When we sit back and reflect on significant events, evoke memories of people in our past, assess important aspects of our current lives, and how one man could have played such a transformative role in the journey of so many through life, it is not surprising, in this moment of calm reflection, that we find ourselves inspired to memorialize his remarkable achievements born of a compelling yearning, an insatiable appetite, an incurable drive to live his dreams. Such was a man named Franklyn Vincent Ellison Seales, the natural born son of Francis Seales, a merchant seaman and government employee of Portuguese, English, Scottish and African ancestry and Olive Seales, nee Allen, a homemaker of Portuguese and native Carib Indian stock. He was the youngest of that family of five: three girls and two boys born on 15 July 1952 in the small village of Calliaqua, St Vincent and the Grenadines. We celebrate that he was the first native of the island to graduate from the prestigious Juilliard School in New York City that led him to appear on the Silver screen in Hollywood.

Curtain Call

The life and times of Franklyn Vincent Ellison SealesBy Lennox Seales Jean M Dorsinville

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Lennox Seales as told to Jean M Dorsinville
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-9553-0

Contents

Preface..........................................................ixChapter 1: The Genesis...........................................1Chapter 2: Labourne Street.......................................9Chapter 3: Sundays in Calliaqua..................................25Chapter 4: Adrift but not Alone..................................45Chapter 5: The Visitors..........................................59Chapter 5: The Gang of Six and the Fisherman.....................67Chapter 7: Coming to America.....................................97Chapter 8: The Return............................................139Chapter 9: Reflections...........................................153

Chapter One

The Genesis

MOTHER OLIVE CAME to abrupt stop, momentarily muted, holding her breath, her eyelids distended uncovering her eyes fixated on her 8 month old Franklyn reaching for the leg of the chair with his tiny hands and pulling himself up to stand and take his first steps on the rug less hardwood floor of the bedroom. She claps excitedly while her little baby's mouth opens to draw a smile. She picks him up, brings him to her chest and hugs little Franklyn tightly before gently putting him down to watch him move around the room on his tiny little feet with atypical balance. This was four months earlier than her previous four children, she muses. Sensing she was witnessing the improbable, the door flew open crashing against the side of the house: "Look Lessie, Franklyn is walking ... come and see ... come quick!" Olive's voice bellows at the top of her lungs carrying a sound that can be easily mistaken for someone in distress. Lessie, the nanny, is in the backyard busily carrying her daily chores of washing the clothes and hanging them to dry under the hot tropical sun moderated by the balmy breeze that sways the tall mango trees pointing toward the clear blue open sky, when the sound of Olive's voice echoes in her ears. She drops everything and hurriedly rushes to the house to witness with eyes wide open. "Baby Franklyn walkin' ah can't believe me eyes ... yuh alright baby child?" she exclaims with a hint of trepidation in her voice she can barely control. Even Lessie who had much experience raising other people children was shaking her head in disbelief, praying Ms Olive's baby is not under the influence of some malevolent spirit. "ah gonna pray fuh him Ms Olive ..." she mutters once ... twice ... three times, barely able to contain her excitement.

Franklyn's tiny first steps on that day would grow into giant strides on the long journey that awaited him.

By his first year, this joyful baby boy was bouncing to the amusement of Mom and Dad and his siblings, as well as the villagers of Calliaqua who took a special interest in his development. Lessie, by now, had set aside her concerns that this baby boy had `bad spirit' in him but would always preface a conversation with the words, "Lawdy, da chil' is blessed ... lawdy, lawdy ..." Not only is he walking but he begins to express words normally heard spoken by a three year old, further deepening her puzzlement.

Lessie was not only our nanny but more accurately our surrogate mother as well; the one who was present to attend to the needs of the five children of Olive and Francis Seales. A physically imposing, big bones, statuesque-five feet ten inches barefoot tall- Amazonian-like illiterate woman born of parents that occupied the lower societal strata on that island whose lack of a formal education confined her to a life of quasi servitude for families that hired her. She had a smooth evenly ebony-colored skin that glistened in the sunlight. Her hair was matted tightly on her scalp she wrapped in an ever present bandana that captured the beads of sweat dripping from her head. Her arms were unusually strong, borne out of tilling the land of her parents; planting fruit trees, chopping wood, planting vegetables, lifting rocks, harvesting the land, climbing coconut trees, mango trees, avocado trees, breadfruit trees ... customary practices for survival that required minimum cash outlay but kept many stomachs full. Her eyes reflected a sensitive soul that became manifest in the care she provided to the children. She was in her early twenties when she joined the Seales household; never married and oftentimes was the butt of tease from the children and others in the village who would affectionately taunt her,

"You have a boyfriend Lessie?"

"... Me don't need no boyfriend,"

answering with a sheepish grin she never outgrew that led to speculations by the villagers whether she ever had a few suitors over the years, yet for reasons better understood by her, she never showed any interest. She loved those children like her own and they reciprocated by showering her with unrelenting affection.

Lessie devised an unconventional bathing ritual for us as we returned home from playing. In preparation of this ritual, she would set a big wash pan of cold water out in the yard for the sun to warm it. She would then proceed to strip our clothes off and wash us down in the open one by one. In one hand she would hold the kettle of lukewarm water, and in the other, her corn husk and her caustic brown soap, taking aim at the hard to reach creases where dirt collects. Franklyn would duck out on many of Lessie's primitive baths which after a scrub would leave clear skin patterns as if you had been sanded with a rough grade of sand paper and made ready for a paint job. Franklyn knew then that this was not for him. In Lessie's mind, it was an act of love. She would whip the saying "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" into us as an expression of the pride she had in her children's appearance in their Sunday's best. From Franklyn's perspective however it was definitely an act of torture.

As far as I can turn back the hands of time, the fights between Franklyn and Lessie were ongoing and unyielding:

"Come here Franklyn, it's your turn now," Lessie's plaintive voice would be heard calling this recalcitrant boy.

"No, I'm not coming ... leave me alone!" comes Franklyn's defiant answer.

"I said come here, Franklyn. You don't want me to come after you!" adding threat to her voice.

"I said NO!" Franklyn continues to resist.

"Boy, I said come here before I take my belt!" First sign of Lessie's losing her patience.

"No ... no ... no ... leave me ..." stubbornly defying Lessie's threats.

"Boy, I have enough of your mouth ..."

Lessie drops her kettle and brush, stomps her bare feet on the hard-packed earth, advances with resolute authority while her voice takes a heightened threatening sound that leaves no doubt that she's about to inflict serious damage.

"Get your ass over here right now ... I said, right now!!!" her voice booming that discloses both unrestrained rage and frustration.

"No! I said leave me alone" Franklyn throws back at her, unrelenting, escalating the confrontation.

Joy and I sensing the urgency in her tone and the ominous body language; we both spring to action and corner Franklyn. We grab him by the arms and march him to Lessie whose eyes by now were bulging from their sockets and her enlarged nostrils letting out several puffs of flaming air she gulped through her gaping mouth.

"Ok, ok, let me go ... let me go ..." Franklyn finally raises the white flag.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn, boy? See your sisters and brother don't ever give me no problem ... get over here and keep your trap shut ... do you hear me? "I said, do you hear me?"

"ok,,,ok!"

I always found these episodic interludes very operatic and entertaining. This precocious pint-sized boy with lightening fast verbal skills and the huge imposing woman exchanging words. More often, she was chastising him for his relentless provocation that could have driven her into madness. "Ah yo Mama just don't know what ah yo put me thru".... Lawdy ... Lawdy ..." she cries out in utter frustration. It goes back and forth until one or both get tired. It often is Lessie who grudgingly relents for another day. She would promise a whipping at some later date. These recurringconfrontations,Ibelieve,helpedFranklyndevelophisdramatic flair. The only element missing was the orchestra with violins and trumpets and cymbals for accompaniment to these operatic interactions between the two. Lessie's voice fluctuating along the octave scales while Franklyn is forever teasing and telling her off. He was undeniably the defiant type. Oh, there was also much love and tenderness through all of this as well, serving as an interlude between confrontations. Here is a woman who so loves us, washes us, feeds us, takes care of our clothes and makes sure we are protected all day long, and would readily sacrifice her life for us. All the villagers knew the depth of her commitment to us. One can never repay this debt. Deep down, I know that Franklyn and the rest of us carry her into every aspect of our lives. Today, I know Lessie's spirit is embedded in my cells. She is the poetry of my soul: her passion, her caring, her love and energy are still very much part of me as they were with Franklyn. Lessie would express words when translated conveyed the message that "Hunger compels the pups to come home." She saw us as her little pups substituting what she never had, essentially representing her children. She was in a constant, perpetual state of motion around the yard: Baking bakes and cod fish cakes, making a dough boy, or cooking a pot of soup, washing and ironing our clothes. She dedicated unwavering devotion to the Seales household.

Franklyn, unlike his other siblings, was uncommonly precocious, showing signs of an accelerated maturity; speaking of dreams that came deep within a fertile imagination that others found too challenging and not believable, so left him to explore his singular world. As his older brother, when asked to describe Franklyn, I come to the irrefutable conclusion that my brother always felt special in an almost ethereal way. He acted from his own unique perspective yet inviting all to come along in the journey he envisioned. He projected a self-assurance and passionate determination that carried a price that could either inspire you or become your worst nightmare. What mattered was his opinion in all conversations that made him the center of attention. The onus was always on those who chose to listen and learn what he had to offer. One might erroneously conclude that his hubris carried a perceived insensitivity toward his listeners. To him, one had to maintain the same pace he was on or leave his company because he wasted no time nurturing you along the way. One had to keep up on this unknown destination his mind's eyes were visualizing.

My three sisters were always in Lessie's crosshairs, checking on them like a mother hen looking after her offspring. As they matured to "young ladies," she was the one to explain the change their body was experiencing. At the first sign of their menstrual period, each girl-beginning with the eldest, Joy, then Pat and finally Leslie-born two years apart would be tutored why they "bled." She would fashion a bag made out of hemp cloth for each girl in which she kept the sanitary napkins she called "diapers." They were washed after each usage and returned into the bags for the following month. This seemingly mundane exercise signified their rite of passage.

"I was 10 years old ..." my sister Leslie recalls, "... when I woke up one morning to observe what looked like a red stain on the sheet that I quickly recognized as blood. The sight startled me and reacted to a sense of embarrassment. I looked closely to find more on my "night gown," more accurately, an old dress. I was puzzled ... and more scared but said nothing to anyone, put my school clothes on and left home for what I thought would be another normal school day. Not more than an hour later, the teacher noticed the blood coursing down my legs and pulled me aside:

"Do you know what's happening to you Leslie?" she asked.

"I see blood on my leg but I don't know miss Eustace." I answered.

"Leslie my dear, I want you to go home now and speak to your mother."

"I hightailed home in a jiffy."

Lessie in the interim had discovered the stained sheet and recognized her little girl had become a "young lady." "As soon as I arrived, Lessie sat me down to lecture me on my coming of age with 'comforting words. She took great pain explaining what was happening to my body."

"Leslie, me girl, me and you got to talk."

"What is it Lessie"?

"I'm gonna explain what happened to ya this morning"

"How did you know? You don't need to explain."

"Never mind how I know ... yes I do need to explain young girl ... you're just ten years old and you're a "young lady" now.

"So?"

"Now that you're having your period, I don't wanna you to have boys coming to you ..."

"What! ... what do you mean? No boy coming to me."

"Hear me good now. I mean that your body is changing too fast ..."

"What do you mean, too fast ...? I don't understand"

"What I mean is, you're getting sensitive down there ..."

"What? Down where Lessie ...?"

"Listen girl. You're gonna get all kinds of feelings, the same that boys get ... "

"What?"

"Listen here sweetheart, don't let no boys touch you ... you come to me if they try."

"Nobody is going to touch me, Lessie ... what are you talking about?"

"Good, too many young girls out there getting pregnant ... too soon."

"Oh, that's what you mean ... nothing like this is going to happen to me ... not me."

"Good, now, did you understand what I just told you?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"What do you mean, 'you think so'? I want you to tell me that you will do exactly what I say ... I want you to come to me ... ME ... if you have any question."

"Ok, I will Lessie ... but tell me something ..."

"Tell you what?"

"How come you don't have children Lessie?"

Lessie rolls her eyes. "Look ... young lady ... I'm not talking about me."

"I was just wondering Lessie ... how come?"

"Some people have children, some don't"

"Ok, how come you don't have any?"

"I just told you ... "

"Explain to me, why."

"I have nothing to explain ..."

"Ok ... ok"

"Look baby, if you have any questions, come to me ... you understand?"

"I understand Lessie."

"Give your mama a big hug sweetie."

"Good girl. Now promise me, you hear, promise me that you'll run to me if a boy tries to bother you."

"They won't bother me."

"I said promise me."

"I promise Lessie."

Lessie's lessons guided my decisions as I matured to keep my promise until I got married eleven years later and raise my own family."

Chapter Two

Labourne Street

YEARS HAD ALREADY passed when I discovered, while reminiscing about our upbringing, that our family house was on "Labourne street." This would be insignificant taken in the context of our childhood days, however, as toddlers there were no street signs anywhere in the village. Urban planning concept was not one that had entered into the lexicon of the early settlers. Location of a given house was done simply by pointing to a direction before proceeding to a destination. However, when Franklyn was 6 years old and I was 10, two city workers in their truck drove to our village. Their presence attracted immediate attention from the residents. The children, as customary, were drawn to whatever seemed to disrupt their routines and surrounded the workers.

"Don't move any closer ... back up," we heard one warning command.

We observed them take out their pick axes and proceed to dig a hole in which they erected a wood pole with a sign that read Labourne Street. This trifling, one might say, development marked one small step toward modernity. The villagers, henceforth, could begin to claim an identity in the context of neighboring villages. Visitors could point to the sign and trace their way to a designated destination. It gave the residents a certain character that was heretofore missing. We, as children were not cognizant of its impact on our lives, however the old timers were very proud of their new found identity.

Next to our house was a stone building. It consisted of one large open room with a stage to the front entrance, two closets; one to the right of the stage and one to the left, a front and a back door, windows to the front, rear and sides. A few benches and wooden chairs were strewn around the room. Referred to by everyone in the area as "The Lodge." It was a community center that provided multipurpose services to practically all of the kids who would take refuge in the Lodge on many occasions to fill their empty hours and days. Words would go out quickly from house to house that Franklyn had arrived at the Lodge and the young girls would join him to play a variety of games, or acting out some imaginary parts. He had this sort of magnetism that attracted them to him. Little did we know that the Lodge was his first laboratory. He was a Philogynist without knowing it.

There came a time when everyone referred to it as the Society Lodge, a place where members of the local credit union stopped to make their weekly deposits. It was also a place for socials: a school room for early childhood, a dance hall, a place for political rallies and a myriad of activities in either small or large groups. Often times, I would play on the steps of the Lodge where I would walk my little brother and play marbles and teach him how to spin a top. The Lodge was for all intents and purposes part of our playground. It was also the place where I first encountered a bat. Those bats had staked their living quarters in the rafters of the Lodge that offered them protection during the daylight hours only to fly away and disappear in the darkness of night. Many boys in the village would take pleasure chasing the bats out of the room, those whose radar might be temporarily impaired. We played in front of it also which served for Franklyn's outdoor performances but not before bringing flowers and creating the backdrop for his play. The children from our street would linger on the steps in the early afternoon breeze to watch my brother entertain them. We also had a path for marbles and spinning tops. It was not unusual to call Lodge our sanctuary, our Zeitgeist. We would play until we felt a hunger pain that called for Lessie's food.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Curtain Callby Lennox Seales Jean M Dorsinville Copyright © 2011 by Lennox Seales as told to Jean M Dorsinville. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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