Authors: Donna Mabry
My favorites on the Opry were Roy Acuff and
the Smoky Mountain Boys, especially when Roy sang
Great Speckled Bird
, and Bill Monroe and the
Bluegrass Boys. Some nights we also heard Red Foley.
George claimed he was a cousin, but I didn’t believe
him. I asked Bessie about it one day, and Bessie said
it was the first she’d heard of it.
We all had our favorite shows, the Opry for me,
and Jack Benny for George, which I thought was no
co-incidence, him being so stingy and all. Paul was
hypnotized by
The Shadow
, and Betty Sue loved when
the big stars like Bette Davis or Katherine Hepburn did
a drama on
The Lux Radio Theatre
. We all gathered
around the radio after dinner each night. I sat and
rocked in the perfectly good rocking chair George
found in an alley. I’d scrubbed it down on the back
porch, just in case, and then placed it next to a small
lamp table in the living room.
I bought a small radio for the kitchen. While I
cooked and cleaned during the day I listened to
Stella
Dallas
and
My Gal Sunday.
It felt like walking into
another world, into someone else’s life more
complicated than my own, and I found that
comforting.
In spite of all the luxuries we had in Detroit compared
to Missouri, I still didn’t feel quite at home. I bought
sheets and made proper curtains for all the rooms and
crocheted pineapple pattern doilies to go on the backs
and arms of the upholstered pieces. It made me feel
more as if it were my home, even if it was rented.
I gave thanks to God for the life we lived. We
had plenty to eat, a church home, and a decent house.
I enjoyed keeping it clean and decorating it, even if it
weren’t mine. I asked God to forgive me for the
resentment I felt toward George and for my sometimes
un-Christian attitude. It seemed to me that as I grew
older, it was more and more difficult to forgive others.
I’d been taught that it wasn’t right to ask God for
forgiveness for my own sins if I couldn’t do the same
for someone else.
When I could afford it, I bought red and white
checked fabric and made a tablecloth and curtains for
the kitchen. The cloth cost an outrageous price, ten
cents a yard, but I told myself that it would cheer
things up. I still put a few cents in my savings when I
could. It didn’t come from selling eggs, but I took it
out of what George gave me for the groceries. If I
found something on sale, I put the difference from
what I would normally have paid in my sewing box
and, after a while, it seemed like my money. Every
now and then I would take a dollar’s worth of change
and get myself a one-dollar bill for it.
There wasn’t much area for a garden, but I
cleared a patch in the back yard and planted tomatoes
and green beans. My gardening skills stood me in good
stead, and the next fall I had a nice little crop with
enough to trade some of my harvest with Bessie,
who’d planted her own garden with turnips, green
peppers, and cabbage.
Even though we’d been separated for a long
time, Bessie and I picked up our old friendship right
off. It was comforting to me to have a woman friend
who understood my situation and to share my life. I
admired Bessie’s strength and the way the men obeyed
her.
By 1940, I was fifty-six years old and, for the most
part, pretty much contented with my life. Betty Sue
quickly made friends in school. George worked
steadily, if not happily. I suspected it was more out of
fear of Bessie than anything else. He managed to get
his job at the Buick factory changed from the assembly
line to that of custodian. When he first told me about
it, I asked him, “What is a custodian?”
“A janitor. I clean up and look after things. I like
it better than the line.”
I just shook my head. If George preferred it, it
must be easier work.
Paul still missed school most of the time. George
was always telling me to let him stay home because he
wasn’t learning anything anyway, and it seemed to be
true. At twelve years old, he could read and write only
a few words. His teachers suggested sending him to a
special school for slow learners, but George refused to
even hear about it.
One day they sent Paul home with a note from
his teacher, Miss Spence. It asked for a parent to come
in and talk to the teacher at the end of school on the
next Monday. I went in like they asked, but I was
nervous, scared a little by the size of the school
building, Bellevue Elementary. It was a great
difference from the one-room school where I’d
studied. With the help of a student, I found the right
room. A pretty young woman and an older man were
waiting for me.
They both smiled at me warmly and waved me
to a seat at one of the desks. I clutched my handbag on
my lap and waited for them to say whatever it was they
had on their minds.
The woman began. “Mrs. Foley, Paul hasn’t
made any progress at all in his classes, and we think
we may be able to help him. There’s a special school
he could go to, one with a medical staff, that could see
if he has a physical problem and maybe correct it.”
I frowned. “Where is this school?”
The man leaned towards me. “I’m Dr. Goodwin.
I’m the supervisor at the school. It’s in Oxford, about
thirty miles north of here.”
“Thirty miles north? How would I get him there
every day? We don’t even have a car.”
“He would live at the school for a while, until we
could give him some tests and see if his learning
difficulty is physical or disciplinary.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know if his father
would allow that. I’ll have to talk to him.”
Dr. Goodwin stood and held out his hand. “Fine,
I’d like to talk to him myself if he would agree to come
in for a meeting. I’ll be here with Miss Spencer, next
Monday, at the same time.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you, I’ll let you know
what he says.”
That night I waited until we were in bed before I
brought up the subject. When I explained about the
special school, George sat up in bed and shook his
head. “No! I’m not letting them take my boy and
experiment on him. Tell them to forget it.”
“But George, he can barely read and write.
Maybe they can help him.”
“I said no, and that’s the last I want to hear of it!”
I let the subject drop. The next Monday, I went
to the school and told them what George said, and
added, “I gave up arguing with my husband about it a
long time ago. Maybe if you come to the house and
talked to him, he’d see that he isn’t doing the boy any
good.”
Doctor Goodwin shook his head angrily. “If he
won’t let us help him at my school, there’s nothing else
I can do.”
Miss Spencer looked like she felt sorry for me.
“Can’t you get Mr. Foley to at least come to school and
talk to us?”
“I’m afraid not. He’d have to miss work, and we
can’t afford it.” The truth was that George wouldn’t
mind at all to miss work, but I knew he’d never change
his mind, and we would just wind up losing a day’s
pay.
I walked home thinking about the situation. Paul
wasn’t right, anyone could see that. I wished George
would let the doctors take a look at him, but I knew it
was hopeless.
All the time Gene was away at the CCC, George and I
received regular letters from him describing the
important work he was doing for the country and how
much he enjoyed the life of a ranger. He was paid thirty
dollars a month, and twenty-five dollars was sent
home to his family. Gene told us that he didn’t need
much money anyway. His meals were provided, and
he’d never taken up tobacco. The only real expense he
had was when he could get into town to see a movie.
He loved the movies, especially the character actors,
he said. He didn’t go to see Roy Rogers, but rather to
see Gabby Hayes, and wouldn’t miss anything with
Ward Bond, Victor McLaghlen, or Edward Everett
Horton, who he thought was the funniest man in
Hollywood.
Bud only wrote home once or twice a year,
usually when he was in the stockade for some trouble
he was in. After three years in the army, he had been
busted for bad behavior so many times that he was still
a private.
Early one afternoon in the fall of 1940, there was
a knock at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and it
wasn’t Tuesday, the day the insurance man came to
collect his dime. I turned down the gas under the meal
I was cooking and went to the door, wiping my hands
on my apron and growing irritated. It had better not be
a salesman, like the Fuller Brush man who came by
from time to time. I’d already told him I wasn’t
interested.
I jerked the door open and nearly fainted when I
saw the tall, handsome young man standing there.
He’d grown another two or three inches and put on at
least forty pounds since I’d last seen him. He was
deeply tanned, a reddish brown, and stood there with
a look of expectation and a big grin on his face.
It was my precious boy, my Gene. He grabbed me
in a big hug, lifting me right off the floor and rocking
me right and left. Tears ran down my face and his.
When he finally let me down, I wiped my cheeks on
my apron. “What are you doing here? Are you all
right? You didn’t quit the CCC, did you?”
“Let’s sit down, Mom, and I’ll tell you what
happened.”
This scared me, but there he stood, looking
perfectly fine. So, whatever it was, it didn’t matter. If
he’d gotten fired or was in some sort of trouble like his
brother, I didn’t care, as long as he was all right.
I took his hand and led him to the kitchen. “Let
me fix you something to eat,” I said, in the language
of mothers, “and we can talk about it.”
I poured him a cup of the strong coffee that
always sat on the stove, and took some cold fried
chicken and potato salad out of the icebox and sliced a
big tomato on a plate in front of him. I got a cup of
coffee for myself and sat across from him so I could
watch his face.
“Tell me about it,” I said, holding on for what I
knew would be news I didn’t want to hear.
He nodded. “I’ll just start out that I’m going to
be just fine. The doctor said all I have to do is rest up
a few days, and I can start to look for work.”
My heart lurched at the word,
doctor
. “What
happened?’
“Well, I was helping some of the other boys to
put a new roof on the barracks, and I fell off. I landed
on my back on top of some of the bundles of shingles.
Doc said I’d be all right, Mom. Don’t worry so.” He
reached out and patted my hand, then picked up
another piece of chicken. It eased me some to see that
he had a good appetite.
“If you’re going to be all right, why did they send
you home?”
“Now, don’t go getting all upset, but he said that
I hurt both of my kidneys, falling on that stuff. I had
blood when I passed my water. That made me
disabled, so I had to come home. I’ll be just fine for
regular work.”
“How much blood?” I felt faint at the thought of
his pain, but I went to the stove and kept my eyes on
the pot of stew I was stirring and steeled myself so my
worry didn’t show.
“Quite a of blood bit for the first few days. Then
it kind of tapered off, and when there wasn’t any more,
they put me on a train and sent me home.”
I felt the need to pray about this later. I didn’t
want to bother Gene with my worrying over him, so I
changed the subject and asked about the work he’d
been doing. We talked for the rest of the afternoon. I
went back to my cooking and listened, asking a
question now and then, while Gene sat in his chair,
telling me all about what his life had been like for the
last two years. We laughed and talked, and I pressed
more food on him, making him eat two pieces of my
special apple pie. It didn’t take a lot of pushing to get
him to take the second piece.
When Betty Sue and Paul came home from
school and saw who was there, they whooped all
around the kitchen. Betty Sue flung her arms around
her brother and then held his hand and made him tell
some of his stories again.After a quick hug, Paul stood
in the corner of the kitchen and listened, but didn’t
have anything to say.
When we heard John’s truck pull into the garage
next door, Gene hid behind the door. George came in,
carrying his lunch bucket.
“Some man is here to see you, George,” I said.
His brow wrinkled, but when he heard Betty Sue
giggle, he caught on. “Really? It wasn’t a special
messenger from President Roosevelt, was it? He’s
been after me to come to Washington and help out.”
“It’s Gene,” Paul blurted out. “He’s hiding right
behind the door.”
George turned his head and caught sight of his
middle son. He grabbed him in a bear hug. I was
surprised to see George moved to tears by the
homecoming.
We took Gene next door to show him off to
Bessie, John, and Maxine, who’d never met him.
I was so proud of my tall, handsome boy. He
looked like a movie star in the
Silver Screen
magazines
that Betty Sue was always reading. We all talked for a
while and then went home for supper only to talk more
after we ate. Gene put away another big meal. It made
me happy to see his appetite.
My prayers that night had many thanks for
Gene’s safe return, and I begged God for his health to
be restored. I lay awake in my bed until George’s
breathing told me he was fast asleep, and then I crept
down the hall to Gene’s room, carrying a quilt. He was
sleeping on several blankets that had been folded on
the floor in the empty fourth bedroom. I watched him
for a long time, taking pleasure in the regular rise and
fall of his chest. Then I spread the quilt out over him
and walked as softly as I could back to my own bed.
There was peacefulness to my sleep that night
that I hadn’t felt since the day he left. I knew that my
precious boy was safe. I knew where he was, and what
he was doing.
In Detroit, a boy on a bicycle brought me the
Detroit
News
every day. It was a wonderful treat, another one
of the miracles of big city life.