m friends had no avert incidents of racism, but there it was. I was outside in bright sunshine but the day was suddenly dark and tears stung my eyes.
I started to walk home slowly. I don’t remember seeing people on the street; I was so deep in thought. What was I to do? I could not tell my mother. Even if I told her about the principal being a bigot she would never understand in being disrespectful of using profanity to the male teacher.
Besides, she could not afford to take off from work to come to the school. I went home and later called one of my older sister friends. She must have been all of eighteen years at the time. She agreed to come to school with me and pose as my aunt. I don’t remember the particulars but without much question I was reinstated. Like I said the memory fades slowly, but I guess I should thank Ms. Ficks because that incident changed my life. From that day she intimidated that I should “stay in my place”. I stood up for myself and other women’s right. It has made me the assertive, politically and socially active, independent woman I am today.
One thing that remains the same in my memory is the very large auditorium and the stage with double curtains that remind you of Carnegie Hall or a Broadway stage. It was and still is very impressive.
Recently I went there to a Martin Luther King Jr. celebration and found out that the Olympic size pool was no longer there and the lunchroom was in the basement. During my three years there (I came from Jr. High) the lunchroom was on the top floor, fifth I think and the pool was in the basement.
I remember how the lunch bell would ring and you would have to get up all those stairs fast to avoid being on the end of a very long lunch line. On this particular day, I remember racing up the stairs, rushing in the lunch room with many others and getting in line. Suddenly I was accused by a male teacher. I did not know him and now I cannot even remember his name. “Get out of that line” he said “and go to the back. I saw you break into that line”. I was indignant, still breathing heavy after the race up the stairs. “I did not” I said, “You are a liar!” “What did you say” he said. By now a crowd was gathering and I was embarrassed while also feeling obliged to say something profound. “You are full of shit and you don’t eat regular either” I shot back; this was on of the hip street saying of the day. I was not one who used profanity normally, but now I was on stage. The teacher grabbed my arm and took me out of the line.
We went down to the principal’s office where Mr. Mole teacher told his story. My memory of the principal, Ms. Ficks was that of a Caucasian woman with crimped style waves in her hair (we use to call it crookinal (sp) waves, or was a cropped style? May be she was not even tall because at fifteen years of age, I was barely five feet, but I digress.
The teacher listened to Mr. Mole teacher’s version of the incident and then told me to go home and not come back unless my parent was with me. I even got the impression that Ms. Ficks was sorry that she cold not put me out of school permanently. (Remember I was fifteen). I was flabbergasted because I had not yet said a word. “Wait I said, is that the end of it? Don’t I get to tell my side o the story? That is not a sign of Democracy."
As memory fades, I can no longer clearly remember the names and faces of the teacher or the principal, but I will forever remember what the principal’s response was. “Young lady” she said as she straightened up to her full height, “If this (school) was not a democracy, you would not even be here”. And with that remark, she opened a door that I did not know existed and I found myself outside on the street.
I was stunned! What was she talking about? I would not even be there. It was not my grades. My grades were fine. I did not have a problem with tardiness. Then it hit me the letters R.A.C.E. loomed large in front of me. Even though I was among just a handful of Blacks in the school, I nor m friends had no avert incidents of racism, but there it was. I was outside in bright sunshine but the day was suddenly dark and tears stung my eyes.
I started to walk home slowly. I don’t remember seeing people on the street; I was so deep in thought. What was I to do? I could not tell my mother. Even if I told her about the principal being a bigot she would never understand in being disrespectful of using profanity to the male teacher.
Besides, she could not afford to take off from work to come to the school. I went home and later called one of my older sister friends. She must have been all of eighteen years at the time. She agreed to come to school with me and pose as my aunt. I don’t remember the particulars but without much question I was reinstated. Like I said the memory fades slowly, but I guess I should thank Ms. Ficks because that incident changed my life. From that day she intimidated that I should “stay in my place”. I stood up for myself and other women’s right. It has made me the assertive, politically and socially active, independent woman I am today.
The Outcome of the Election by Teresa
I was thrilled at the outcome of the election. I was alone at home and started jumping up and down when Obama elected flashed on the TV screen at 11pm. I can barely explain the emotions. I really did not think a black man would be elected in my lifetime. The word of Martin Luther King Jr. spoken forty years prior has and does even today move me to tears.
I was also moved to tears on the night of the election. I mouthed the words “thank you Lord”. I had not always been rooting for Barack Obama. It was not because I was not proud of this young black man and glad that he was getting a chance to run. I was a Hillary Clinton supporter. I had met her personally and had worked on her Senatorial campaign. I felt at the time that she was the more experienced candidate and probably in the back of my mind I did not think that white America, would elect a Black Man.
During the Campaign before the primary when Hillary Clinton started becoming negative and Obama started winning more and more electoral votes, I wanted Hillary to stop campaigning and just give up.
When she did not I began to look at obama and started to root for him. By that time he won the Democratic Nomination, I was in his camp. I watched the entire Democratic convention and was again overwhelmed with emotion when Obama made his made his acceptance speech. I watched the entire republican convention, looking at the few black faces in the crowds the negative words spoken about Obama form McCain. Would white America allow this to happen? I watched all the debates giving Obama the better score for all of them.
During this time I had become a complete news junkie. Late in the campaign when our economy faltered and we had wall street fall, I watched Senator McCain and company sound like idiots I watched Obama stay cool under pressure. I became encouraged again.
Now that the election is over and Obama has won, I am still punching myself. I thought my elation could go no higher until I saw the inauguration. I watched many of the inaugural events, this time along with the other people watching on a huge TV screen. I could scarcely take it in, I was so enthralled. I shed tears again. My prayer now is that President Obama can proceed in leading America.
I was also moved to tears on the night of the election. I mouthed the words “thank you Lord”. I had not always been rooting for Barack Obama. It was not because I was not proud of this young black man and glad that he was getting a chance to run. I was a Hillary Clinton supporter. I had met her personally and had worked on her Senatorial campaign. I felt at the time that she was the more experienced candidate and probably in the back of my mind I did not think that white America, would elect a Black Man.
During the Campaign before the primary when Hillary Clinton started becoming negative and Obama started winning more and more electoral votes, I wanted Hillary to stop campaigning and just give up.
When she did not I began to look at obama and started to root for him. By that time he won the Democratic Nomination, I was in his camp. I watched the entire Democratic convention and was again overwhelmed with emotion when Obama made his made his acceptance speech. I watched the entire republican convention, looking at the few black faces in the crowds the negative words spoken about Obama form McCain. Would white America allow this to happen? I watched all the debates giving Obama the better score for all of them.
During this time I had become a complete news junkie. Late in the campaign when our economy faltered and we had wall street fall, I watched Senator McCain and company sound like idiots I watched Obama stay cool under pressure. I became encouraged again.
Now that the election is over and Obama has won, I am still punching myself. I thought my elation could go no higher until I saw the inauguration. I watched many of the inaugural events, this time along with the other people watching on a huge TV screen. I could scarcely take it in, I was so enthralled. I shed tears again. My prayer now is that President Obama can proceed in leading America.
It Was Passed On by Lurliene
IT WAS PASSED ON
By
Lurline Martineau
This work of art was probably made at the turn of the twentieth century. It was passed on to me by my godmother/neighbor, who adopted me in the nineteen sixties. We looked out for each other, as she had no family of her own, so she adopted me. She was very young, maybe a teenager when her mother died. She told me stories about her aunt who lived in New York and sponsored her here from St. Kitts West Indies.
Godmother relieved many gifts from Auntie, including this piece. The cloth is silk. I suppose it was white at one point in time, but it aged well into an ecru color. It was embroidered with white silk thread. The lovely bunches of flowers form a design on opposite corners of this square. One can tell that it is handmade. This whole piece has vines with small flowers delicately embroidered all over. It measures forty eight by forty eight- a perfect square. I recognize the delicate stain, feather and stem stitches. A three-inch border of hairpin lace is the base for the numerous tangly tassels that finish off this shawl.
Godmother’s grandmother and father were Portuguese. His wife’s, godmother’s mother was from Africa and she died at a young age. At that time in the Wets Indies, there were many Portuguese families who migrated from Portugal for a different life. Many of them became estate owners as the island was rich in agricultural products such as sugar cane, cocoa nutmegs and coconut products. Petroleum in Trinidad attracted many foreigners also.
My godmother’s name was Emmeline Veira. Her aunt, her father’s sister Pauline, might have designed and made this. Several people might have worked on the embroidery using hoops, special fine needles, thimbles and shields for the fingers. In those days, there were no radios, telephones not television sets; so “they sat on cushion and sewed a fine seam”. They might have had a sing-song wile stitching. I am sure that it was a community project.
The shawl might have been a wedding present for a young woman, or maybe for Auntie herself. I can just imagine her wearing it over her evening gown to a fancy ball, or maybe when taking a stroll with her beau.
For the age of this shawl, the materials used were the finest at that time, probably at the turn of the twentieth century. That’s why it is in such excellent condition today.
I wear it on special occasions like to a wedding reception, or an evening affair. It is greatly admired. I take good care of it, and will certainly pass it on to my daughter.
Just the same, I took care of Godmother when she was ill with heart disease for the last five years of he life. She passed in 1986 at age eighty three. So this antique shawl may be more than one hundred years old.
By
Lurline Martineau
This work of art was probably made at the turn of the twentieth century. It was passed on to me by my godmother/neighbor, who adopted me in the nineteen sixties. We looked out for each other, as she had no family of her own, so she adopted me. She was very young, maybe a teenager when her mother died. She told me stories about her aunt who lived in New York and sponsored her here from St. Kitts West Indies.
Godmother relieved many gifts from Auntie, including this piece. The cloth is silk. I suppose it was white at one point in time, but it aged well into an ecru color. It was embroidered with white silk thread. The lovely bunches of flowers form a design on opposite corners of this square. One can tell that it is handmade. This whole piece has vines with small flowers delicately embroidered all over. It measures forty eight by forty eight- a perfect square. I recognize the delicate stain, feather and stem stitches. A three-inch border of hairpin lace is the base for the numerous tangly tassels that finish off this shawl.
Godmother’s grandmother and father were Portuguese. His wife’s, godmother’s mother was from Africa and she died at a young age. At that time in the Wets Indies, there were many Portuguese families who migrated from Portugal for a different life. Many of them became estate owners as the island was rich in agricultural products such as sugar cane, cocoa nutmegs and coconut products. Petroleum in Trinidad attracted many foreigners also.
My godmother’s name was Emmeline Veira. Her aunt, her father’s sister Pauline, might have designed and made this. Several people might have worked on the embroidery using hoops, special fine needles, thimbles and shields for the fingers. In those days, there were no radios, telephones not television sets; so “they sat on cushion and sewed a fine seam”. They might have had a sing-song wile stitching. I am sure that it was a community project.
The shawl might have been a wedding present for a young woman, or maybe for Auntie herself. I can just imagine her wearing it over her evening gown to a fancy ball, or maybe when taking a stroll with her beau.
For the age of this shawl, the materials used were the finest at that time, probably at the turn of the twentieth century. That’s why it is in such excellent condition today.
I wear it on special occasions like to a wedding reception, or an evening affair. It is greatly admired. I take good care of it, and will certainly pass it on to my daughter.
Just the same, I took care of Godmother when she was ill with heart disease for the last five years of he life. She passed in 1986 at age eighty three. So this antique shawl may be more than one hundred years old.
The Washing Machine by Sylvia
So the story goes, Mama had been in the middle of washing the family laundry when she went into labor with me. As I recall, all during my life time, Mama always did our family laundry on Monday mornings. My birthday, September 1, 1931 fell on a Thursday. I suppose that there must have been more than one wash day for the Jones family before the washing machine. Before my birth there was a family of five, two parents and three children. Herbert Jr, age nine, Edward age eight and little sister Florence age six.
Mama had been down stair in the basement washing the family laundry on a washboard in her new modern stationary tubes with both hot and cold running water. I guess, they referred to these new tubes as stationary to let it be known that they weren’t tin tubes.
Although America was in the middle of the great depression and in 1932 there were eleven million Americans out of work, Daddy and Mama had just had our home built in 1930. Thank God for the US government and Daddy’s great Aunt, we were able to have a brand new house. The government employed Daddy and our great, great Aunt gave Mama and daddy the land to construct the house on. Prior to 1930, my parents and family lived in the home of daddy’s parents and then later in my mother’s parents home. I was the first and last child to be born after our family moved into our new home.
Well, house chores in our home were always gender specific. Washing was always a job assigned to women and men washed windows as well as scrubbed the floors.
After I made my entrance into the world and daddy returned home from the hospital, the family wash had to be completed. Daddy completed the family wash by hand, hung the clothes out in the backyard to dry and immediately went out and purchased the washing machine.
I presume that the new washing machine came from Sears and Roebuck store, since just about everything in our house was purchased from that store. Clothing, spring plants, baby chicks, hot water heaters and even in the 1940’s and 1950’s my sister and I both received Mouton lamb coats during our junior year in college.
The washing machine became an integral part of my life until my early teens when daddy replaced the old washing machine with a “bendix” washer that did everything except bring the laundry up the basement stairs and hang it on the back yard clothes line.
The rule was that clothing must be clean and bright and hung out neatly on the line as early as possible.
Our first washing machine was a round cylinder shaped tube with an agitator in the center and on an upper side of the machine was a wringer and clothing was feed into the wringer by hand twice once to remove soapy water and the second time to remove the rinse water. The machine was filled with the water from a hose attached to a facet and emptied by a pump into the stationary tubes years before the Bendix was purchased the pump broke down and water was removed by hand. This was a coveted job of the children. I was the last child who helped with this chore watching and helping Mama wash was always a joy for me.
Mama had been down stair in the basement washing the family laundry on a washboard in her new modern stationary tubes with both hot and cold running water. I guess, they referred to these new tubes as stationary to let it be known that they weren’t tin tubes.
Although America was in the middle of the great depression and in 1932 there were eleven million Americans out of work, Daddy and Mama had just had our home built in 1930. Thank God for the US government and Daddy’s great Aunt, we were able to have a brand new house. The government employed Daddy and our great, great Aunt gave Mama and daddy the land to construct the house on. Prior to 1930, my parents and family lived in the home of daddy’s parents and then later in my mother’s parents home. I was the first and last child to be born after our family moved into our new home.
Well, house chores in our home were always gender specific. Washing was always a job assigned to women and men washed windows as well as scrubbed the floors.
After I made my entrance into the world and daddy returned home from the hospital, the family wash had to be completed. Daddy completed the family wash by hand, hung the clothes out in the backyard to dry and immediately went out and purchased the washing machine.
I presume that the new washing machine came from Sears and Roebuck store, since just about everything in our house was purchased from that store. Clothing, spring plants, baby chicks, hot water heaters and even in the 1940’s and 1950’s my sister and I both received Mouton lamb coats during our junior year in college.
The washing machine became an integral part of my life until my early teens when daddy replaced the old washing machine with a “bendix” washer that did everything except bring the laundry up the basement stairs and hang it on the back yard clothes line.
The rule was that clothing must be clean and bright and hung out neatly on the line as early as possible.
Our first washing machine was a round cylinder shaped tube with an agitator in the center and on an upper side of the machine was a wringer and clothing was feed into the wringer by hand twice once to remove soapy water and the second time to remove the rinse water. The machine was filled with the water from a hose attached to a facet and emptied by a pump into the stationary tubes years before the Bendix was purchased the pump broke down and water was removed by hand. This was a coveted job of the children. I was the last child who helped with this chore watching and helping Mama wash was always a joy for me.
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