In the Midst of Innocence

by Deborah Hining

  Title Page

  In the

  Midst

  of

  Innocence

  a novel

  DEBORAH HINING

  Durham, NC

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 Deborah G. Hining

  In the Midst of Innocence

  Deborah G. Hining

  lightmessages.com/deborah-hining

  dhining@gmail.com

  Published 2018, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713 USA

  SAN: 920-9298

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-244-9

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61153-245-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017963046

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  August

  September

  October

  November

  December

  January

  February

  March

  April

  May

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by Deborah Hining

  Dedication

  “The Little Tennessee”

  North Sea, Red Sea, Sea of Galilee

  None of them are the place for me

  If I had my choice, you soon would see

  I would pick the river called the Little Tennessee

  It is wide and swift, not right for wading,

  But you will not see my choice fading.

  There are places all over the world that I would like to see

  But my heart always comes back to the Little Tennessee.

  –Debbie Griffitts, age 6 yrs

  Maryville, Tennessee

  To my mother, whose heart was broken when the last free-running portion of the Little Tennessee was dammed, and to my father, who carried that poem in his wallet until the day he died.

  August

  Warm, waning days.

  The stars brighten now,

  Earth hastens her journey toward darkness,

  Even as the great orb pulls me into her silvery embrace.

  She wills me to dance, and I am helpless to deny her.

  The Spirit broods; light and dark play upon the land.

  My children cannot yet see what roves in the unseen places,

  But change is coming.

  August 28, 1931

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  I have settled in nicely with the Reverend and Mrs. Miller. The house is quite large, roomy enough to absorb me, all my clothing, and my books, and I can assure you that it is quite safe. No doubt, Thomas and Jonas will attest to that as soon as they arrive home, if they have not already done so. I imagine they will reach you before my letter does as they left early this morning right after breakfast.

  It worked out well to go through Memphis to visit Aunt Mildred, even though it was quite a bit out of our way. We had a very nice visit, but I do not think she is as happy in her new marriage as we all had hoped. I did not see much of Mr. Jenkins because he was clearly not desirous of our company. Nevertheless, it was wonderful to see Aunt Mildred again after all this time.

  You will be proud to know that I drove the entire way from Chicago to Memphis, without feeling the least fatigue! I am certain I will be able to drive home by myself for the Christmas holiday.

  Now begins the next phase, and how I look forward to becoming acquainted with the area and with the people I will be serving! Since there is no church building in this “holler,” as the natives call it, Reverend Miller holds services at the schoolhouse where I will be teaching, which is only about half a mile away from here. I expect I will meet several of my students and their families tomorrow, as Reverend Miller assures me that more than a few attend his services regularly.

  As you can imagine, I am most anxious to know how the Lord will lead me, and no doubt tomorrow will be the beginnings of my testing. My fervent prayer is that I will measure up to what He expects and desires of me. There is much work to be done, I know, and I pray I do not come up short in His eyes.

  Please give my love to Thomas and Jonas, and thank them for attending to my removal here to East Tennessee and for their care and concern for my wellbeing. Also, give my warmest love to Cecilia. Tell her I will write her as soon as I can.

  I remain you loving daughter, excited and grateful that you have allowed me to come here to serve the Lord,

  Emily

  August 31, 1931

  My Dearest Sister,

  I am here! You cannot imagine how beautiful it is, and how excited I am to be here. I feel as if I have landed in an entirely new, magical world, bucolic and green. It reminds me of Ireland—do you remember how green the hills were when we spent the summer with the O’Seanaseays? It is just as green here, but there are so many different shades of it because there are so many trees! I found myself longing to climb the huge oak in the front lawn here at the Miller’s home—it is much like the one in our own sweet back garden, the one we used to live in all summer when we were children. But whereas we have only a few trees, the Millers have a forest surrounding them. You cannot imagine how leafy it all is!

  I attended church service today and met some of the children I will be teaching when school begins in just a little over a week. I believe that Father has been unduly harsh in his assessment of what the people here are like. They are poor, certainly, but I did not see any “slovenly, slack-jawed, mentally deficient characters” that he insisted I would be encountering. Yes, many of the children did not wear shoes, and although their clothing was poor and well-patched, most were clean. I do not expect that I will be catching lice from any of them. At least I hope that is not one of the trials I will be facing over the school year!

  Sadly, the service was attended mostly by only women and children. The men, as well as a goodly number of the boys, are laboring in the fields in order to get the crops in. Because almost none of the men are gainfully employed at this difficult time, they rely exclusively on what they can produce in their own farms and gardens to feed their families. It is sad, of course, but not as sad as the long lines of men we have seen in Chicago, waiting for the slim chance of employment, or even a hot meal. It does not seem that this part of the country is suffering any more than the rest of it.

  On the way down, we went through Memphis and met Aunt Mildred’s new husband, and Cecilia, I must tell you, I am not at all fond of him! He is coarse and rough, and when he bothered to speak to us, he made a slur about us being Yankees. That set us out on the wrong foot, but I believe he is far worse than we initially suspected. The second night we were there, Jonas, Thomas, and I were sitting up late talking after Aunt Mildred had gone to bed. Just after midnight, Mr. Jenkins came sneaking in through the back door, trying to tiptoe past us, but Jonas spoke up, compelling him to come into the parlor and say goodnight. He was stinking of kerosene and soot, and he looked about as furtive as I have ever seen anyone look.

  The next day, we discovered that a Negro church not a mile distant had been burned to the ground, and as soon as I heard it, I knew in my bones that Mr. Jenkins had something to do with it! Cecilia, I must tell you, that absolutely terrified me! Down here, many people consider Negroes dangerous and believe
they must be kept in line with stern measures at times. However, I never dreamed that someone would burn down a church! I cannot imagine why anyone would want to molest Christian people of color.

  Please do not breathe a word to Father and Mother about it. They are already fearful that I will be in danger here in the land of the Rebels, but if they know that people are burning down churches, they will surely make me come home. Thomas and Jonas have already given me their word they will not tell. Thomas even remarked that Father should have more cause to be worried about me in Chicago, what with all the bootleggers running loose, shooting up the city in their gang wars!

  Aside from this one incident all the way over in the far western part of the state, I feel quite safe and happy here. Reverend Miller assures me that there are few Negroes in these parts because virtually none of the mountain community of East Tennesseans ever engaged in the shameful practice of slavery. In Alcoa, about 25 miles from here, a small population of coloreds have been brought in to work at the Aluminum Company ore smelting plant, but they keep to themselves and are considered good, quiet neighbors to the white community in Maryville. I do not think there is any chance that there could be any problem with them, especially since none of them ever venture up into the hills here.

  Even so, I am not worried at all. I know the Lord will protect me. I hope, with His guidance, I will make a real difference in the lives of these dear people, bringing light, education, and the love of our Savior!

  My love flies to you,

  Emily

  September

  September 1, 1931

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  Already I know this is the place the Lord intends for me to be. Reverend and Mrs. Miller are the kindest of souls, and it is clear they are devoted to these people here in the hill country. I met many of them at church service yesterday, and although they are poor, and some of them are ignorant, not all of them are without a good grounding in Scripture. Moreover, I find that even the poorest and most uneducated of them have a kind of dignity that you would find pleasing. They also have an interesting combination of humility and pride. They are very deferential toward me, as well as to Reverend and Mrs. Miller, but they hold to their own counsel and refuse to let anyone perform a service for them without repaying it in some way. Yesterday, Mrs. Miller and I visited some of the families in the area, and we took some little cakes that we had made. Each family we visited graciously accepted the cakes, but they hastily assembled some goods they had on hand to give us in return. We came home with canned jellies, bits of hand-tatted lace, an embroidered apron, and several other items of beauty and value. It was more than we brought!

  I assure you, they are kind and harmless. Please stop worrying about my safety or the safety of my soul. They are not heathen at all, but quite Christian. Their worship is sober; they do not engage in riotous display of emotion, handling of serpents, or in the more bizarre interpretations of Scripture. I expect I will learn as much from these good hill folk as I hope to impart to them.

  Your loving daughter,

  Emily

  September 6, 1931

  Darling Cecilia,

  I have been here over a week already, and I am feeling as free and as blissful as a bird who is learning to fly. It is so very beautiful, and all the people I have met are kindhearted.

  Today at church, I met a remarkable family, the Wallaces. The mother and children attend services regularly. The father, who is less regular, joined them today, perhaps because three of the children came up in front of the congregation to sing. It was touching and amusing how they performed: with great fervor and a modicum of talent, if not of training! They were much better than you might expect!

  After the service, Mrs. Miller introduced us at my request. There are two older boys, two younger girls, and a toddler of about three or four. The mother looks worn out, from breeding, no doubt, as do most of the women in these parts, for they marry young and have large families. I would say at least half of them are in the family way. Sadly, even the young women have that pinched, worried look that comes from a lifetime of cares. Mrs. Wallace has particular cares, I have learned, brought on by the fact that her husband is excessively fond of the drink. I was very surprised to learn this, for he is the picture of perfect health and vitality.

  Frankly, I have never seen such striking men as Mr. Wallace and his sons! They are perfectly proportioned, of the hardiest of stock, large, and robust, with fine features, and all of them, including the girls, have the most extraordinary eyes! The oldest girl, Pearl, has golden eyes, exactly like her mother’s, and by golden, I mean they are bright yellow and they shine like sunlight. The older boy has eyes like his father’s; one cannot tell if they are blue or green—they are both, all at once, and are as clear and bright as the sky or the sea or the green hills, depending upon the angle at which you see them. The younger of the boys has eyes that are of the palest green, so pale that they look nearly white, and in strong light, they look silver. The two younger girls have eyes of pure Ceylon. I wish you could see them. It almost seems as if they belong to a different race of people that I have never had the privilege to meet before.

  Of course, they are not the only family to have handsome features or beautiful eyes. Many of them are quite fine-looking and as hardy as would be expected to survive in this unforgiving environment. The most common eye color is pure blue or the calmest of gray. I do not know why I have not noticed all these extraordinary faces and eyes before. It seems as if I have been looking through a glass, darkly, and now I am just beginning to see these people face to face.

  After church, we all, Reverend and Mrs. Miller and I, went for a drive in the country. We followed the Little Tennessee River, a shimmering blue and white ribbon that took my breath away at every bend, and then we traveled high up into the hills. I cannot tell you how beautiful this place is, Cecilia. The sunlight is so clear and golden that I imagine it is what the light in heaven must be like. We drove to the very summit of a mountain, where the air is thin, sweet, and full of the music of birds and woodland creatures. The sky was perfectly azure, but with a golden and silver glow alighting upon every tree, rock, and flower. How beautiful is this part of Creation!

  I know I am gushing. I am simply filled with the joy of this day, and perhaps, of this place. I know in my soul that I have not made a mistake coming here.

  School begins in 2 days! I am filled with anticipation and trepidation!

  Your surprisingly emancipated and excited sister,

  Emily

  Warm, waning days.

  I savor a difference, in the slant of sunlight,

  In a creeping vapor,

  In my children.

  Something unnamed will change how they see themselves.

  I cannot taste it yet,

  But I catch a scent, not tart, not sweet.

  I have smelled something like it before;

  It was so long ago, the memory has been washed away.

  There is only a trace deep in my bedrock that reminds me.

  I breathe more freely now;

  The orb’s lust fades, as does mine.

  My thoughts turn to the rocks beneath me,

  To my arms reaching out into the wildness.

  September 9, 1931

  My School Journal, grade 7, Miss Weston’s class

  By Pearl Wallace

  This has been the best first day of school in which I have ever been. My teacher, Miss Weston, is very nice and pretty, and she wears beautiful dresses that probably came from Marshall Field’s department store in Chicago, from whence she came. She teaches at Cheola School, which I attend with my brother Sardius and my sister Beryl. I was supposed to enter the sixth grade this year, but I am in the seventh. I started first grade when I was five years old because I could read by then, and yesterday Miss Weston gave us a test and I got to skip the sixth grade, even though I am only ten years old. Sardius is my next to the eldest brother. He is two years older than I am, and he is in the eighth grade
because he also skipped a grade. My sister Beryl is eight years old and is in the third grade. My oldest brother Jasper is too old to go to school, and my baby sister Ruby is only four years old.

  Mama says I got promoted to the seventh grade because I read so much during the summer, and I helped her cipher when we were selling berries. I did not tell her I learned to cipher on my own last year when I found where Daddy hides his whiskey and started selling it to Jake Hatton and to my Pap-pa. I get 25c a half pint for it, and I manage to skim that much off a gallon without Daddy noticing. It took me six months to get enough to buy me a new pair of shoes from Sears & Roebuck in time for Easter last spring, and I had to cheat a couple of times and draw down a little more than a half pint when Daddy went on a spree and got too drunk to notice how much I took.

  They are beautiful, black patent leather shoes, with straps across the instep that you buckle at the sides. Mama calls them “Mary Janes,” which I think is a beautiful name. Just as soon as I saw them in the catalogue, I figured out how much whiskey I would have to sell to get them, and it sure took some ciphering because I do not hardly ever get exactly 25c every time. I had to work out averages and estimate how much whiskey I could steal and how much money I would have left over after I had tithed ten percent to the Lord.

  When I sell whiskey to Pap-pa he usually gives me what he calls a “tip,” which might range anywhere from a couple of cents to a nickel. Jake Hatton is so stingy he tries to cheat me every chance he gets, and for a while there he told me to put it on his account and he would pay me later, but he never did. I caught on to that pretty quick, but not before he had stolen a good bit of my whiskey. I had to threaten never to sell him any more just to get my jars back, and when he finally did give them back, the lids were rusty. He is trash, just like my mama says, and I ought not to do business with him, but he is my only customer outside Pap-pa, and Pap-pa does not drink half as much as Jake Hatton does. Also, I am ascared if I try to cut Jake Hatton off, he will tattle on me, and that will be the end of that. It is better to put up with a trashy skinflint than to lose my business.