Aunt Donsy's Trunk

Aunt

Donsy’s

Trunk

Elaine T. Jones

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

Aunt Donsy's Trunk

Copyright © 2014 Elaine T. Jones.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2418-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2419-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 02/18/2014

Credits for Aunt Donsy's Trunk:

Editor: Michelle Bush

Photography: Chanda Jones

Contents

Chapter 1 Home Going

Chapter 2 Permission to Cry

Chapter 3 The Right Question

Chapter 4 A Man With The Answers

Chapter 5 The Johnson Family

Chapter 6 Desperate Times

Chapter 7 Sophisticated Gentlemen

Chapter 8 The Block

Chapter 9 The Ambassador

Chapter 10 Battle Of The Stubborn

Chapter 11 Peas on a Knife

Chapter 12 The Promising Land

Chapter 13 Do Drop Inn

Chapter 14 Hoops of Steel

Chapter 15 On The Road

Chapter 16 Never A Dull Moment

Chapter 17 Only The Good Die Young

Chapter 18 Stretch a Penny

Chapter 19 Contents Matter

Chapter 20 A Good Idea

Chapter 21 Age Changes Things

Chapter 22 That Man

Chapter 23 A Name Of Your Own

Chapter 24 A Lock Of Hair

Chapter 25 A Cause for Concern

Chapter 26 Focus On The Future

Chapter 27 School Daze

Chapter 28 What is Important?

Chapter 29 When Is A Hope Chest Hopeless?

Chapter 30 Unraveling

Chapter 31 The Results of Unraveling

Chapter 32 An Evil Spirit?

Chapter 33 It Must Be Somebody Important

Chapter 34 Do Not Trespass

Appendix

C hapter 1

Home Going

When the angel of death swoops down and plucks a soul from the fabric of a family, it leaves a gaping, non-repairable, irreplaceable hole in the interwoven family structure. It doesn’t matter whether the death was sudden or expected—the effect is still the same. We received the call that Clarence had passed on March 26, 1998.

Oh No! What happened?

His heart just gave out… . He had had two heart attacks you know.

All current plans were set aside as we focused on the fastest way to travel the 800 miles to North Carolina. We had to be there with the family to mourn together—to escort Clarence to his final resting place, and we had to hurry.

The night before the memorial service, everyone gathered at the funeral home for the viewing [the time spent sitting with the deceased the night before the funeral]. The old folks called it a ‘wake’ because, in the past, someone stayed awake all night, sitting with the body—in prayer; they were concerned with the transition of the soul to the other side where our Heavenly Father would welcome him home.

The casket was opened to reveal the well-groomed, carefully dressed, shell of the former being; devoid of the energy that once confined its earth bound spirit. A community of mourners walked slowly by the casket to view the body. Considerable thought had been given to this presentation as an outward expression of the measure of respect for the loved one. The family showed their respect by making sure the funeral director knew the style of clothing and artifacts that were unique to that person. Was the hair parted on the correct side? Should he have a mustache, or should he be clean-shaven?

My cousin, Delores, who was the surviving mate, was heard to say, The last thing I can do for Clarence is give him a proper burial…

This feeling was evidence of the persistence of traditional burial customs, and a reminder that respect for the dead was a core value in our African roots. Regardless of time, circumstance, or expense, the family was considered negligent in their duties if they didn’t put him away nicely.

The viewing served as a social gathering while the friends and family shared their loss. Other than the signing of the visitor book, which became a commemorative for the family, there was no formal ritual; each had the freedom to mourn in his or her own way. As a cathartic release of grief, there were: hugs, tears, bowed heads, hands shook, and expressions of joy to see old friends—just Sorry that it had to be on such a sad occasion. Words, spoken with the best of intentions, were hollow promises wreathed in smiles and sincerity…

We’ll keep in touch and not wait for another funeral!

We always say that don’t we? But we never seem to squeeze it in.

The profound sadness we all felt at the death of a relative or friend was accompanied by a trepidation and apprehension of one’s own mortality… All participants in the reunion conversation admitted, sometimes out loud—sometimes only in the darkness of their own night, to spending too much time trudging through each day in the weighted, often concealed, shackles of life that caused one to break such sincere promises—almost before the words could be uttered.

Each person at the viewing, was concurrently—yet separately, involved in thinking about, remembering, and considering the impact of how much Clarence, the departed spirit, affected their lives. The funeral director, standing sentinel near the door, observed: suppressed sobs, handheld handkerchiefs—ready for active duty, and tearful expressions of feeling—finding a path down someone’s cheek. Somewhere a barely recognizable hollow sound, with a trembling pitch, emitted from someone’s grieving gut. Someone else begged of God to make sense of this death. Why… Why God… Why!!!

Impromptu lyrical moans of hymns arose in A cappella, slowly spreading—creating layers of harmony throughout the room, gradually reaching a compelling crescendo before coming to an end. The guttural sounds of sadness, coming up from the deep, was understood and shared by all; not necessarily through words—which were mostly mumbled, but by the poignant sounds that remained floating in the air like a ministering angel.

My father and I had not arrived in time to attend the viewing; we got to Delores’s home just in time to take our place in the long black limousine supplied by the funeral director as the family car. Flanked on each side by cousins, we rode silently to the church; everyone was utterly consumed in individual thought. All of our emotions were seemingly robbed of outward expressions.

I carefully monitored my eighty-eight year old father for signs of fatigue; it had been a long trip. We had traveled by train from Philadelphia, PA, and rented a car in Greensboro, NC to reach our destination. Eden, NC was a little town that was formed a few years ago when the three villages of Leakesville, Draper, and Spray fused into one town. Nonetheless, Eden, NC was still just a notch on the landscape—too small to have a train station. It had been several years since we had been ‘home,’ only once since my mother died in 1991. There was never any question that we needed to make the trip; we had to be there at this time to support my cousin, Delores, as she buried her husband, Clarence Purcell.

After the burial service, we all went back to the little house Clarence had built for Delores. It was a neat little three bedroom ranch; nothing fancy, but enough for a comfortable living.

Fair to middling. was how Clarence had characterized their home.

The dining room—the largest area, was adjacent to the ‘L’ shaped kitchen; a Formica counter top connection, bound on one side with high stools for sitting, separated the two rooms. The old, carefully refinished, wood furniture that graced the room, and the delicate white porcelain washbowl and pitcher set, anchored in the middle of the buffet, were antiques. Those things were the last vestiges of possessions that once belonged to our Grandmom Searcy.

The buffet and counter top were covered with: cakes, pies, potato salad, greens of all types, baked and fried chicken, ham draped in pineapple slices, cornbread, and homemade rolls. The abundance of delicious food, brought over by friends and neighbors, was their way of expressing their love; their contributions created the repast to be shared by all after the funeral… A few women went quickly into the kitchen and smoothly organized themselves into a serving crew.

The living room was just large enough for the assorted collection of furniture that worked together for informal sitting. The front door entered directly into the living room off a small stoop type porch, flanked by a handicap access ramp—built especially for both Clarence and Delores. They had shared years of ill health… At one time, they were both in the same hospital—at the same time—in rooms just down the hall from each other.

Someone rolled Delores up the ramp and placed her wheelchair perpendicular to the sofa. Her wheelchair faced the short side of the big rectangle trunk she used as a coffee table. The trunk was the one thing that Delores took to her home after our Aunt Donsy passed away. No one in the family had a problem with her taking it; we knew she valued the trunk and would take good care of it. For the last ten years, it had been in Delores’ living room. I reached over and caressed the edge of the rough wood—it was a relic of our childhood.

Delores and her surviving siblings, Lottie, Faye, and Wilbert, settled in the living room with my father and I while everyone else seemed to be in constant movement throughout other parts of the house, hovering around: sometimes sitting for a spell on the edge of the sofa; sometimes joining in the conversation; sometimes giving Delores a hug or kiss, and seeing that she got something to eat.

In the corner of the living room—to the side of our small conversational group, my father relaxed in Clarence’s favorite brown leather recliner with his eyes closed; therefore, we talked softly as our spontaneous conversation reverberated, in and out of past and present existence—becoming a mental exercise in time travel. We were sharing memories of the good times spent together and with Clarence who was… .

Built like Jack Johnson, the fighter, except that he was better looking.

Must’a had some Mandingo blood in him? Looks like he could have…

Clarence was a tall handsome black man with broad shoulders. As he grew older, Clarence’s full head of black hair had become a beautiful salt and pepper—with no intention of ever balding. He had a subtle sense of humor, so I was never sure whether he was telling me a fact or pulling my leg without smiling.

In fact, I said, I don’t ever remember seeing him smile with his face; he smiled with his eyes, adding my memories to the conversation.

Clarence could always talk his way out of a fight.

He was a good negotiator.

Good thing too, ’cause if he ever hit someone, they would be hurt real bad.

I remember when I first saw Clarence, I thought he was the biggest man I’d ever seen; of course that was when I was only about twelve years old. I inserted.

He was the only one I know who could have gone through what he did on that job… It’s always hard to be the first anywhere.

Clarence’s shoulders were never slumped, even when he was tired. He always stood tall and erect, like Fredrick Douglas without a beard.

We always thought of him as the Jackie Robinson of the Leakesville Energy Company.

Listen to you all, comparing him to all those great men, he was just being Clarence… wasn’t trying to be nobody else. Delores contributed.

Well, that may be so, but he sure nuff made those White Folks respect him though… didn’t even want him to retire when he did

Yes sir-re… Whole bunch of them even came to the funeral—even cried.

They ended up treating Clarence like he was the president of the company… You won’t believe that he started out shoveling coal in the yard. There was laughter of respect as we visualized that truth.

We all loved Clarence; he was going to be missed; his smiling eyes gave us all a warm and fuzzy feeling. He started to work at the power company during a time when Uncle Sam—of the United States of America, allowed his son, Mr. Jim Crow, to rule south of the Mason Dixon Line. Mr. Jim Crow forced Black men, women, and children to lie in prostrate positions, in southern states, while he trampled and stomped, with lynching feet, up and down their spines. It was a stressful time in the South, and freedom laws on the books were mostly ignored in the fields.

For example, it was almost ten years after the Brown vs. Board of Education school desegregation ruling before the schools in Eden [Leakesville] NC actually began to show signs of desegregation. My youngest cousin, Faye, graduated in Leakesville’s last segregated class. Nevertheless, Clarence was such a reliable worker that as laws changed he could not be denied job promotions as he earned them. He was able to work his way up to become the Control Room Operator. It was his responsiblity to make sure the entire plant ran smoothly.

The living room became quiet as we all continued our personal reflections about Clarence in the silence of our own minds. After a while, someone mentioned the trunk…

Delores, you still got Aunt Donsy’s old trunk… Good idea to use it as a coffee table.

That comment sent me on a mental trip of my own. I had warm memories about Aunt Donsy and her trunk. The trunk was always a big mystery to me… What did she keep inside? For a minute, I got somewhat misty eyed as I thought about the time Aunt Donsy actually pushed me out of her bedroom because I was trying to peek over her shoulder to see what was in the trunk.

I was only about six years old at the time, and Aunt Donsy hadn’t locked the bedroom door. I had sneaked into the room—very lightly—on tippy toes. Aunt Donsy turned around; she pounded her crutch into the wood floor, and yelled, Scat! Scat! as if I were a cat. I got out of there so fast that I fell on my bottom. Aunt Donsy laughed at me until her plump body shook like a bowl full of jelly while she hugged me at the same time. My six-year-old brain didn’t know what to think about her reaction… That’s the reason I never tried to sneak up on her again while she was busy with the trunk; still, I always wondered about Aunt Donsy’s trunk and its contents.

For the first time since the funeral service, I actually relaxed. I sat back on the blue sofa, and surveyed the scene as it was playing out in Delores’ living room. I allowed my mind to linger; to absorb the essence of the moment; to feel the vibrations and the love. Like Dorothy in the Wiz, I was at ‘home’ . . . I was with my family. Times like this reminded me that we never know when we will all be together again—or if.

C hapter 2

Permission to Cry

Delores, Cosmo, Wilbert, Lottie, DeEdward, and Faye were the children of my mother’s sister, my Aunt Dura; they were my only first cousins. There had been many good years when death did not visit our family, but now death seemed to be a regular caller; the core of our family unit was shrinking.

As I looked at Delores, I saw a strength that seemed to resonate in the women of our family. Usually our emotions were kept in an internal sanctuary, barely discernible to strangers. Some people, who didn’t really know us, have characterized our lack of an outward sensational display of feeling as evidence of coldness. Actually, we were anything but coldhearted. I just think we learned somewhere in our childhood, through experience and observation, that an emotional outburst robs anyone of energy and physical strength for the same reason that a child falls asleep after an emotional display of screaming and crying. We Searcy women haven’t given ourselves that luxury; situations might have to be handled that need our strength, so we just acknowledged the feeling—whether it was deep grief, sorrow, distress, or pain, and then we moved on without skipping a beat… Where did we learn that? Was it a remnant from our slave ancestors who had to learn to control their outward emotions?

Therefore, Delores was not going to break down with a boo-hoo cry; that was not her style—she was a Searcy woman. Delores sat in her wheelchair—giving comfort to those who came to comfort her; she was the oldest of all the Searcy grandchildren. In fact, Delores was only fourteen years younger than my mother; she was tall, and strong, with muscles from: plowing the fields, picking and stringing tobacco; toting her younger sisters and brothers on her hip or back, and carrying the garbage slop to the pig pin for the pigs to eat.

Delores always seemed to know what had to be done, and she did it without having to be asked. When she was barely a teenager, Delores knew that her mother needed extra help; therefore, she: fixed the breakfast, dinner, washed clothes on a washboard, and tried to teach the lessons to her younger siblings as best she could—with her ninth grade education. The year that Dock Hayes, Delores’ father, died was the last year that Delores went to school; she enjoyed school and really missed going. Delores was naturally smart; she liked to pretend to be the teacher when she helped her brothers and sisters study.

When Delores’ younger sisters, Minnie (Lottie) and Virginia Faye went to live with Grandmom and Aunt Donsy she felt sad; she missed them so much, but she knew it was the best for them. Aunt Dura was spending more time in bed, suffering from severe depression after becoming a young widow with six children. As the oldest child, Delores felt the pressure of having to take care of everybody—there was no time to cry.

At the age of sixteen, Delores married a boy, Harry Joyce, from the neighboring farm. The young couple optimistically started housekeeping as sharecroppers on a piece of land that came with a shack that slightly resembled a house. After taking a crop to market at the end of the season, Harry and Delores’ oldest brother, Cosmo, were driving home on a dark country road nine miles east of Madison, North Carolina. The Colored News section of the newspaper said the car Harry was driving missed the bridge over Mill Creek at about 4 am… Cosmo was not hurt, but Harry died of a broken neck. It was as if a great oak had been chopped down in the middle of the night, and everybody felt the impact.

Harry had such a vibrant personality; he was like a magnet in the close-knit farm community. Friends and relatives still remember where they were, and what they were doing when they first heard about the accident. A seventy-something year old man once told me, as he looked in retrospect,

"I remember it like it was yesterday… Harry’s nickname was ‘Big Boy’ did you know that? It was hard to believe he was gone; he was only twenty-five years old. the old man recalled, We were near-bout the same age."

Delores, at twenty-three, was a young widow. Her brother, Cosmo, who never spoke about the accident after that night, obviously suffered from a clinical case of shock. Again—no time to cry.

At age twenty-nine, Delores married Clarence Purcell. They knew each other from church. Both of their families attended the Hayes Chapel United Methodist Church, a small building that sat high on a hill of the reddest country dirt I had ever seen; it was the same church that Grandmom Searcy had joined in 1890.

Clarence often told us that he had his eyes on Delores for a long time.

I thought she was right pretty, but she wouldn’t give me the time of day… So, I figured I’d just watch and wait. Eventually she let me sit beside her at the church dinner between services. By the time the next service started I had myself a girlfriend. Clarence told us many times.

Oh shut up Clarence! a blushing Delores would say whenever he told that story while his eyes simply twinkled.

Clarence had grown up on a farm, but he was determined that farming would not be his life’s destiny. He became the first Colored man to be hired by the Leakesville Energy Company. As more people began to have electricity in their homes, there was a need for more labor; therefore, Clarence had job security.

We were all so proud of him because he had that job while most of the Colored men in Leakesville, Draper, and Spray, NC were still farmers; only a very few were able to earn a living any other way. It wasn’t that they couldn’t do other work; it’s just that nobody would hire them. As I remember, Sam Dalton was an insurance salesman; he was another first in the Colored community because he had an insurance route. Mr. Dalton was always immaculately dressed every day, the epitome of a businessman. A few Colored men served in the capacity of ministers and funeral directors; a few cleaned in the hospital; one or two worked at the icehouse; and of course, there were the Colored educators for the segregated schools. But the bottom line was that it was a time when: the main occupation for Colored men in the area was farming; the signs at the bus station denoted the separate rest rooms and water fountains for COLORED and WHITE, and Colored patrons were not welcome at ‘Dick’s’—the local teenage hangout, or at the drive-in movie.

Clarence worked for the Leakesville Energy Company for twenty-five years—until he retired in1988. Clarence and Delores were among the first Negro homeowners with indoor plumbing, quite an achievement for a boy from the farm with very little formal education. In addition, it could be said, without dispute, that as a strong Colored man—living under Jim Crow laws—Clarence experienced and bore heavy burdens more bravely than we will ever know. Yet he always exhibited total self-control, even when he must have wanted to forsake control and subtle thinking. He must have wanted many, many, times to let unprocessed sensibilities take over—but he never did. Clarence always maintained his cool.

Racism is a disease of ignorance, and I will not let myself be lured into reacting to people who are obviously ignorant. Clarence said once as he tussled with the meaning of a riveting work experience grounded in prejudice…

Racial incidents that he experienced would have made a lesser man lose control. Clarence’s voice was always low keyed and firm; his eyes were deep, penetrating and sensitive. His style of communication was one that definitely commanded attention. Clarence was a good husband, a respected member of his church and community, and he made Delores happy for forty-years.

The only paternal twins in our family, Donna and Debra, were all over the house—in and out of every room; this was their home too. If they didn’t share a birthday, one would never guess that they were twins because they had completely different appearances and personalities. Donna and Debra always called Delores and Clarence ‘Mom and Dad’; they were adopted, and they knew it. Throughout their years of serious illness, Delores and Clarence have had the undivided devotion of both daughters. Aside from caring for their parents, the only other similarity that Donna and Debra shared was their singing talent.

They have sung in the church choir together since they were knee-high to a duck. Their respective voices have always complimented each other well—creating a captivating duet that made you want to holler Halleluiah! Donna loved Mahalia Jackson, and reflected the Mahalia influence whenever she sang a solo. Their father loved to hear the twins sing; today they had sung for his funeral.

Dad, this is for you. Debra said before they started; then, Donna and Debra sang better than I have ever heard them sing. When they finished, the minister stood up and could only say—Let the church say Amen! The congregation didn’t have to be told!

Delores and Clarence were never able to have children of their own. Delores, like our Aunt Boyd, was barren due to countless years of doing manual farm labor—hard work meant for men. Although a generation separated their ages, the experience of work—too harsh for a female, had the same effect upon each woman and served as a common thread between the two.

Donna and Debra were born to a relative of Clarence… Back in those days, it was common for family members to take on the responsibility of raising other folks’ children. Colored families have always tried to look after their own; therefore, it was not an unusual action for Delores and Clarence to take on the responsibility of caring for the adorable baby girls. Those endearing beings, round, brown, and bubbly, came to Delores and Clarence straight from the hospital.

Blessings from God! Delores said as she rocked and cuddled them snuggly in her arms, shrouded in the crocheted baby blankets Aunt Donsy had made.

There was no greater love shared between parents and children than the love shared between these parents and their adopted daughters. Clarence and Delores were aware of the struggles they would face raising twins; nevertheless, they considered the struggle little to endure in contrast to the greater joy… They were right…

Debra, a soft spoken, reserved, demure person, did well in school; she finished college and worked with the state of North Carolina as a Service Coordinator—a specialist who linked families with children to the proper state services.

It’s helping children, she said, and I like that.

Debra never liked the spotlight, and she always stood aside to allow Donna the center stage that Donna seemed to want and need. Debra is the oldest twin by only a few minutes, and a fraction of an inch shorter; she often referred to Donna as her baby sister. Donna always retorted back at her sister every chance she got with all the short jokes she could think of.

After all I’m one inch taller than Debra, Donna quipped to anyone willing to listen.

Donna always loved attention, she commanded it; she spoke loud enough for all to hear, made large, sweeping motions—the epitome of a drama queen. Donna was mischievous and at times temperamental; in fact, she was always a cute little handful. Through the years, and the consistent prayers of her loving parents, Donna learned to control her emotions and not sweat the small stuff. Her natural talent for taking care of people, senior citizens and infants has turned into an occupation; Donna worked at care giving jobs on both ends of the age spectrum.

Both Donna and Debra continued to fuss over their mother. We were all concerned about Delores because she had been in poor health for years, and at sixty-six, she was a widow again. But, Delores told us to stop worrying; after all, none of this was new to her…

Been there! Done that! I put my faith in the Lord, and he has not failed me yet. There is nothing you can do for me that the Lord doesn’t already have covered, Delores said in a strong voice as the nurse that the twins had hired for her sat nearby.

I got out of my seat and knelt before Delores’ chair, placed my arms around her with a big squeeze hug,

"You have permission to cry." I whispered softly in her ear.

Then, slowly a tear gathered in Delores’ eye and sat for a while before it lost its perch and dropped onto her hand. We hugged and cried—without sound for a minute or two; me with my back to the group, and she with her head cradled in the scoop of my shoulder… No one even noticed when the levee burst; they were so busy bonding with the food in front of them.

This is some good food! Have you tasted the macaroni and cheese?

Try the candied yams! Umph… umph… . umph!

"There sure are some good cooks ’round