Throughout the ages and stages of American history, grandmothers have been the guardians of the generations, the dispensers of wisdom, the instillers of pride and dignity, the conveyors of important religious values, the financial and emotional supporters of the family during times of need, and the promoters of cultural standards and traditions. From Maya Angelou to Martin Luther King Jr. to Oprah Winfrey, the success of many African Americans can be traced back to the love and support of a grandmother. Author Reginald E. Hicks is no exception. For Hicks, An Angel's View began as a labor of love to chronicle the life of his own beloved grandmother, from her birth on the family farm in rural New Kent County, Virginia in 1923; through her personal, social, and political trials and tribulations; to her quickly approaching eighty-ninth birthday. However, his humble commemoration eventually blossomed into an emotional story of love, betrayal, triumph, and tragedy embedded in a riveting and dynamic Southern history. Through this exceptional work, Hicks makes a unique and valuable contribution to his family and to the world of black literature.

An Angel's View

My Grandmother's Love, Life, and Legacy (The Memoir of Ellen Cordelia Saunders)By Reginald E. Hicks

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Reginald E. Hicks
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5334-3

Contents

Preface................................................viiAcknowledgments........................................ixIn My Grandmother's House..............................1Our Beloved Grandmothers...............................2Our Grandmothers' Historical Roles.....................6My Beloved Grandmother.................................10My Grandmother's Life in Brief.........................15My Childhood Home......................................23The Washington Home....................................24The Washington Family..................................31My School Days.........................................40Our School Systems.....................................41My School Days.........................................49My Married Life........................................58A Marriage of Turmoil..................................59A Marriage of Love.....................................67My Spiritual Life......................................76The Black Church.......................................77My Christian Walk......................................83My Twilight Years......................................93How Far We've Come.....................................94How Many We've Admired.................................102A Legacy of Love.......................................109The Family Album.......................................113Notes..................................................159

Chapter One

My Childhood Home

Although life as a child in those early days on the farm was difficult and sometimes frustrating, I still knew that being born and raised a Washington was a blessing. From the time I was delivered into the world by a neighborhood midwife in 1923 until I left home when I was eighteen, I never had to wonder where my parents were at night. I never had to wish for siblings who loved and cared for me. And I never once had to be concerned about where my next meal was coming from. We may not have had much money or many material possessions, but we had the essentials: love, commitment to each other, a strong work ethic, and an overabundance of food that came directly from our farm. Our family knew poor but we didn't know poverty like many other black families did throughout New Kent County at that time. There is no doubt that God granted me favor being born Ellen Cordelia Washington.

Of course, as I said before, life on the Potts property was not easy. There was work to be done, sometimes from sunup to sundown, with the only break being the long two-mile walk to and from school. Laziness and idleness had no place in the Washington home. Mama and Papa made sure of that. Looking back on those days, I know now that they were strict and heavy-handed out of necessity. If my twelve siblings and I didn't understand the seriousness of the stakes involved, Mama and Papa surely did. If each of us didn't do our part, the farm would not have provided the food we needed to adequately sustain ourselves, and such an alternative was not an option. Mama and Papa saw hard work as a matter of life or death-because it was. My memories of my childhood home are bittersweet, but even as a child, I knew I was blessed.

The Washington Home

The Potts property was about two miles off the main thoroughfare, Cooks Mill Road, down a dirt road, around a gradual bend. Its two acres sat between two other large farms right on the edge of the Pamunkey River, deep in the country of New Kent County. As long ago as it was, I can still see myself walking down that dirt road toward the place where I spent the first twelve years of my life. As I approach the property line of the neighboring farm from the east, I can just see our two-story white farmhouse peering through the rising dust. After walking a few more yards, I can now see the beautiful rows of colorful vegetables and fruits growing in the front and on the side of our home. The healthy corn stalks stood above all else, but it was impossible to miss the naturally adorned red pepper plants, the leafy green heads of cabbage, the bountiful watermelon and cantaloupe patches, not to mention the white and sweet potato plants, the turnip greens, the creasy salad, the onions, the butterbeans, the cucumbers, and the tall sunflowers and large peach and apple trees on the west side of the house. What a wonderful sight to see, especially as a child. All of those luscious vegetables and fruits were like a living frame around our old, modest four-bedroom farmhouse. They, along with the animals we raised, sustained us, and our house, such as it was, sheltered us. We had what we needed.

As I continue to work my way around the garden to the front of our home, I notice the condition of this humble structure that held our large family for so many years. Its white paint was dingy, chipped, and cracked from years of wear. Its windows were drafty and hard to open because the tracks were eroded and ill-fitting. Its foundation was strong, but the floor above it had many weak spots. Its roof was sturdy but discolored and soft in places where years of rain had made its mark. I'm not sure when the house was built (certainly well before 1900) or how many families resided there before us, but I do know that "home is where the heart is," and in my time, if you were loved and provided for, you were not overly consumed by superficial things. Even with its cracked paint, its drafty windows, its weak floor, its discolored roof, and its many other small imperfections, our old, modest farmhouse was still special to us. Living there gave me and my siblings a beginning, a heritage, and a connection to the past. It taught us who we were and provided us with an anchor that kept us grounded throughout life. It helped us learn many lessons about hard work, trust, and commitment. And most importantly, it gave us many wonderful memories so that we would never forget what family really means. Every single room of our home held these special treasures we call memories.

When I enter the front door, which opens directly to the long hallway that leads back to the kitchen, the first thing I notice is the dark brown staircase flush to the wall on the right leading to the second floor. As I slowly climb the stairs, I look to the left over the banister near the top, and I see the door to the room that has given me so many precious memories. I see the door to Mama and Papa's bedroom. Although I can't recall every detail about the room, I will never forget the huge cast-iron, wood-burning heater on one side, and my parents' separate beds on the other side. For as long as I can remember, Mama and Papa have always slept in separate beds, and as facetious as it may sound, they still found a way to have thirteen children. Regardless of its arrangement, my parents' sleeping quarters was, for me and my siblings, more like a family room than a bedroom. It was special to all of us. Its importance to me, however, began even before my fifth birthday.

For almost twenty-five years, from 1908 until 1932, my mother had a baby about every two years. So when the older children were at an age when they could help, Mama would keep each newborn in her room only until the birth of her next child, at which time the then two-year-old would be moved to another room to be looked after by siblings. When I was born in 1923, the same tradition applied to me. The only difference was that Mama lost a baby (it was stillborn) in 1925 and kept me in her room until my brother Joseph was born in 1928. Although I was completely unaware of the tragedy that lengthened my stay, I do remember feeling loved, secure, and privileged sleeping in the arms of my mother when I was four or five years old. This is my earliest and fondest memory of Mama and Papa's bedroom. But in the years that followed, I would have even more reason to appreciate what became our family's special gathering place.

Like most families in the 1920s and 1930s, we didn't own a radio, a television, or an operating telephone. We didn't have the luxuries that my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great- great-grandchild take for granted today. But we found ways to occupy and entertain ourselves that were, in my opinion, equally as gratifying if not more so. This is where my parents' room again comes into play.

Every night after dinner and before bedtime, we would all meet in their room for fun, camaraderie, games, and goodies. We would play dominoes, checkers, and card games, and tell funny and scary stories as we sat around the large wood-burning heater. There is no doubt that after the many grueling hours of school, farmwork, and household chores, this small bit of family time was the best part of our day. While the huge cast-iron heater warmed us physically, the quality, fun-filled interactions between our family members warmed our hearts and spirits. This was our daily time of renewal and regeneration, making the rigors of farm life much more bearable. Mama made these wonderful moments even better when she passed around her delicious snacks each time we gathered. Sometimes she would have freshly baked muffins or cookies that she prepared earlier in the day. Other times she would roast and serve unshelled peanuts given to us by a local farmer. And a few times she would offer us our favorite: homemade ice cream made in our own hand-cranked, two-gallon ice cream maker. My parents' room was indeed our family's special gathering place, and it has given me so many precious memories.

Also on the second floor, just down the hall from Mama and Papa's bedroom toward the back of the house, were two of the three rooms that belonged to the children. The boys' room on the left and the girls' room on the right were adjacent to each other, with a single wall and a common door between them. Out of ten brothers, I remember George, Amos, Harmon Jr., Vernon, James, and Joseph staying in that upstairs bedroom and sharing its three king-size beds. As with any brothers, they had their share of conflicts. It even seemed sometimes that their arguments, fights, and skirmishes were never-ending. But they were still brothers. I witnessed many moments of sharing, game playing, storytelling, helping, and advising, especially between the older and younger boys. It was during those times of tranquility when their deep, abiding commitment to family was most self-evident. I had good older brothers—all of them. They supported each other, and they supported their sisters.

I will never forget how much my older brothers helped me when I was so afraid of sleeping in that big room all by myself. When I moved into the girls' room at the age of five, my fourteen-year-old sister, Ethel ("Sister"), was its only occupant, and she made me feel as secure and protected as Mama did. But before I reached my sixth birthday, Ethel was sent to live in a boarding house in Charles City County, Virginia, so that she could attend high school. My younger sister Alberta wasn't born until I was seven years old and wouldn't move into the girls' room until I was nine. I was all alone and scared to death. The two windows (one had been completely destroyed in a snowstorm and covered with heavy cardboard) in the room shook, rattled, and whistled in the wind all night long. The room itself was pitch-dark, with the exception of the small bit of moonlight seeping through the one good window. The shadows of trees taunted me until dawn. Because we didn't have electricity, there was no nightlight to turn on for a frightened little girl. So what did my older brothers do to help their little sister? Every night, using the chair next to my bed and a small paraffin oil lamp, they would take turns telling me bedtime stories until I fell asleep, at which time they would quietly exit the room. My older brothers always looked after me.

In fact, the downstairs bedroom belonged to my second- and third-oldest brothers, Bland and Yorkey, who looked after all of us younger kids. Their bedroom was formed from what was initially a dining room, located straight down the hallway from the front door and through the kitchen. It was reserved specifically for the older, more mature siblings who needed more privacy and had more responsibilities on the farm. For some years, because my eldest brother, Henry, had left home when he was only fourteen to live with family friends in Hampton and attend school, Bland and Yorkey occupied that coveted spot. Despite having to share a bed, as we all did, they still enjoyed rare moments of peace and quiet, close proximity to the kitchen, and their own personal wood heater, not to mention the décor of Mama's fine china displayed in a glass-covered showcase built into the back right corner of the room.

Of course, Mama's fine china, which had been given to her by the Potts family as a gift, was much more than just decoration. It was symbolic of the many wonderful holidays, birthdays, and Sundays when Mama worked her magic in the kitchen. On those special occasions, we would sit on the backless benches framing both sides of the long, cloth-covered, rounded, wood table in the center of our kitchen with a chair at each end reserved for Mama and Papa. After Papa said the blessing, as he did before every meal, we would proceed to enjoy delectable Southern home cooking worthy of Mama's fine china. Knowing that we all had a hand in helping to produce these marvelous feasts, where every morsel came directly from our farm, made us proud.

Two of our large chickens had to be killed, plucked, dressed, cut into parts, and deep-fried. A medium-sized pig had to be slaughtered, rubbed with oil, seasoned with salt and pepper, separated into sections, and smoked for about five hours. The turnip greens had to be picked and checked, leaf by leaf, washed several times, chopped, and boiled with salt pork. The ears of corn had to be carefully selected, removed from their stalks, shucked, wiped down to strip off the silk, and steamed in a large pot until tender. The rutabagas had to be uprooted, peeled, boiled, drained, and mashed with butter, salt, and black pepper. The pig's feet had to be sheared from the pig, washed, immersed in a pot of water and vinegar, and allowed to simmer on the stove with chopped onions, celery, garlic, and red peppers for nearly three hours. And if the preparation of all these wonderful foods were not enough, Mama also made oven-baked bread and sweet potato pies.

Mama's homemade bread was made from wheat flour she purchased from a neighborhood farmer, yeast she made from boiling and fermenting grated white potatoes, and butter we churned from our own cow's milk. Her sweet potato pies were made from the same cow's milk and churned butter, eggs gathered from our henhouse, sugar, vanilla, and fresh sweet potatoes from our garden. Indeed, Mama used the delicious rewards of our bountiful farm, the helping hands of her loving family, and the searing heat of our old, Victorian, cast-iron, wood-burning stove to make our kitchen a room to remember.

Even our living room, the last and least used of the six rooms, had its precious moments. It was located just down the hall from the kitchen, on the right, and was minimally furnished with several randomly placed wooden chairs; a small wood-burning heater; a foldable double bed with a display mirror; and an old wind-up Victrola phonograph. The living room was used primarily when we had numerous relatives from both sides of the family over for a holiday meal. Before dinner, everyone would mingle in the living room, talking, laughing, and catching up on old times while listening to the records of Ethel Waters, Bessie Smith, and Louis Armstrong on the Victrola. Once Mama had everything prepared, she would call the adults into the kitchen to eat first, leaving the children to play and socialize until the adults finished. Loud, hearty, humorous conversation seemed to fill the entire house. After all the adults were done, they would return to the living room to enjoy sweet potato pie and ice cream, at which time Mama would call the children into the kitchen to eat their meal. These were rare, special times when our living room came to life with music, fun, laughter, eating, playing, gossiping, and storytelling among loving, supportive, seldom-seen kinfolk.

This was the Washington home. As difficult and frustrating as farm life sometimes was, our six modest rooms (our four bedrooms, our kitchen, and our living room) reflected the many wonderful days we spent on the Potts property. We were truly blessed, even without those things that are today considered indispensable. Of course, younger folks are always interested in how people of my generation survived with no refrigerator or freezer, no gas or electricity, and no indoor plumbing or bathroom. My response is always the same: we did what we had to do.

When Mama or Papa slaughtered an animal, for example, we had to either eat the meat fresh in a short period of time or preserve the meat through curing. And Papa knew how to cure meat, especially pork. He would cure enough pork during the winter months to last us the entire year. I never learned much about the details of the process, but I do remember that he would slaughter the largest of the hogs and focus mainly on the ham, shoulder, and bacon cuts for curing. The whole process would take about eight weeks. I will never forget standing under that big sycamore tree and smelling the salted, smoked meat hanging from the branches in burlap sacks, cooling and curing on those cold winter days. Papa made sure that we had pork (among other meats) year-round, even without a refrigerator or freezer.

The same was also true of vegetables and fruits. It was not unusual after harvest season for Mama to have over two hundred containers of dried, canned, and pickled fruits, vegetables, and herbs stored downstairs in Bland and Yorkey's room for the winter. The best thing about helping Mama preserve all of this vegetation was the sampling. My favorite was the dried apple chips. Together, Mama and I would pick the best apples we could find on the tree, wash them with white vinegar and water, core and peel them, cut them into uniform slices, coat them with a small bit of sugar and cinnamon, and lay them out on the front porch in trays to be sundried. The finished product was worth every effort.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from An Angel's Viewby Reginald E. Hicks Copyright © 2012 by Reginald E. Hicks. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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