CHAPTER 1

Uncle Bennie

Down the lane drifted the voice of someone singing.

I'm in the army now.

I'm in the army now.

I'm digging a ditch; I'll never get rich.

I'm in the army now.

The refrain began and grew louder with each repetition as the singer neared the small, whitewashed, clapboard house at the end of the lane. When the singer reached the entrance to the yard, the singing stopped and the cadence of "left, left, your left" began. Clouds of dust rose around the lone soldier's feet as he marched onto the front yard, drilling in his imaginary platoon.

The drill sergeant and the invisible platoon marched to the backyard, past the well house, returning to the front yard and back again. After several minutes, the sergeant called, "Halt!" and then dismissed the platoon. He came in the backdoor of the house and sat at the wooden kitchen table.

"You hungry?" Mama asked.

"Naw," he said.

"Bennie, you know you got to eat. You ain't had nothing this morning."

Uncle Bennie hung his head and looked at the shaking hands that rested on the red-checked, oilcloth-covered table. He moved from the kitchen to the front-porch swing. His army boots, covered in dust, pushed against the porch floor. The rhythmic squeak, squeak of the swing as it moved back and forth soon lulled the motionless man to sleep.

Bennie Faison was my mother's brother. He was born on October 24, 1917. Uncle Bennie was in the US Army and had been in combat. Uncle Bennie spent part of his tour of duty in the Pacific. My sister Edna told me Uncle Bennie was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed. We've never been able to confirm the story; however, we are certain he was in the Pacific.

When Uncle Bennie was honorably discharged from the army, the war had taken a toll on his mental state. Uncle Bennie had been injured in combat and had a plate in his head. Mama said he was shell-shocked. Any loud noises would send Uncle Bennie into a fit of nervousness and delusions. In order to cope with the demons that constantly haunted him, he turned to alcohol. He spent most of his days at the bootleg liquor houses trying to get a fifty-cent shot.

Uncle Bennie lived at home with my grandmother in Mt. Olive, North Carolina. When he became too agitated for Grandmother Carrie or Aunt Sister, Mama would bring him home with her to Faison, North Carolina, until he settled down. His baby sis was the only one who seemed able to calm his fragile state.

My memories of Uncle Bennie are limited because I was very young—perhaps age four. I remember a slender man of average height who wore his cap on the back of his head. What I remember most was his colorful language, which I was not allowed to repeat. One time, I forgot the rules. Daddy was putting a new bucket on a rope at the well. I proudly said, "Did that damn bucket fall in the well again?"

Daddy was so shocked that he gave me a slap on the leg. I was too stunned to cry because he'd never spanked any of us. I knew I was in big trouble. Mama was the disciplinarian of the family, and I could expect her to say, "Come here, miss lady," with a more proper spanking.

On many of Uncle Bennie's visits, I'd march around the yard behind him and his phantom platoon. We'd look up at the sky as the whine of an airplane approached. Uncle Bennie and I would take cover behind the hydrangea bushes just as the mimicked rat-tat-tat of enemy fire began. When it was safe to leave our protected hiding place, we'd run to the porch, hoping that the enemy had not spotted us. Uncle Bennie liked to follow Mama around the house and tell her funny stories as she did her household chores. When his ghosts were not tormenting him, I'd climb onto the porch swing alongside of him or sit nearby while he drew beautiful flowers on plain writing paper. Uncle Bennie spent hours perfecting each petal of a rose.

I'm not sure how long Uncle Bennie was in the army, but it was long enough for him to get six gold crowns on his front teeth. Each crown represented a place he'd been stationed overseas. My family regularly received letters written in Uncle Bennie's impeccable hand while he was enlisted. On one occasion, Edna told me, Mama was worried about him. It had been three weeks, and she hadn't received any mail from him. Mama asked the Red Cross to find him. The Red Cross located Uncle Bennie in a VA hospital. The story he told the family was never clear. He told my mother, "Ah, baby, I was just resting."

In one of Uncle Bennie's letters we received while he was overseas, he asked Mama to name me Juanita. I've always envisioned a dark-haired señorita who might have been his girlfriend. My cousin said my name came from an Australian family that befriended Uncle Bennie while he was in the Pacific. One of their daughters was named Juanita. Grandmother Carrie corresponded with the young woman's mother long after Uncle Bennie had returned to the states, which convinced my mother the young lady was Uncle Bennie's girlfriend. Edna remembers an occasion when Mama watched a woman on the television show Queen for a Day whose wish had been to reconnect with a soldier she had met in the Pacific. The description she gave confirmed Mama's belief that it was Uncle Bennie she sought.

Uncle Bennie worked at the pickle plant during his "dry spells." Sometimes these spells lasted for three weeks, sometimes a month. Uncle Bennie was very quiet at those times. He didn't have funny stories to tell nor did we take cover from enemy fire. During those calm periods, my father would lend Uncle Bennie the family car. When he didn't return as promised, Mama and Daddy suspected he'd succumbed to the call of moonshine. It didn't take Daddy long to find Uncle Bennie and his car. He'd find them both at one of the bootleg liquor houses. This cycle repeated again and again. When Uncle Bennie was on his binges, he wouldn't eat. When this occurred, Mama spoon-fed him as if he were a small child. If she failed to keep him hydrated, Mama and Daddy would take him to the VA hospital. Within two days of his admission, Uncle Bennie would be standing at their front door, wearing some other patient's clothing.

My family still talks about the time Uncle Bennie pawned the family Bible. Uncle Bennie wouldn't tell Aunt Sister where he'd taken the Bible. When Mama came for her weekly Saturday visit, Aunt Sister said to Mama, "Vera, let me tell you what our brother has done now. He pawned the family Bible. He won't go get it."

"Well, we'll see about that. He's gonna go get it. He'll just have to bring it back," Mama said.

Mama sent Uncle Bennie for the Bible. He came back empty-handed. The madam of the establishment wouldn't give it back to him. Mama said, "Come on Bennie. We're going to get the Bible." Together they walked the two blocks to the house. When Mama arrived at the house, she called to Miss Lou from the front yard. This was a ritual Mama had repeated many times when Uncle Bennie stayed away more than a day. She never went into the houses to bring her brother out.

On this occasion, Miss Lou would not answer Mama's call to her. After the third call, Mama placed her hands on her hips and said, "Lou, you hear me calling you. I know you don't want me to come in there, but I will if I have to."

Miss Lou finally came out on the porch. Mama said, "Lou, I came to get the Bible."

"Vera, your brother done brought that Bible here as fair trade. You know I can't give it back. That ain't right," Miss Lou answered.

Mama shifted from foot to foot, alternating her crossed arms in front of her and putting her hands on her hips. She did not move more than a few inches from where she stood.

"Lou, I didn't come here to argue with you; I just came to get our Bible," Mama replied.

"Vera I got to get paid for what your brother done drunk up. You gonna pay me?" Miss Lou yelled.

"I don't drink liquor, and I don't buy liquor," Mama answered, never raising her voice.

The neighbors heard the commotion and came out on their porches to watch the exchange of words between Mama and Miss Lou. Some neighbors came closer to the yard to get a better view of the goings-on. Mama continued her stand in the yard, paying no attention to the gathering crowd. When Miss Lou continued to yell about getting paid, Uncle Bennie became nervous. He started pacing back and forth in the yard. The standoff was too much for him. All of a sudden, Uncle Bennie broke out in his favorite song, "I'm in the army now." Mama and Uncle Bennie were creating too much of a disturbance for Miss Lou's discreet establishment. Suddenly, Miss Lou rushed into her house and came back with the Bible.

"Here's your Bible," she said. She wagged her finger at the singing soldier as she continued, "Bennie Faison, don't ever come back here again."

Mama took the Bible and led the fragile man out of Miss Lou's yard. Once they were back home and Uncle Bennie was calm, they both sat on the porch swing, swaying back and forth, neither speaking of the incident.

Uncle Bennie and Mama had a bond that her other sisters didn't understand. Even though Mama was older, Uncle Bennie always called her baby. Perhaps it was her patience with her little brother that made them close, or maybe it was her nurturing spirit. One occasion that Edna speaks of took place when Uncle Bennie felt especially vulnerable and tried to sit in Mama's lap. Mama gently pushed him away, explaining that her lap was already full with his niece or nephew she was carrying.

Uncle Bennie died on October 29, 1954, in Turkey, North Carolina. My family has never gotten all the details regarding his death. We were told that he'd collapsed at a liquor house in the area and was driven to the hospital in Clinton, Sampson County, North Carolina. His death certificate states the cause of his death was a heart attack. We believe the account surrounding his death is valid.

CHAPTER 2

The Watch

When we heard the whistle blow, Daddy Rossie, my godfather, pulled his watch from his pocket and said, "Yep, she's right on time." The bell clanged as the train rumbled down the track and stopped at the little station in Faison, North Carolina, where I lived.

Standing amidst a cloud of steam in the cool December morning, Daddy Rossie, my godmother, Brama, and I watched as the stationmaster loaded the mailbags and parcels from the train's baggage car on to his pushcart. Daddy Rossie and I often came into town to meet the train as if we were passengers, but we stood by only to watch the iron giant chug to a stop, always right on schedule. The train would release a great burst of steam, tarry a few minutes, and then sound its whistle as the final boarding call. When the engine began the laborious task of pulling the cars down the track, I'd wave until the last car was out of sight. Daddy Rossie and I would return to his old 1930-something Ford for the drive home. Sometimes when Daddy Rossie cranked the car, he'd mutter, "Someday I'm gonna get on that train and go way from here."

I'd put my arms around his neck and beg him not to leave. I was afraid he would leave and not return to me. He'd slowly drive home, throwing up his hand in a wave to people as we passed by. We repeated this ritual several days during the week. On the days that we did not go into town, when he'd hear the train's whistle, he'd stop what he was doing, pull out his watch, look at it, and then return to his chores.

On this December morning in 1950, it was different. I was going to be a passenger. Brama was taking me to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to visit Daddy Rossie's brother and family. He was staying behind to tend the neighborhood store he owned. Even now, more than five decades later, I'm not sure of Brother's relationship to him because they had different last names. Daddy Rossie and Brama called him Brother, but it was never clear to me if they were biological brothers or just grew up together. It didn't seem important, so I never asked.

On the ground, near where we stood, sat our small train case and our brown suitcase with two dark brown stripes on each end. The shoebox tied with tobacco twine that contained our lunch was balanced atop the suitcase. Brama clutched her pocketbook and gloves and reached for my hand as we walked to the car where the colored porter stood. Torn between the excitement of riding the train and my hesitation to leave Daddy Rossie behind, I ran back to him for another good-bye hug. I worried he would not be there when we returned.

We found seats in a compartment with a woman and a young boy who appeared to be about my age. The high, straight-backed seats in the colored car resembled deacon benches. Each compartment held four benches covered in worn, dark red, plush material. Two benches faced each other and did not recline or have footrests. Brama began talking to the woman in our compartment. The lady continuously fussed over the boy, wiping his face and straightening his clothes as she talked. She explained that her son was blind and talked a little about his accident. I had never seen a blind child and stared at him as his mother talked. I noticed he looked straight ahead and turned his head in the direction of a sound, seeming to listen carefully. Fascinated as the train crossed creeks and various other scenes, I'd point excitedly and say, "Look, look!"

But he never turned his head to look out the window with me.

When the supper hour approached, Brama untied the wax-paper-lined shoebox. There was no food service available to our car; only candy bars could be purchased. Our meal was spread out on a dishtowel on top of the small train case. The lunch box held fried chicken, four slices of Lite bread, ham biscuits, deviled eggs, and pound cake. In a separate cloth bag was a small jar of water. We ate a piece of chicken with a slice of bread, two deviled eggs, and a piece of cake. The box was retied and stored for our next meal. I curled up next to Brama and was lulled to sleep by the motion of the train.

During the night, the train pulled into Union Station in Washington, DC, where we would change trains and continue our journey. Groggy with sleep, we gathered our belongings and disembarked. The large, nearly empty station was bigger than any station I had ever seen. Rows and rows of darkly polished wood benches dominated the room, and the floor tiles glistened like glass. Our footsteps echoed as we searched for the ticket agent's booth to inquire about our connecting train to Pittsburgh. The next train would leave the next morning, so we settled down to wait in the cavernous depot. Again I curled up next to Brama and drifted off to sleep. She kept watch.

The morning seemed to have transformed the station. It was no longer deserted. The room had come to life with the hustle and bustle of people rushing to and fro, porters carrying bags and pushing carts, and the public address system announcing the track numbers of arriving and departing trains.

I was amazed at the rows of sinks and toilets in the restroom where we freshened up. I had never seen such a large restroom because most of the houses back home did not have indoor plumbing. Once refreshed, Brama spread her dishtowel on one of the shiny benches and untied the shoebox. She placed two ham biscuits, the jar of water, and a small cup on the dishtowel. Just as we finished our breakfast, our train was called. Brama looked at her watch; she said nothing. The dishtowel was refolded and placed in the lunch box. The shoebox was retied again. Because Brama carried the suitcases and the lunch box, she could not hold my hand. I held onto her coat as she weaved through the crowd toward the gate for our train. I was pulled along as she walked. Again she kept watch, aware of my tug on her coat assuring her I had not let go.

The seats were not high-backed benches in compartments this time. All the seats, except the last two, faced one direction. Those two seats faced each other.

The train wound through the mountains and tunnels, stopping at various towns as we approached our destination. Nearing Johnstown, when the train rounded a horseshoe curve, I could see the caboose as well as the engine. When it was dinnertime, Brama untied the shoebox. We finished the remainder of the food. Brother was waiting at the station when we arrived in Pittsburgh that evening.

Brother and Mrs. Hazel lived in a house that was connected on both sides to other houses. I was told this was called a row house. The warm, cozy rooms were heated by iron, accordion-looking pipes called radiators. The next two days we visited friends of Mrs. Hazel and Brother.

Our stay in Pittsburgh was shortened when Brama received a call from Daddy Rossie telling her of the death of my grandfather. We needed to return home in time for the funeral.