I said, “Isn’t this somethin’?”
They told me, “Lela, your boyfriend talking to so-and-so.”
I looked around and saw he was talkin’ to them. So what to do? I went to talk to somebody else who was tryin’ to talk to me. By that time, he found himself, he found me.
A GRAM LEGACY
Gram bought clothes for Pop-Pop, too. He hated shopping. Gram even bought his shoes. She would bring a box home, and he’d try them on and decide if he would keep them or not.
He still has the powder blue, lightly pin-striped suit that she bought him almost 30 years ago. Pop is tall and slender and he’s had that suit for as long as I can remember. It’s his go-to suit for funerals, weddings, anniversaries, you name it. It matches his blue eyes. A caramel-colored black man with blue eyes! The family used to joke that he was the mailman’s baby. Pop was a mailman for 25 years.
When my aunt Marie, my grandparents’ youngest child, died from Lou Gehrig’s disease at the age of 53, 14 years after Gram died, the only suit in Pop’s closet was that powder blue suit. I combed through his clothes trying to find him something to wear to Marie’s funeral. I most remember his scent, one I’ve known all my life. When people die, you go through a closet, and always notice the smells.
This photo was taken at my Harrisburg High School graduation in 1988. This is the suit Gram bought Pop-Pop in the early 1980s, and the one that he wore to his daughter Marie’s funeral in 2008.
Pop was Marie’s primary caregiver. No one looked after the state of his clothes. The day she died, he sat on his bed. I sat next to him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now,” he said. “She was my baby.” My heart aches for him and I start to worry about him. Feeding and helping Marie gave Pop a sense of purpose.
My gram would have been upset if she knew he didn’t have a good white shirt. His ties were so old they were becoming tattered at the edges. Gram would have said, “Go to the store and get your grandfather a respectable shirt and tie.” I know she would have yelled at us for neglecting to see what he had in his closet. He’s the kind of man that you buy a pack of underwear or a packet of socks and he leaves them in his drawer, unopened, until the holes in his current underwear or socks are too big. He always says, “I don’t need no more things. My dresser is full.” I went to a local department store and bought him a white shirt and a tie. I fretted over the tie. It was days after Christmas. Sales were on and I decided on a blue tie. It was a bit fresh and modern for an 80-something-year-old man, but I couldn’t resist. That powder blue suit may be dated with big lapels, but he would have a crisp white shirt and a sharp tie. No problem in spending a little more to make sure he looked good for his baby girl’s funeral.
He knows every time I come home I will go through his drawers and threaten to throw away his holey socks. It’s a fight we have every time I check out his apartment to make sure he has food and a clean house. My aunt Pat and the rest of the family do a really good job of checking on him, but I believe no one really checks on his dress clothes. Gram wouldn’t have been happy. She would have sucked her teeth and shaken her head, mumbling to herself.
No problem in spending a little more to make sure he looked good for his baby girl’s funeral.
MRS. LILLIE M. ROBERTS, 84
COFFEEVILLE
BORN AUGUST 1931
FIRST MARRIAGE 6 YEARS; SECOND MARRIAGE 16 YEARS
NO CHILDREN
Mrs. Roberts is wearing a tailored white jacket. It’s hard to imagine this is a woman who says she loves to ride in trucks and worked tractors. She retired after 23 years working at Randall Textron, a local factory. She’s most proud of being active in the NAACP.
“I am still an active member. I was the treasurer for over 50 years.” Civil Rights are important to her; she was first Black to register to vote in Water Valley.
One day out of the blue sky, we fittin’ to vote. The white peoples started talkin’ about they wasn’t gonna let the Negroes vote. They told us, “Better not go up there, to the courthouse.” My husband and I worked together in Water Valley [Mississippi]. Our supervisor came to our house and said, “You know one thing? You know, I want to be the one to tell y’all to go vote. I gotta right to tell y’all, you must go vote. You know why I’m comin’ down here to tell y’all to vote? Because y’all got land. Anybody that got land and property, ’specially black peoples, need to go vote.” He said, “Now, I’mma tell y’all, my skin is different from yours, but they been taking black folks’ money and they pay taxes and they not allowed to vote. They was not doin’ nothin’ but takin’ the black people’s money, paying tax, but they would still tell you wasn’t able to vote.” So that supervisor told us that story that he had in his heart.
Folks wasn’t votin’. They was scared. I was kinda scared. He [the supervisor] said, “Promise me you’ll go vote.”
We told him yeah.
And the next day, he pulled back up. He said, “Lemme tell you one thing, y’all. Now if y’all scared, go ’head on. I’m gonna be around that courthouse when y’all come. Tell me what time you comin’.”
We told him. My husband said, “Well, I can’t read as good as you, but I’mma put you on front line.”
We got up there next day. We got dressed casual. We went up there. He [husband] had on a khaki pants, and then he turned around and put on some overalls. He said, “I’m puttin’ on my overalls, ’cause I’m puttin’ this .38 down here.” He put the overalls on top of his pants and put that .38 in his pocket. That’s where all mens carried their pistols then. He said, “I’mma pop anyone, they look at you.”
I said, “All right.” I’m brave.
We go. We had a li’l ole pickup. He [husband] said, “I’mma drive this pickup up to the front door. Since this man told us to vote, I’mma show him, we gonna vote.”
We got out and went on in. This courthouse had three floors. And when we started in, those peoples who were workin’ in those offices, every one of them, came out in the hall and stuck their head out, lookin’. They asked, “Who is that goin’ down through there?”
We walkin’ side by side. My husband never took his hand out his pocket. He had both hands in his pockets. We went on in there.
A man took a book out of the cabinet and laid that book on the table. He opened it out and he asked me, did I know the Constitution of the United States? I said yeah, I did know it. I done forgot it ’cause I hadn’t went to school in a long time. He said, “Well, you gotta read these three or four.” I’m lookin’ at it and lookin’ at it. So I marked what I think and pushed that book back. He looked up at my husband and said, “Well, you said you can’t read and write, so it wouldn’t be good for you to vote, ’cause you got to know the name of who you votin’ for and that’s why you won’t be asked to vote, but I got her registered.”
We came on out. When we came out of there and started back down the street, all those white folks in the offices was still lookin’. They stood at the door. They wondered what we was doin’ in there. My husband and I still walkin’ together. He said, “Well, I’mma open the door for you [for the truck].” He walked around and opened the door for me, like I was somebody.
The picturesque town of Water Valley in Yalobusha County is being revitalized, with art galleries and independent restaurants in its town center. Its many beautiful old wooden homes attract Ole Miss professors, who commute the 18 miles north to campus. Currently, 3,300 people live in the town, and 42 percent are black.
MRS. BEATRICE P. SMITH, 87
CHARLESTON
BORN NOVEMBER 1927
MARRIED 15 YEARS WHEN WIDOWED
3 CHILDREN
2 GRANDCHILDREN
3 GREAT-GRANDS
Rev. Hawkins tells me that a retired educator, Beatrice P. Smith, lives on property once owned by the mother of Roy Bryant, the white man acquitted of the cold-blooded killing of 14-year-old black youth Emmett Till in 1955. She lives near Mrs. Florida Smith and Mrs. Emma Horton.
Mrs. Smith has a small
home near an open field of farmland, with neighbors across the street. I knock on a door that opens to a screened porch that leads to a living room jam-packed with furniture, and behind it is the kitchen, where a TV produces a low mumble of voices. I ask her if we can turn it off, and she slowly walks back into the kitchen while I barely find room for my tripod and microphone stand.
She sits in her rocking chair against the wall and I sit in a chair across from her in the tiny room and dig right into the Emmett Till story: “Mrs. Smith, did you know you were buying the home from the Bryant family, who was connected to the killing?” “People knew about this house for sale, but were afraid to talk to Mrs. Bryant. I didn’t know any better,” said this proud woman who grew up on the T.C. Buford Plantation in Glendora. She explained that she had asked people to let her know if they came across homes for sale because she was ready to buy. Everyone seemed to know it was the Bryant home, but no one told her. When asked if she’s willing to sell, she expresses irritation that so many asked to buy from her after she bought the house. She isn’t interested in selling.
I was still living on Buford Plantation and I talked with one of the bus drivers from school and I asked him if you hear talk of someone wanna sell a lot or somethin’, I said let me know. One day he came to me and said, “Ms. Smith, I got what you wanted.” After school I came to talk to the neighbors. I asked, “Who is it that wanted to sell the lot?”
They pointed me to the house. The neighbor said, “Now, the lady is named Ms. Bryant.” The neighbors knew who she was, but I didn’t know. Her house burned down and she left. She told them she wanted to sell the lot and that’s when they told me about it. She was the only white family here. The people in this area, they was afraid to contact Ms. Bryant to buy the lot. After I bought it, the neighbor said, “Now people is ’fraid to buy ’cause of her sons killed this Emmett Till.” But I didn’t know who she was. Then after I purchased the lot, four or five black families in this area wanted to buy the lot from me. They were afraid of the Bryants. But it didn’t bother me because they weren’t living here anymore. They didn’t charge much of anything. Look like they wanted to get rid of it. I didn’t have to pay much. It was very cheap. I bought it in 1962. I had this house built. I enjoy living here. I have about an acre. I’ve been in this house in 52 years.
The plantation [Buford in Glendora, where she grew up] owner built the church and we still go to that church as our home church. It’s old, way over 100 years old. I go to that same church. I saw the owner last week. The son owns it now, and he came out to be with us. That’s the only church that I’ve ever been a member of. I am 87 years old and I was born and reared in that church. My children was born and reared and baptized in the same church. We still go to that church. I just don’t want to leave.
It’s a Methodist church and I’m still here. We enjoy it. It has never burned; it has never been torn down and we still have service. It’s not in real, real good condition, but it’s good enough for us for us to still hold on to. And since I’ve been there all my life, I still want to remain at that church. My son is still a member there. Right now we don’t have over five active members, but we have a pastor and other people come and help us. In October we had the pastor’s appreciation. The churches in the community, they furnished the food for the occasion and we appreciate that so very much, yes indeed.
MRS. LARVARAH JONES, 89
RULEVILLE
BORN JUNE 1925
MARRIED 40 YEARS WHEN WIDOWED
14 CHILDREN
23 GRANDCHILDREN
7 GREAT-GRANDS
5 GREAT-GREAT-GRANDS
Mrs. Jones, an educator for the local Head Start for 15 years, was referred by another mother in the book, Mrs. Hooper-White, who told me that Mrs. Jones literally walked the streets of Ruleville to raise money for the headstone for Civil Rights icon Fannie Lou Hamer.
Mrs. Jones is eager to talk. When I arrive, she’s wearing a canary yellow skirt suit and hat. Mrs. Hooper-White joins us a few minutes later for the interview.
I worked from 7:30 a.m. ’til 3:30 in the evening and then I got out and walked all around Ruleville raising money. ’Cause I looked out there and just it’s sad they had a lady like her [Mrs. Fannie Lou Hamer] and they didn’t even have a tombstone. I couldn’t take it. So my aide at Head Start would be out there wit’ me. We went every which way. Some peoples was nice, some peoples wasn’t.
I went to this lawyer, a white lawyer, and I told him what I was doin’ so he give me the first $25 and said, “Go ’head. I want you to go to every place in Ruleville and tell them I sent ya and ask them to give you a donation.” Some of them did; some of them did pretty good; some of them didn’t.
I went to the bank and some of the stores. I went to the lumber company and they said “no.” I looked at them and smiled and pushed the door and walked out. But I kept movin’. When I got through, I called the funeral home place in Grenada and told them what I needed and what I wanted. They brought it to me. We did it. We was tired. Sometimes I had to be late comin’ home, cookin’ supper for my husband and children, but I did it with God up above. I put that tombstone down about five years after Mrs. Hamer’s death.
She had been buried there for some time. That’s what got on my heart. I couldn’t take it. She was a great lady and a lady with love and she’s buried out there with no tombstone. I was a hardworking senior citizen. It was a great accomplishment, very great. It was just somethin’ I needed to do. I raised over $800. It took me at least 8 or 10 months to raise the money.
Not very many Whites wanted to contribute, just a few of them, that lawyer. I put money in myself, you know. And that girl that worked with me put money in. I had about $500 and then she [my aide] and I went together and my family and I put the rest together to get that $800. When they put the tombstone down, we had a prayer and were singing. Some of the church people, some of the preachers were there—did some prayin’, did some remarks. But anyway, it was nice.
MRS. HERMA S. MIMS FLOYD, 75
SUMNER
BORN OCTOBER 1939
2 MARRIAGES
2 CHILDREN
6 GRANDCHILDREN
When I first saw Mrs. Floyd in church in Sumner—a short little something with piercing eyes who wears her hair short and natural in a small Afro—I couldn’t stop looking at her. Something about her pulled at me. I needed her in my book. I didn’t know her story, not even her name. Bobby and I were at church with Mrs. Bearden, another mother of the small church, sitting in the first pew on the right side. Mrs. Bearden introduced us and told the congregation I was doing a book about grandmothers.
Mrs. Floyd led the service. She has a fantastic voice, deep, strong. She commands attention. This little woman is strong. I leaned over and whispered to Mrs. Bearden, “I want Mrs. Floyd in the book. I know she has a story.”
Mrs. Bearden told me Mrs. Floyd would be a good one for the book. “We’ll talk to her after service.”
I warmly approached Mrs. Floyd, told her I wanted her in my book, and she said she knew about the book but didn’t want to be in it. I gave her my card and asked if I could call her. She looked me in the eye and said, “I said no. I have your card. If I change my mind, I’ll call you.”
I was devastated. I wasn’t expecting that reaction. I immediately went to Mrs. Bearden, who grabbed my arm as I helped her walk out of the church. She would talk to Mrs. Floyd. Mrs. Bearden told me to call her in a couple of weeks. She’d work on Mrs. Floyd.
Several weeks went by and I called Mrs. Bearden in between classes while in my office and prepping for two independent studies. Mrs. Bearden had talked to Mrs. Floyd, thought she would agree, and gave me Mrs. Floyd’s phone number. I asked her again, for reassurance: “You’re sure I can call?”
Mrs. Bearden: “Yes.”
“Mrs. Floyd, this is Lisa Steele. I met you at church. I am the woman doing the book on grandmothers. Mrs. Bearden gave me your number. I’m hoping you’ll agree to be in the book.”
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sp; “I know who this is. Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to be in the book?” Before I can answer, she continues, “I took your card. Did I not? I said I would call if I changed my mind. Did I call you? If I wanted to be in the book, I would have called. I don’t want to be in the book. I don’t appreciate you calling, bugging me about this book. I don’t appreciate you calling. I didn’t tell Mrs. Bearden she could give you my number.”
I can’t get a word in edgewise. When she stops, all I can say is, “Yes, ma’am.” I hang up feeling like a schoolgirl. I am upset that I have upset her. I worry she and Mrs. Bearden will have words. I immediately call Mrs. Bearden. “Mrs. Bearden, she said no. She is not happy with me for calling her. I’m letting you know because I’d hate for you two to have a misunderstanding.”
Mrs. Bearden is not worried about a misunderstanding and tells me to call her later.
My two students arrive for their private lesson, and ten minutes later my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number and I don’t recognize the voice, but I answer. “Why, Lisa, of course I will be in your book.” That’s all I hear. My students are watching my confused expression. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s so sweet. Surely this isn’t Mrs. Floyd.
A week later I drive to Mrs. Floyd’s home. I stop by to see Mrs. Bearden first for encouragement. I’m intimidated by Mrs. Floyd. I do not want to cross this woman. This little short bit of a woman—small but mighty like my gram. Mrs. Bearden can see Mrs. Floyd’s house from her front door. She directs me and then gives me a hug. I take a deep breath, back out of the paved driveway, look at the little sign that reads, THE BEARDENS on the front lawn, and cross the two-lane road.
Delta Jewels Page 19
