“What a powerful story! Thank you for not thinking it robbery to share. Isn’t love an amazing thing? “Papa” wrote very well. He was brilliant in his observations. I never knew any of my grandparents and I “envy” ever so slightly, those persons blessed to have that richness as part of their family quilt. God bless. Continue to share your grandparents with the rest of us.” ---Annette Smith, Author of Etched………………………………………………………………………………… “I was blown away! Your detailed descriptions of your loved ones, accompanied by those magnificent letters from 1914, left me speechless. There is nothing more inspirational and soul stirring than reading a story about true love based in reality. Thanks for sharing.”---Rebecca McFadden, Author of Surfing to Find the One…………………………………………………………………………………“You’ve given us such a lovely gift. I was touched on so many levels by: The determination and devotion of your grandfather and the abiding love between your grandparents that is revealed in excerpts from his letters The glimpses of the challenges faced by a West Indian immigrant determined to make it in America The parallels between your son and his great-grandfather The reminder you have given us to maintain the precious human connection through letter writing in this age of technology” Barbara Gardner, Instructor, Boricua College………………………………………………………………………………… “Your grandfather is awesome! His writings are poetry from the heart. Several times, I just stopped reading and said, “Oh my God, this man is bad!” “My head is full, my heart is overflowing, my pen is ready, paper is convenient and ink is nearby: All I have to do is write.” Shoot…pure, passionate, prayerful poetry!”William A. Jones III, Community Leader

Papa's Letters

Love via First-Class MaleBy Judith C. Lovell

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2013 Judith C. Lovell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-9977-7

Contents

Introduction....................................................11. Papa and the Old Country.....................................72. Papa and the New Country.....................................353. Papa's Letters to Grandma....................................554. Papa and Grandma: Life after the Letters.....................1115. This is Not the End..........................................119Notes...........................................................131About the Author................................................135

Chapter One

Papa and the Old Country

So he sent, and brought him in. Now he was ruddy, with bright eyes, and good looking. And the Lord said, "Arise, anoint him; for this is the one!"

— 1 Samuel, chapter 16 verse 12.

About ten years ago, I inherited a bundle of love letters and diary notes written by my maternal grandfather, David Clarence Hurd. He composed these writings while living in Brooklyn, New York. Papa, as my grandfather was lovingly called, was born in Brown's Town, Saint Ann, Jamaica, West Indies, on April 13, 1885. Beginning in October of 1913, he wrote to Avril Louise Cato, who lived in Port Antonio, Jamaica. Initially pen pals, they wrote to each other for nearly a year. The pen pal phenomenon was quite popular back then. Customarily, through letter writing a pen pal connected with another to learn about his country, customs, and lifestyle. Some pen pal relationships, like that of my future grandparents, blossomed into blissful romance.

David got to know his future bride through letter writing. After forming a loving bond built on trust and faith, he poured out his heart to her. He sent many impassioned love letters. He proposed marriage in a letter. She accepted the proposal in a letter. They physically met each other for the first time on Tuesday, August 25, 1914, in Port Antonio, the day before their wedding ceremony.

Papa's love letters are characterized by a keen sense of novelistic detail. They are a record of my grandfather's courtship of my grandmother and his observations as a Jamaican immigrant living in Brooklyn during the very beginning of the twentieth century. After reading and digesting the collection of writings, I realized that besides building a strong, loving relationship with his future beloved wife, he meticulously set the stage for her smooth transition to America with his letters.

He informed Grandma about the United States with deep thought and insight. Papa enlightened her on a social, cultural, and historical level, possibly circumventing the culture shock he himself had painfully experienced when he arrived. I inherited only some of Papa's letters and none of Grandma's letters. I know many more existed, because my mother and aunts remember reading all of Papa's letters and Grandma's responses. Sadly, through the years, letters were somehow lost. Some of the story had to be carefully pieced together with research, an undertaking I enjoyed tremendously. The rest of our story I leave to your imagination.

I grew up with Papa and with my parents in a strict, religious Caribbean home in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. It is no accident we thrived in that area. Caribbean people have been flocking to that neighborhood and buying homes since the 1920s. Crown Heights is centrally located, and the IRT (Interborough Rapid Transit) subway along Eastern Parkway and the IND (Independent) subway train lines are easily accessible. Caribbean commuters traveled to and from Harlem, downtown Brooklyn, and other areas of New York City frequently and easily. They settled in Crown Heights, opened businesses and restaurants, and established an amazing network, creating a Caribbean home away from home.

And of course, every summer, during the Labor Day weekend, Caribbean people from all over the world come together in Crown Heights to "play mas" (to join in the masquerade) and reconnect with loved ones at home and abroad. Since my childhood, The West Indian-American Day Carnival Association has organized the parade of elaborate customs, colorful and creative costumes, and calypso and reggae bands. My family, Papa, and I did not have far to travel to join in the carnival celebrations. We lived only a block and a half away from the parade route along Eastern Parkway.

During the nine years I lived with my Papa, I got to know him well. On the other hand, I was only three years old when Grandma died. I do have memories of walking down Eastern Parkway's prodigious treelined sidewalks hand in hand with her, feeding the birds. I remember the excitement felt each time Grandma came to visit. My younger brother and only sibling David Alexander and I screamed hysterically, "Granny's here, Granny's here," upon spotting her at the window. We would run and usually hide inside the bathroom.

Once she had entered the living room with mommy, we dashed out of hiding, screaming, "Surprise! Surprise!" We would then run into her humongous, powerfully strong arms with their long, regal fingers and stunningly perfect nails.

Grandma was a natural beauty with a flawlessly chiseled little nose, dainty mouth, and a long gazelle-like neck. Her soft gray hair was usually pulled away from her face. At home, Grandma usually wore a housecoat, and her well-endowed bosom comforted all twelve grandchildren, at one time or another.

When she added a tinge of makeup and styled herself for church or a social event with Papa, Grandma transformed from naturally beautiful to strikingly gorgeous.

I also remember how Grandma and Papa opened their home and heart to the entire "Hurd Herd" and their friends every Wednesday evening for supper. The most scrumptious aromas and meals sailed out of Grandma's kitchen. On a Wednesday night, my mother and aunts could be found busily helping Grandma with the cooking. While creating magic with utensils, they chatted about almost everything: whose child was the most amazing, the latest fashions, workplace challenges, and their most heartfelt topic—their men. As a toddler, I did not understand everything they were saying; however, those same discussions continued through the years every time we got together.

In the dining room, the men heatedly debated with pounding fists, dramatized words, and exaggerated expressions their three most favorite topics: race, religion, and politics. It was the 1960s, and those were turbulent times in America. Minister Malcolm X, Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., President John F. Kennedy, his brother Bobby, and various civil rights activists were constantly in the news. The men of the family always had new questions to argue about before, during, and after Wednesday night dinner. These intellectually passionate exchanges and zealous discussions still inspire me today, for the younger generation of cousins has taken up right where the elders left off.

In the living room, the children, mostly cousins, played games with each other. We played different games: tag—you're it; red light, green light, one, two, three; and hide and go seek. Though we were often chastised for being too noisy or too playful, we had lots of fun together. Usually children in my family were forbidden to listen to, much less join in adult conversation. However, I spent most of my time with the adults. I do not know why they allowed me to listen to their private conversations, but they did. I simply conjecture that maybe it was because I exuded an older spirit, or maybe the elders instinctively knew I was the "chosen one" to keep the family history alive. In any case, I would usually settle into an inconspicuous corner and listen quietly as my Papa, parents, uncles, and aunts told stories. I observed everything and made mental notes. Even as a child, I found family history fascinating.

Those days it seemed as if every time we met there was a new addition to the family or a new reason for celebration. It was always festive and joyful. Grandma's house and heart were enormous. There was enough room, nourishment, and love for everyone. She spent most of her time shopping, cooking, washing, and cleaning for her beloved family. Grandma devoted her life to us and worked tirelessly, and I mean tirelessly, making sure all of our needs were met.

During Grandma's last days on Earth, my mother regularly carted my brother and me to see her. Grandma was extremely weak, in a lot of pain, and spent most of her time in bed. My mother remembered that, in empathy, if Grandma limped, so did I. If Grandma moaned, so did I. If Grandma felt pain, I said I felt pain. Surprisingly, with all of the recollections I do have of my formative years, I do not remember any of that. I must have suppressed those memories. As some psychologists suggest, we may repress memories of traumatic experiences because they are much too difficult to bear.

Whereas I have no recollection of Grandma's pain, my cousin David Hurd (the son of Papa's first son, David James Hurd, also known as Uncle Jimmy) remembers Grandma's pain intensely. Nine years my senior, David recalls that during her final year, Grandma frequently cried out from the excruciating pain, "O Master, let me walk with Thee." This poem turned hymn, with words written by Reverend Washington Gladden, is found in the 1982 hymnal, used by Episcopalians today. The first two verses declare:

    O Master, let me walk with Thee
    in lowly paths of service free;
    tell me Thy secret, help me bear
    the strain of toil, the fret of care.

    Help me the slow of heart to move
    by some clear, winning word of love,
    teach me the wayward feet to stay,
    and guide them in the homeward way."

As a young boy, David said he felt extremely helpless and quite distraught, seeing the family matriarch in such distress and possibly asking God to end it all.

The memories I do have of Grandma I fervently cling to; memories of Grandma and Wednesday night supper and times with her and with my brother and feeding the birds along the parkway. I often muse over those moments, because they were overwhelmingly precious. I feel blessed to have experienced the love of both maternal grandparents, even though it was only for a short period of time.

Grandma was sixty-six years of age when she died on Tuesday, October 16, 1962. It was a date to remember, for on that gloomy day, the Cuban Missile Crisis began; there was talk of possible nuclear attacks. My beloved Grandma had left me and almost immediately, the world had become a scary place. My Papa was seventy-seven when Grandma passed. His soul mate and beloved wife of forty-eight years had left him much too soon.

At first he was in denial about Grandma's death. After that, he seemed dreadfully despondent and lost. He said their house on Union Street was enormous, lonely, and cold without her. Grandma's death was devastating to my mother, as well. Mommy and Grandma had been so very close through the years. Mommy thought having Papa live with her would undoubtedly help ease the pain for both of them.

So after selling his own house, just a couple blocks away, he moved in with us on Lincoln Place. With Papa there, our house instantly became the new official meeting ground for family members and their friends. Mommy did not continue the Wednesday night dinners. However, she painstakingly prepared provisions for a full house during major holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas and important celebrations like Papa's birthday. I particularly loved those festive gatherings, for animated storytelling filled the air of the dining room. My daddy, Milton McInroy Lovell, an immigrant from Port of Spain, Trinidad, truly enjoyed having his adopted family at the house. Many of his own biological family members were far away, dispersed around the world.

Daddy, one of Papa's three sons-in-law, deeply respected, admired, and loved his extraordinary father through marriage. Though he was no pushover and owned the house Papa now resided in, it was Papa who presided as patriarch supreme from the top floor apartment of our brownstone. He paid Daddy rent each month and would not have it any other way. Papa lived with us for nine incredible years before reuniting with his beloved wife and partner, Avril. I got to know my grandfather really well while living with him. I adored him.

Papa was true to his astrological sign of Aries, the first sign of the zodiac. Arian personalities are known for their leadership qualities. He was strong, bold, brave, creative, confident, energetic, opinionated, and charming. Once he gave an order, most sane folk obeyed immediately. He was a mover and shaker who loved a challenge.

I remember a confrontation involving Papa as if it were yesterday. About eleven years old, I had just come home from St. Gregory the Great Roman Catholic Elementary School on St. John's Place. I quickly jumped out of my uniform and anxiously turned on the television, not wanting to miss a minute of my favorite soap opera. Our television sat majestically in front of the living room window. The blinds were wide open while the sun shone brightly inside. To my horror, I observed a tall, husky man wearing a long dark trench coat and knitted skullcap, using a sizable crowbar. The man was inconspicuously prying open Aunt Rosie's front door.

Aunt Rosie (Rosemonde Hurd Rutledge) was one of Papa's six children. Papa and Grandma had four girls and two boys. Papa always referred to his two sets of children. He had two girls and boy, Avril (Bobbie), Rosemonde (Rosie), and David (Jimmy); then, ten years later, he had a boy and two girls, Rodney, Judith, and Ruth Andrea (Annie). Rosemonde was his second child and my second mother. Aunt Rosie owned the brownstone directly across the street from ours. In fact, it was Papa who had learned of the pending sale of that house and had skillfully negotiated the deal for his daughter.

Papa loved having his family close by and adroitly maneuvered to surround himself with kin. So after Aunt Rosie bought the house, she rented the top floor apartment to Ruth Andrea (Aunt Annie), her baby sister. Aunt Annie lived there with her husband, William Foreman (Uncle Billy), and son Christopher (Cousin Chris). The family's property was under attack that day. Without hesitation, I yelled upstairs for my Papa. He answered me. Thank God he was home, I thought. I hurriedly ran up the stairs and in between breaths told Papa exactly what was happening.

Without delay, he grabbed his gold-headed walking stick and determinedly prepared to defend us. Papa was about 5 feet 10 inches tall with a slim but sturdy build. Red undertones added warmth to his cappuccino-colored complexion, and brilliant blue highlights radiated from each pupil, accentuating his gorgeous gray eyes. That day he wore a suit with a handsome vest—a vest, I might add, he designed and constructed himself. Even under duress, Papa remained dapper.

This David, a son of David, a highly favored anointed man of God, intended to confront that brazen burglar singlehandedly. Now home alone, I stayed inside and watched the adventure through the window at first. My parents and the rest of the family were all still at work. It was only about two o'clock in the afternoon. I never once thought to call the police. Why should I? My Papa could handle anything. He was a superman.

In less than five minutes, the thief appeared from inside the house, apparently disorientated. He looked as if he had seen a duppy (Jamaican patois for a ghost). As the bandit frequently glanced over his shoulder and tried to get out of Papa's way, he desperately clutched a big, black, bulky bag. He scurried down the outside steps onto the sidewalk with Papa in hot pursuit. The young intruder hurriedly ran down the block, purposefully dropping stolen items onto the street. Now outside, I saw a gigantic red plastic piggy bank, heavy with coins, crash onto the sidewalk and crack open.

I believe the thief threw away some of the goods to make his getaway easier and faster. Papa yelled, "Thief! Thief!" louder and louder as he ran, waving his cane high in the air. Alerted neighbors began to appear outside on their stoops. A rather rotund Good Samaritan tried to stop the criminal from turning the corner. With one powerful shove, the bandit thrust the neighbor to the ground. That evil burglar never once touched my grandfather. The chase continued for about another block.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Papa's Lettersby Judith C. Lovell Copyright © 2013 by Judith C. Lovell. 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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