When I was three or four, my parents began our annual pilgrimage down Highway 331 heading to "the coast", they called it. I've been heading like a lemming back to the beaches along the Gulf coast ever since and have a deep, soulful attachment to them and all they signify and embrace. Through the years, I've rented places in Panama City Destin, Pensacola, Ft. Walton, Navarre, Perdido Key, Orange Beach, Gulf Shores, and Ft. Morgan. I took my children there. They take theirs. I can't count the people I know who have followed 331 or I 65 down to the glorious beach along Alabama's and Florida's coastline.
About ten years ago, my husband to be and I bought a townhome at the very end of the Ft. Morgan peninsula and I considered it my home. We swung back and forth between Birmingham and Ft. Morgan like yo-yos, but I stayed for longer periods since I could work from there and watch the Gulf and nature thrive before me. The Gulf was spitting distance from our deck and I adored it.
My husband, Don, ritualistically heralded the pelicans with a resounding "Hey Boys!"as they flew in a constant elegance of soaring or death-threatening plummets to catch their daily dose of sustenance. We marveled at their skill, their aim, their success. We watched the gulls salute the wind as they stood in a military formation, the general at the front leading the chorus of adulation to their home. The almost extinct skimmers, usually flying in twos, skimmed the margin of the shore barely allowing their bottom long pointed bill to scrap along the water's edge in search of food.
I danced with the waves, watched them dance in sync to The Nutcracker's Suite. We watched their anger as storms aggravated their normal ebb and flow. We puzzled over the myriad of sand crabs who scooted in rapid side crawls from one hole to the next, stopping only to gaze with their popped eyes on stems at us, the intruders lounging above their labyrinth of tunnels beneath the sand. We wondered how they came back after a hurricane that had left the sand flattened and bare, all holes barred. But they came back as did much of what was destroyed during those storm.
The dolphin never failed to perform in front of our townhome. Because we were near the mouth of the bay, they came and went with a constancy that spoiled us. We watched them circle their young ones tossing the baby dolphin into the air where the acrobat performed like a jubilant kid in a pool. We saw tandem jumps by the graceful creatures more than we could count. I swam with them. I paddled out on a raft to be near them and I was exhilarated beyond belief or words. My best birthday brought me the gift of double dolphin jumping under a double rainbow. What a gift!
Each time I arrived to that place, my thin space in an arena so full of life, I felt resurrected, washed in the balm of Gilead. From the salt air, to the soft sand, to the gorgeous expanse of water always changing, each of those things were elements that welcomed me home.
How can I not but feel the deepest sadness over what is happening to that sacred place? I am only one voice in a sea of depressed lives, human and otherwise. We are all connected, in my view.
We don't have our place any more but I've missed it like crazy. It's still a part of me. The coast is a part of me. And my soul grieves over this tragedy.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Woodlawn Gains Postive Energy
A segment from my book, Southern Bypass, mentions Woodlawn, a community at the core of Birmingham's earliest days. Once thought to be the residential area on the rise, Woodlawn has crumbled through the years. Poverty is prevalent, schools are disheveled and malfunctioning, and there is little to lift the spirits of the small community's residents. But the foundation has maintained its integrity, though difficult to see in its decline.
The community is getting attention these days. A thrift store "55th Place" is packed with anything from suitcases to pillows to linens, furniture, and clothes for any size, age, or gender. The vast merchandise is supplied by donations and the store is run by volunteers.
The small Episcopal church in the area, Grace, has a core congregation of people who care and are willing to put their concern to work. Recently, a home next door to the quintessential church building was bought and is being turned into a home for homeless Veterans in the area, some 500 I was told.
A young couple, both writers, have bought an abandoned pharmacy and are converting it into a tutoring center with a tropical flare that should attract passersby to investigate the apparent activities happening inside. Elizabeth and Chip Brantley are also offering their assistance in any possible way to Woodlawn High School and are recruiting volunteers to further their vision of creating a love of writing in students young and old in the area.
Had I not read the letters from a family friend who wrote from Woodlawn in 1889 and spoke about the thriving community with such ardor, I might not have such a keen interest now in the resurrection attempts I see. Where there is this kind of passion, there are sure to be rewards, even if in small increments. I'm encouraged, and frankly, am interested in jumping on the bandwagon in some capacity. These people who have vision and energy to create new life are the catalyst for the change Woodlawn has needed and deserves.
This is a PS since I'm writing it three days later. It's important, though. The YWCA of Central Alabama has invested $11 million in Woodlawn, building a shelter and renovating a huge apartment building. They are looking for other building to renovate. A local church has opened a Health Center and a private school is expanding into a renovated church building making way for more than the 250 previously enrolled students. People are beginning to opt for housing in the area in hopes of spawning further community growth. These are even bigger signs of the positive energy attempting to divert and disperse the negative lifestyle of a community with a good heartbeat.
The community is getting attention these days. A thrift store "55th Place" is packed with anything from suitcases to pillows to linens, furniture, and clothes for any size, age, or gender. The vast merchandise is supplied by donations and the store is run by volunteers.
The small Episcopal church in the area, Grace, has a core congregation of people who care and are willing to put their concern to work. Recently, a home next door to the quintessential church building was bought and is being turned into a home for homeless Veterans in the area, some 500 I was told.
A young couple, both writers, have bought an abandoned pharmacy and are converting it into a tutoring center with a tropical flare that should attract passersby to investigate the apparent activities happening inside. Elizabeth and Chip Brantley are also offering their assistance in any possible way to Woodlawn High School and are recruiting volunteers to further their vision of creating a love of writing in students young and old in the area.
Had I not read the letters from a family friend who wrote from Woodlawn in 1889 and spoke about the thriving community with such ardor, I might not have such a keen interest now in the resurrection attempts I see. Where there is this kind of passion, there are sure to be rewards, even if in small increments. I'm encouraged, and frankly, am interested in jumping on the bandwagon in some capacity. These people who have vision and energy to create new life are the catalyst for the change Woodlawn has needed and deserves.
This is a PS since I'm writing it three days later. It's important, though. The YWCA of Central Alabama has invested $11 million in Woodlawn, building a shelter and renovating a huge apartment building. They are looking for other building to renovate. A local church has opened a Health Center and a private school is expanding into a renovated church building making way for more than the 250 previously enrolled students. People are beginning to opt for housing in the area in hopes of spawning further community growth. These are even bigger signs of the positive energy attempting to divert and disperse the negative lifestyle of a community with a good heartbeat.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Old Town Lives
Late yesterday afternoon, I sat outside under a large covered dining area with a couple of friends, had a glass of wine listening to an acoustic guitar and pleasant singer, and enjoyed looking across the street at lovely old architecture, cleaned and occupied. There was such life, such energy along the street, people passing, cars looking for spaces to park among the many cars already landed there. A horse driven carriage with plumed horse trotted by. A trolley turned the corner and let people out, and picked up waiting ones. Around the corner on the river, a minor league baseball team played in the state of the arts field where a large crowd of fans gathered. We walked across the street to another new bar, dining area, where my friend showed me "the shot room", photographic in the way the bottles are placed in square cubicles in an icy cold room where shots are served in ice jiggers. This was "The Alley Bar", another popping place for 6 in the evening. Then we strolled down the alley behind the main street and looked at the many lofts with balconies and plants and umbrellas, all tucked on top the old renovated buildings. Another stop at a ZaZa's Pizza for delicious pizza and another full house of others who were enjoying the downtown experience of my hometown. Yes. Montgomery.
Montgomery is changing! My brother, Charles, gives a lot of credit to the new mayor, Todd Strange (he went to Montevallo with my good friend, Andrea, and me).
They now run the trolley between downtown and Old Cloverdale and Maxwell on an hourly basis. They are "redecorating" the corridor between Maxwell and downtown and the entire downtown is going through a facelift. The same is being done from the Capital Heights corridor to town. What is so nice is the integrity of what still stands of the old town remains visible and is showcased by the innovations. You will be totally surprised as I was yesterday when I visited Charles and Sheila. My nephew won a literary award for his essay on Retinitis Pigmentosa, his disease which ultimately leads to blindness. It was just an incredible, unforgettable afternoon and I wanted to share a special time with my old Montgomery friends.
May we meet by the river one day soon.
Missie
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Learning from the Past
Well, I thought I had ended. Seems not.
Soon, though, I’ll embark on my next voyage. Now the women--from Margaret Lynn Lewis, to Jane Strother Lewis, to Elizabeth Lewis Gilmer, to Sophie Gilmer Bibb, to Martha Dandridge Bibb, to Susanna Dunlap Porter Bibb, to Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson, to Deane Jones Edmondson, to me—we all go our separate ways, but we don’t really separate at all. I could be trapped in this intense montage if some degree of exfoliation didn’t occur as a natural process. If I refused to learn from the amazing parade of unleashed spirits how to live better in the present, or how to better appreciate the past, I could be encased in lifeless cells. I opt for renewal.
Before I do leave, I’ll retire “the box”. Maybe find a new home for all it has held sacred. This should be a wonderful period of relaxation. For now, I’ll pause, feel the inevitable let-down, and simultaneously, milk the satisfaction over completing this meandering journey. Then, I’ll remember how great it was to get us all together to have this heart to heart. After circling and searching for the routes that mattered, for me, for this moment, and for my family, it’s sweet to be home, Alabama. It’s also great to know the Southern Bypass awaits if I choose a rapid exit. Or re-entry.
Soon, though, I’ll embark on my next voyage. Now the women--from Margaret Lynn Lewis, to Jane Strother Lewis, to Elizabeth Lewis Gilmer, to Sophie Gilmer Bibb, to Martha Dandridge Bibb, to Susanna Dunlap Porter Bibb, to Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson, to Deane Jones Edmondson, to me—we all go our separate ways, but we don’t really separate at all. I could be trapped in this intense montage if some degree of exfoliation didn’t occur as a natural process. If I refused to learn from the amazing parade of unleashed spirits how to live better in the present, or how to better appreciate the past, I could be encased in lifeless cells. I opt for renewal.
Before I do leave, I’ll retire “the box”. Maybe find a new home for all it has held sacred. This should be a wonderful period of relaxation. For now, I’ll pause, feel the inevitable let-down, and simultaneously, milk the satisfaction over completing this meandering journey. Then, I’ll remember how great it was to get us all together to have this heart to heart. After circling and searching for the routes that mattered, for me, for this moment, and for my family, it’s sweet to be home, Alabama. It’s also great to know the Southern Bypass awaits if I choose a rapid exit. Or re-entry.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
End of Road
After resurrecting these personal and illustrious antecedents, calling them forward, giving each a starring role, I now send them back to their peaceful places, hoping they’re not dizzy from the ride. I also hope the reunion served its purpose in giving each participant a respectful soapbox, a grandstand, and graceful exit, baggage and all. If I have been fair in my presentation, honest in my assessment, thorough in my coverage, and compelling in its delivery, I have exceeded my expectations.
As an unsolicited bonus, I have a new intimacy with my father, mother, and grandmother, and beyond. The relationships had suffered prior to my in-depth exploration. By connecting the dots, not only did I track the lineage and define the line, but I made a personal discovery and a recovery as well. Each member, each memory, letter, poem, or picture formed a piece of the puzzle that now reveals the truth about my people and what formed them as well. Also, I am going out on a limb to say, in seeing them more clearly, they see me in the same light. A true catharsis has transcended time and allowed a soothed soul’s repose.
As an unsolicited bonus, I have a new intimacy with my father, mother, and grandmother, and beyond. The relationships had suffered prior to my in-depth exploration. By connecting the dots, not only did I track the lineage and define the line, but I made a personal discovery and a recovery as well. Each member, each memory, letter, poem, or picture formed a piece of the puzzle that now reveals the truth about my people and what formed them as well. Also, I am going out on a limb to say, in seeing them more clearly, they see me in the same light. A true catharsis has transcended time and allowed a soothed soul’s repose.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Down the Road
This is hard to believe, but my tale is winding down and approaching an exit on the Southern Bypass. It's time for me to introduce the last traveler on this particular journey.
Daughter of George Bibb Edmondson and Deane Jones (Edmondson)
Born St. Margaret’s Hospital July 20, 1946
Montgomery, Alabama
Married July 20, 1968
Richard Reginald Patterson, Jr.
When to Say “When”—
I’ve hardly ever known when to say when, not even with pepper or parmesan. My segment, the ending one, should be short. My tale unfolded in a round-about way as this slow trek ensued. Most of me, or all I choose to reveal, can be found in-between the lines of the preceding words, passages, and people. The trails have merged onto the fast-paced interchanges of the 21st century and the bypasses skirting issues, times, and towns. My trail will continue to unwind in these modern fast-paced lanes that one day will be as outmoded as those of my earliest ancestors.
Today, the southern bypass maintains its offering as an alternative passage around and outside Montgomery. It accommodates the rush of life most days. It’s lined with service stations, fast-food chains, medical facilities, etc. and etc. and it’s a great route, if you’re heading south, down 331 toward Panama City, east toward I 20 and Atlanta, or westward ho, just moving on. Most of the travelers in this written pilgrimage missed the modernity of four-lanes, interstates, and fast-tracks of any configuration. They actually wrote letters and documents with pens or pencils or typewriters, and did research solely at the library. I, on the other hand, sat at my computer to compile this chronicle and used the same to check points, identify unknowns, or correspond with vast resources available on line. To ask for editorial comments, I attached files to emails and zipped them to anyone and anywhere I chose. I “tweeted” my progress on Twitter and began a blog--the fast track at my finger-tips. How did the old guys manage?
Elizabeth Deane Edmondson (Patterson) (Cooper)
“Missie”
Divorced July 20, 1990
Children—
Richard Reginald Patterson, III married to Lori Hackleman
Children: Lucy Porter, Sophie Huyen, George William
George Bibb Patterson married to Hope Henry
Children: Kathryn Evelyn, Camden Bibb
Elizabeth Meriwether Patterson Thurman married to S. Michael Thurman
Children: Seaborn Forrest Thurman, Elizabeth Grace
Married October 2, 1998
Donald Leonard Cooper, Jr.
When to Say “When”—
I’ve hardly ever known when to say when, not even with pepper or parmesan. My segment, the ending one, should be short. My tale unfolded in a round-about way as this slow trek ensued. Most of me, or all I choose to reveal, can be found in-between the lines of the preceding words, passages, and people. The trails have merged onto the fast-paced interchanges of the 21st century and the bypasses skirting issues, times, and towns. My trail will continue to unwind in these modern fast-paced lanes that one day will be as outmoded as those of my earliest ancestors.
Today, the southern bypass maintains its offering as an alternative passage around and outside Montgomery. It accommodates the rush of life most days. It’s lined with service stations, fast-food chains, medical facilities, etc. and etc. and it’s a great route, if you’re heading south, down 331 toward Panama City, east toward I 20 and Atlanta, or westward ho, just moving on. Most of the travelers in this written pilgrimage missed the modernity of four-lanes, interstates, and fast-tracks of any configuration. They actually wrote letters and documents with pens or pencils or typewriters, and did research solely at the library. I, on the other hand, sat at my computer to compile this chronicle and used the same to check points, identify unknowns, or correspond with vast resources available on line. To ask for editorial comments, I attached files to emails and zipped them to anyone and anywhere I chose. I “tweeted” my progress on Twitter and began a blog--the fast track at my finger-tips. How did the old guys manage?
Monday, March 8, 2010
85 Mays
May 7, 2005
My 59th May 7. Her 85th.
This May, and the more recent ones, harvested fewer signs of new life than expected for the last month of the season. The hope of spring, or of anything, spoke less audibly in the haze of Mamma’s out-of-rhythm heart.I was headed to Demopolis to see the live rendition of “To Kill a Mockingbird” in the actual courtroom of movie fame. It was to be my first viewing of this traditional yearly performance and I’d gotten tickets months ago, the day they went on sale. I stopped en route from Birmingham in Montgomery to check on Mamma and found her slumped in her chair saying, ‘Missie, I just don’t feel good.” I could see it. Her breathing labored for each quick intake of oxygen and left her exhausted in the effort.
Too weak to walk, she stayed on her sofa while my sister-in-law and I prepared her things and called the ambulance. It arrived promptly with two amicable attendants ready to assist.
The trip to Harper Lee’s town quickly faded into perhaps another future season as my trip re-routed to Jackson’s Hospital. That spring, that May belonged to my mother. Her humor remained as she said to me, “I guess I’m going to kick the bucket,” when the doctors announced pneumonia as a fateful diagnosis and complication in the already present heart arrhythmia.
I'll remember her last few days on earth as a group of the most difficult of any seasons to date. She wanted to hang on for a few more Mays, a few more seasons, for what reason I don’t know. Depression smothered her and blanketed her countenance with remorse over lost beauty, love, youth, and a child. Her mind held tightly to life with acuity, except for allowing her the reality of her own impermanence.
In a moment of melancholic pleasure, I wish to bring Mamma to a safe harbor with sprawling roots of truth and ease. Had she ever known a sanctuary at all? She has been dead for several years, but realistically, she was absent for much longer and I truly, deeply miss her and always have.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Love, If Only for a Day..
The angst continued to grow within Mamma as years passed. It changed colors to coincide with her moods that changed hourly but more predictably with time and repetitiveness. The following letter from my mother to me was written with the intent to congratulate. Her profound melancholy shrouded any real chance for joy.
I am so happy for you and Reg.
It was wonderful of you to call me immediately, and like I told you last night, it will take me a few days or a week for it to really soak in that my little (not after gaining 7 pounds) girl is going to be a mother and that I am going to be a grandmother!
There is absolutely nothing in this world like having your first baby. Nobody in this world could have been happier than I was when George was born. He was so dear to me.
The children (William and Charles) seem quite blasé about the whole thing, but I am so excited. It will be wonderful having another member in the family, it seems to be dwindling so…
September 4, 1969
Dearest Sister:
It was wonderful of you to call me immediately, and like I told you last night, it will take me a few days or a week for it to really soak in that my little (not after gaining 7 pounds) girl is going to be a mother and that I am going to be a grandmother!
There is absolutely nothing in this world like having your first baby. Nobody in this world could have been happier than I was when George was born. He was so dear to me.
The children (William and Charles) seem quite blasé about the whole thing, but I am so excited. It will be wonderful having another member in the family, it seems to be dwindling so…
Much love,
Mamma
There we were, Reg and I, expecting our first baby, of course not knowing then we would have Richard Reginald Patterson, III. In April of 1970, we had our first baby, a baby boy, and it was a magnificent occasion. I knew what Mamma meant. But I would never totally comprehend the words that were encased deeply in her grief and remorse. Truthfully, I didn't want to understand or share equanimity of our loss. I held my grief separate from hers, refusing to acknowledge what I had stored in my inner sanctum.
I hate to leave my mother's segment here, but in the following decades, my life was separated from hers and though I frequently visited Thorn Place through the years, my heart never returned to that house. Daddy went up in smoke, so to speak. He died in 1978 from emphysema complications and decades of chain smoking. Mamma remained at the family home until 2005.
This poem encapsulates how my mother lived and loved.
This poem encapsulates how my mother lived and loved.
Poem
By Deane Jones Edmondson
How beautiful if only for a day.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Where One Road Ends, Another Begins
Life went on without George, but not with ease and not for long in Nannie's case. By 1967, she was settled, yet always unsettled, on Thorn Place with Mamma, Daddy, my two younger brothers, and me, although I was basically living away as a college student. The political climate added to her discomfort as evidenced in a couple of statements from her letters. I quote her here.
Love to all and more thanks than an antique mind can express...
And more of a concern to her was Lyndon B. Johnson. She made her thoughts very clear in this remark from a letter. I quote, in part--
"If that depraved, diseased Lyndon Johnson had any intelligence, he would know that it took centuries to produce..."
I'll leave it there. More of her words and thoughts and letters are quoted in their entirety in my book, Southern Bypass. Her last words here--
" I nearly made the grade two nights ago. I often feel the hot breath of the Grim Reaper blowing on the back of my neck. Hope he doesn’t let me linger long enough to be a nuisance. The currents of life are too swift and strong for me to fight while we have crooks at the head of our wonderful country."
Nannie lived long enough to see me marry in 1968, but she finally relinquished control to her "grim reaper" who ushered her out in March of 1969. Her many foreshadowing comments about death and her longing to go home finally came to fruition.
The changes over those few years, 1966-1968, left an indelible mark in history far beyond and not related to my family. The country shifted in one of its most significant periods of unparalleled growth and loss. But in my microcosm, our personal changes left my mother, father, and two brothers, William, and Charles, in the same old Thorn Place, but with a new set of circumstances. When I married in 1968, I left Montgomery, separating as far as possible from the home I had known.
July, 1967
...Everyone is deeply distressed over Gov. Wallace’s illness. I hope one of God’s miracles will heal her (Lurleen Wallace) trouble.Love to all and more thanks than an antique mind can express...
And more of a concern to her was Lyndon B. Johnson. She made her thoughts very clear in this remark from a letter. I quote, in part--
"If that depraved, diseased Lyndon Johnson had any intelligence, he would know that it took centuries to produce..."
I'll leave it there. More of her words and thoughts and letters are quoted in their entirety in my book, Southern Bypass. Her last words here--
" I nearly made the grade two nights ago. I often feel the hot breath of the Grim Reaper blowing on the back of my neck. Hope he doesn’t let me linger long enough to be a nuisance. The currents of life are too swift and strong for me to fight while we have crooks at the head of our wonderful country."
Nannie lived long enough to see me marry in 1968, but she finally relinquished control to her "grim reaper" who ushered her out in March of 1969. Her many foreshadowing comments about death and her longing to go home finally came to fruition.
The changes over those few years, 1966-1968, left an indelible mark in history far beyond and not related to my family. The country shifted in one of its most significant periods of unparalleled growth and loss. But in my microcosm, our personal changes left my mother, father, and two brothers, William, and Charles, in the same old Thorn Place, but with a new set of circumstances. When I married in 1968, I left Montgomery, separating as far as possible from the home I had known.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Endurance on the Bumpy Road
Ah, the sad events in this journey may be just and equal to the joys, but George's death -the death of a young person, a son, a brother, a friend- I think that jolt might count as a big one. It sure was in 1966. My grandmother speaks again via another letter to Sarah. I was in college at Alabama College, now known as Montevallo, the name of the small town in Alabama where the university has stood for a century.
Letters Continued…
…How sad can life get? Everything reminds me of George and I wonder if Deane (Mamma) can ever adjust to life without him… Missie is busy with tests. She and George were like twins, utterly devoted and congenial. I hope she will not marry too soon in trying to compensate for the companionship she last lost.
…Yard maintenance is a problem in Montgomery now. One neighbor says she pays her yard man $1.40 per hour, keeps him 10 hours on some days. Wish I could run a mower.
Devotedly yours,
Mattie
And another--
…Missie was here for Mother’s Day. She is brave but life can never be the same for her or any of us. We went to dinner on Mother’s Day. I think Will and Charles must have used a dollar's worth of sugar because they liked to tear open the little envelopes to put sugar in tea.
Our Charles will be nine this month. He said to Deane a few days ago, “Mamma, you ought to feel honored because God wanted a fine boy like George.” It seemed to comfort Deane more than anything that had been said to her before. We must endure our heartbreak while life lasts.
This is a beautiful, cool day but the strong breeze reminds me of the disasters in Bham and other parts of Alabama and elsewhere. I must stop rambling before the “butcher cuts me down.”
…U.S. news and World Report keeps me posted on world affairs by printing facts instead of theories. Have just been told of the rioting in Houston. More and more blood will flow.
Devotedly yours,
Mattie
Letters Continued…
By Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson
To Cousin S.P.M
May Day, 1967
Dear Sarah,…How sad can life get? Everything reminds me of George and I wonder if Deane (Mamma) can ever adjust to life without him… Missie is busy with tests. She and George were like twins, utterly devoted and congenial. I hope she will not marry too soon in trying to compensate for the companionship she last lost.
…Yard maintenance is a problem in Montgomery now. One neighbor says she pays her yard man $1.40 per hour, keeps him 10 hours on some days. Wish I could run a mower.
Devotedly yours,
Mattie
And another--
May, 1967
Dear Sarah,…Missie was here for Mother’s Day. She is brave but life can never be the same for her or any of us. We went to dinner on Mother’s Day. I think Will and Charles must have used a dollar's worth of sugar because they liked to tear open the little envelopes to put sugar in tea.
Our Charles will be nine this month. He said to Deane a few days ago, “Mamma, you ought to feel honored because God wanted a fine boy like George.” It seemed to comfort Deane more than anything that had been said to her before. We must endure our heartbreak while life lasts.
This is a beautiful, cool day but the strong breeze reminds me of the disasters in Bham and other parts of Alabama and elsewhere. I must stop rambling before the “butcher cuts me down.”
…U.S. news and World Report keeps me posted on world affairs by printing facts instead of theories. Have just been told of the rioting in Houston. More and more blood will flow.
Devotedly yours,
Mattie
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Life Slows Down in the Fast Lane
Continued...
The newspaper’s mention of George’s ancestors incensed me back then as I read what I considered trivia in light of his true significance. In my egocentric and possessive state, I only saw headlines that read, “George Bibb Edmondson, Jr.- His Sister’s Idol, Best Friend, Confidant, Encourager. He Promised to Stay With Her Forever!”
No consolation was available for such grief. His death jolted the innocence of my youth into permanent oblivion and me into a place of loneliness and melancholy. The loss of George in the family changed each of us more deeply, more permanently, than any other event we would eventually experience. My mother, convinced she was being punished by George’s death, carried the burden of guilt like a talisman until she died. My father retreated further into the abyss of his Civil War with his toddies. The internalized scream echoed in my decisions and relationships long after the death of my brother. I caress his memory loyally, yet after all this time, sometimes, still longingly. My second son, George Bibb Patterson, is affectionately named after his uncle and one grandson is also his namesake.
Newspaper Clipping
Montgomery Advertiser
November, 1966
Descendant of Governors Fatally Hurt
"George Bibb Edmondson, Jr., 21 year old descendant of two Alabama governors, died in an automobile crash on South Boulevard early today….He was leaving a wedding party on the Southern Bypass.
Edmondson was a member of the track team as a freshman and sophomore and held several offices in his fraternity…"
The newspaper’s mention of George’s ancestors incensed me back then as I read what I considered trivia in light of his true significance. In my egocentric and possessive state, I only saw headlines that read, “George Bibb Edmondson, Jr.- His Sister’s Idol, Best Friend, Confidant, Encourager. He Promised to Stay With Her Forever!”
No consolation was available for such grief. His death jolted the innocence of my youth into permanent oblivion and me into a place of loneliness and melancholy. The loss of George in the family changed each of us more deeply, more permanently, than any other event we would eventually experience. My mother, convinced she was being punished by George’s death, carried the burden of guilt like a talisman until she died. My father retreated further into the abyss of his Civil War with his toddies. The internalized scream echoed in my decisions and relationships long after the death of my brother. I caress his memory loyally, yet after all this time, sometimes, still longingly. My second son, George Bibb Patterson, is affectionately named after his uncle and one grandson is also his namesake.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Hide and Seek
Continued...
The games adults play aren’t quite as innocent or lovely as the childhood ones, but many are introduced on the playground of youth. The childhood games have rules, written on the box-top kind of rules. Passed-down-in-time rules. Breakable but defined. Maybe adult games are the same, minus the written. The instructions for my mother’s game must have been penned once upon a time by her on a dirt playground and then washed away like pollen somewhere back in Fulton. A secret set of rules gave her the edge as she championed her version of “Hide and Seek” making the endless hunt to no avail for the seeker, with one exception. But the event in 1966 drove my mother farther into hiding even from the one she most revered.
At this crossroad, I'll set the stage for the next segment, perhaps the most difficult one, by resurrecting another of my grandmother Nannie's letters. Here is another of her correspondences to Cousin Sarah in Birmingham.
The old woman is being self-indulgent again—writing to you instead of working on the masses of family clippings. We think we leave this world. Instead, it recedes, so many of our loved ones gone, that one day more or less ceases to scare me.
This is one of those unseasonably warm days, sunny until now (noon) when the shadows softly come and softly go. Porter always told me that a deep freeze was apt to come to Montgomery about middle of November.
Am trying to build enough strength to go to the wedding of Missie’s beloved friend, Kitty Shertzer, who lives across from us. Missie is to be a bridesmaid, both girls are aged 20. Too young.
The games adults play aren’t quite as innocent or lovely as the childhood ones, but many are introduced on the playground of youth. The childhood games have rules, written on the box-top kind of rules. Passed-down-in-time rules. Breakable but defined. Maybe adult games are the same, minus the written. The instructions for my mother’s game must have been penned once upon a time by her on a dirt playground and then washed away like pollen somewhere back in Fulton. A secret set of rules gave her the edge as she championed her version of “Hide and Seek” making the endless hunt to no avail for the seeker, with one exception. But the event in 1966 drove my mother farther into hiding even from the one she most revered.
At this crossroad, I'll set the stage for the next segment, perhaps the most difficult one, by resurrecting another of my grandmother Nannie's letters. Here is another of her correspondences to Cousin Sarah in Birmingham.
Nov. 17, 1966
Thursday
Dear Sarah,The old woman is being self-indulgent again—writing to you instead of working on the masses of family clippings. We think we leave this world. Instead, it recedes, so many of our loved ones gone, that one day more or less ceases to scare me.
This is one of those unseasonably warm days, sunny until now (noon) when the shadows softly come and softly go. Porter always told me that a deep freeze was apt to come to Montgomery about middle of November.
Am trying to build enough strength to go to the wedding of Missie’s beloved friend, Kitty Shertzer, who lives across from us. Missie is to be a bridesmaid, both girls are aged 20. Too young.
Always devotedly,
Mattie
My older brother George came home for Thanksgiving at my urging. He had plans to spend the holiday with a fraternity brother, but I cajoled him into coming home to see my first walk as a bridesmaid. I believe it is fair to say that he and I would have done anything for each other. He changed plans, accepted invitations to the wedding and pre-wedding parties, but never saw me as a bridesmaid, not then, not ever.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Out of Sight Out of Mind
From Southern Bypass, continued...
For a brief period George Bibb landed a sales job that took him on the road every Wednesday. Life actually eased in his absence and, other than the temporary excitement over pop-beads for me and a pecan log for George, it resumed its normal tension upon his Friday return. In his absence, when the lights were doused and the children had settled into their beds, flourishing secrets drifted from the crevices to begin their nightly brouhaha. A myriad of mysterious sounds floated through the halls punctuating the nights. Occasional whispers swirled from downstairs echoing long into the night.
When G.B. was home, the night sounds clinked in tin tumblers where ice beat out the rhythm of spicy, saturated words. Mornings overflowed with stale smoke and full ashtrays as signs of the nighttime marauders.
French glass doors divided the hall and the small kitchen, Deane’s cave, her hideaway. With fervor and diligence she conjured fine meals, night after night. After working all day, kitchen duty could have been shared or delegated, but she opted for the solitude. Alone she could recant the day, sigh over the spaghetti, and have more frequent and potent sips of sauce. Most nights, she served dinner to the children, four in count by that time with the addition of little Charles, twelve years younger than I. After serving the children, Mamma added ice and a pinch of water to her bourbon and went to the den ostensibly out of ear range to complete the round of nightly drinks and disparaging words with George Bibb.
My tentative yet frequent offers to help with the dishes were answered by a shattering clamor from the French doors making the panes and me tremble. Lucky for the inanimate objects, they took no personal claim or offense over her ritualistic slam.
For a brief period George Bibb landed a sales job that took him on the road every Wednesday. Life actually eased in his absence and, other than the temporary excitement over pop-beads for me and a pecan log for George, it resumed its normal tension upon his Friday return. In his absence, when the lights were doused and the children had settled into their beds, flourishing secrets drifted from the crevices to begin their nightly brouhaha. A myriad of mysterious sounds floated through the halls punctuating the nights. Occasional whispers swirled from downstairs echoing long into the night.
French glass doors divided the hall and the small kitchen, Deane’s cave, her hideaway. With fervor and diligence she conjured fine meals, night after night. After working all day, kitchen duty could have been shared or delegated, but she opted for the solitude. Alone she could recant the day, sigh over the spaghetti, and have more frequent and potent sips of sauce. Most nights, she served dinner to the children, four in count by that time with the addition of little Charles, twelve years younger than I. After serving the children, Mamma added ice and a pinch of water to her bourbon and went to the den ostensibly out of ear range to complete the round of nightly drinks and disparaging words with George Bibb.
My tentative yet frequent offers to help with the dishes were answered by a shattering clamor from the French doors making the panes and me tremble. Lucky for the inanimate objects, they took no personal claim or offense over her ritualistic slam.
Monday, March 1, 2010
A Short Walk to Faraway Places
Wilma had no children of her own and no husband, but a host of kinfolk lived in the tiny dilapidated house on the “other” side of town by the railroad tracks. A city bus brought her within walking distance to the house five days a week. She stayed from early morning till late afternoon when Mamma returned from work and George Bibb resurfaced to prove the South could rise again. An occasional ride home in the family’s Chevy broke the monotony Wilma encountered from the daily routine and hassle of double bus rides. Her pay was fifteen dollars or less, a week, or less maybe, and she might have been glad for that. Deane and George Bibb were pleased to have dependable help from a kind woman, but Nannie complained that $15.00 exceeded the necessary wage for a “negro”.
Each morning Deane walked a few blocks in her high heels and knee-length skirts to an office downtown. She was an eye-catcher for sure. Her life in Montgomery cultivated a new dimension as she began to realize the route to the office presented life beyond the confines of tradition and familial expectations, not to mention freedom from the watchful eye of George Bibb and his mother. This new autonomy at The State Abstract Company became both a boon and bondage.
The business card is one from a later date when things had changed quite a bit. The State Abstract Company was at 23 South Perry, downtown Montgomery for it seemed, eons, and it was owned and run by Jack Thorington, a local Montgomery attorney several years older than Mamma. She worked as a clerk, or a secretary for Jack in the early days and continued as a loyal employee and friend for over thirty years. Her tenure, experience, and dedication earned her the reputation as a top-notch abstract guru. When Jack sold the business after he had run his course, Mamma saw some reward when she was asked to head the new State Abstract Company under new ownership of Mr. Ed, or Ed Azaar. The company moved a few blocks to Washington Street at that time.
Back to the old days and Wilma...
On a typical Monday morning, after eight years and a couple of raises, Wilma did not come to work. An appointed friend called to break the news that our faithful companion was moving to Detroit and not returning to work. She just disappeared. Her abrupt departure shocked and afflicted the family in various ways-the little ones old enough to have a serious bond tasted their first indisputable rejection. Deane felt obvious disappointment and a sense of loss in not having the one person she had trusted all those years to help her with the children and house. Things would be difficult until someone could take Wilma’s place. Could anyone take Wilma’s place? Did she know how important she was? Was it too hard to say “good-bye”? Or was it a one-sided affair? Her puzzling departure left many unanswered questions and remained a mystery and source of sadness, especially for the children and Deane.
The business card is one from a later date when things had changed quite a bit. The State Abstract Company was at 23 South Perry, downtown Montgomery for it seemed, eons, and it was owned and run by Jack Thorington, a local Montgomery attorney several years older than Mamma. She worked as a clerk, or a secretary for Jack in the early days and continued as a loyal employee and friend for over thirty years. Her tenure, experience, and dedication earned her the reputation as a top-notch abstract guru. When Jack sold the business after he had run his course, Mamma saw some reward when she was asked to head the new State Abstract Company under new ownership of Mr. Ed, or Ed Azaar. The company moved a few blocks to Washington Street at that time.
Back to the old days and Wilma...
On a typical Monday morning, after eight years and a couple of raises, Wilma did not come to work. An appointed friend called to break the news that our faithful companion was moving to Detroit and not returning to work. She just disappeared. Her abrupt departure shocked and afflicted the family in various ways-the little ones old enough to have a serious bond tasted their first indisputable rejection. Deane felt obvious disappointment and a sense of loss in not having the one person she had trusted all those years to help her with the children and house. Things would be difficult until someone could take Wilma’s place. Could anyone take Wilma’s place? Did she know how important she was? Was it too hard to say “good-bye”? Or was it a one-sided affair? Her puzzling departure left many unanswered questions and remained a mystery and source of sadness, especially for the children and Deane.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
A Shaky Path and a Saint
My father, after his illness, grew more content with his writing and study of the Confederate Navy, or with mediocre work. He had been well-educated and groomed for the easy life that never materialized. The cast enshrining him from his pampered youth and then from his more recent sickness became impenetrable. What caused his demise and girth of anger is hard to pin-point. Whether he grew cranky after his disease, or as a result of it, or just became more and more embittered over the years, no one knew. His lack of initiative and apparent weakened condition, at least from his mother's perspective, precipitated Mamma's search for work as a money-maker.
Since Nannie had worked for years at the State Highway Department, she felt no compunction about encouraging Deane to find work outside the home. In the 1950s, the vast majority of women stayed home and tended their families, especially white, young women with children. Reluctant to leave her two children, Deane nevertheless relented and found a job.Enter Wilma as the keeper of the house and children, better known as a maid, typified by her daily gray and white pressed uniform and white linen tiara. Kindness lined her angular face showing every bone beneath her yellow-hued skin. She showed no preference to either child, but thoroughly attended their needs, including the weekly bus rides that delivered six year-old Missie to and from Helen Thorington’s Dance School, George in tow.
In 1954, William was born, Mamma went back to work, Daddy floundered, and Wilma tended three children daily, from eight to five. The relationship between Mamma and Daddy continued on its shaky path to oblivion.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Sweet and Sour Side of Romance
On Valentine’s Day, 1945, Deane and George Bibb produced a baby boy, George Bibb Edmondson, Jr.
From Letters, Images, and Newspaper Clippings and included in my book:
"A significant change in his health forced George Bibb to finally acquiesce to constant instruction and prompting from back home. G.B., Deane, and baby George left Wilmington and returned to Montgomery where hospitalization for my father was eminent. Tests eventually revealed a dormant social disease had come to life and was attacking George Bibb’s body with ferocity. Prompted by her son’s “delicate condition” and eminent lengthy hospitalization, Mattie Bibb insisted that Deane take a leave of absence. Obediently, with mixed feelings of remorse and relief over her dismissal, she and her infant son left on the 5:45 to see her family in East St. Louis, Illinois.
From Letters, Images, and Newspaper Clippings and included in my book:
"A significant change in his health forced George Bibb to finally acquiesce to constant instruction and prompting from back home. G.B., Deane, and baby George left Wilmington and returned to Montgomery where hospitalization for my father was eminent. Tests eventually revealed a dormant social disease had come to life and was attacking George Bibb’s body with ferocity. Prompted by her son’s “delicate condition” and eminent lengthy hospitalization, Mattie Bibb insisted that Deane take a leave of absence. Obediently, with mixed feelings of remorse and relief over her dismissal, she and her infant son left on the 5:45 to see her family in East St. Louis, Illinois.
Private Sonnet to My Love
Hand-written
1945
By George Bibb Edmondson
To Deane
I know you’re happy with your loving kin,
I’m glad you’ve made the awfully tiring trip
But I miss the ivory whiteness of your skin,
The chastity, fire, and sweetness of your lip,
The sky that’s in your azure eyes, the music of your voice
The fragrant, incandescence of your lovely hair,
One cannot fathom how you made your choice
When for the man you love, you learned to care.
We parted quickly at the train,
So quickly that we felt no pain.
But one detail was quite unforeseen
Now minutes get so slow,
It all just goes to show
A man can love, like I love my own
Deane!
Please darling, take whatever you like. Gosh, I love you.
GB
GB
Upon their return, Deane and little George were soon reunited with G.B. on Moulton Street where they regrouped in the semi-privacy of their room for a brief period. But the process of recovery and elation over their reunion encouraged an alternative in their living arrangements. After a couple of months under the unwavering mantle of Nannie, they moved to their own apartment in a Victorian house only a few blocks from downtown and the ancestral home. Seventeen months later, little George had a sister when Elizabeth Deane Edmondson (Missie) was born."
So. I am born.
There was never any doubt on my part that my father adored my mother. His obsessive adoration smothered her and possibly had a role in his own downfall. My father's affection never extended beyond my mother, but the tender touches toward her were shaken off with disgust and not without reason.
To be continued...
So. I am born.
There was never any doubt on my part that my father adored my mother. His obsessive adoration smothered her and possibly had a role in his own downfall. My father's affection never extended beyond my mother, but the tender touches toward her were shaken off with disgust and not without reason.
To be continued...
Thursday, February 25, 2010
On the Road
Like I mentioned in yesterday's post, my father was soon to begin a new job that would take Mamma and him out of Montgomery for a while. Through family connections, he went to work for DuPont who moved them to Wilmington, Delaware.
From by book, here's a letter Mamma wrote Nannie from Wilmington.
7/21/44
Thank you so very much for sending the spoons to us and for the very nice gown. I intend to put it up and keep it until my trek to the hospital or until such time that I may need to look nice in bed. (if that’s possible!)
I haven’t written to you since we’ve had our glorious news, but you must know I’m as excited as can be. G. B. is exactly as I had expected him as a prospective father to be, kind, gentle, and quite ready to let me say things to him when I’m feeling badly that I wouldn’t say if I were well and he wouldn’t listen to if he were not the sweetest person in the world.
I made a visit to the doctor today and he said that I am getting on wonderfully. I make another visit on August 18th. He gave me the date for the birth as February 4th, ’45.
He measured me yesterday and I must say I felt exactly like a geometry problem.
If you were near me I could talk to you for hours on the subject but I’m really not that fond of writing...
End of excerpt
It's a strange thing to read a letter of apparent affection between Mamma and her mother-in-law. Of course I came on the scene later, but my recollections of the two of them are far from warm and fuzzy. I'll give a glimpse into that as the story unfolds. For now, I'll let Mamma, Daddy, and Nannie languish in the news of the forthcoming child. And I'll let them enjoy their time away from Montgomery. Had it lasted longer, who knows what might have happened?
From by book, here's a letter Mamma wrote Nannie from Wilmington.
(a memorable date)—four year anniversary
Dearest Mother:Thank you so very much for sending the spoons to us and for the very nice gown. I intend to put it up and keep it until my trek to the hospital or until such time that I may need to look nice in bed. (if that’s possible!)
I haven’t written to you since we’ve had our glorious news, but you must know I’m as excited as can be. G. B. is exactly as I had expected him as a prospective father to be, kind, gentle, and quite ready to let me say things to him when I’m feeling badly that I wouldn’t say if I were well and he wouldn’t listen to if he were not the sweetest person in the world.
I made a visit to the doctor today and he said that I am getting on wonderfully. I make another visit on August 18th. He gave me the date for the birth as February 4th, ’45.
He measured me yesterday and I must say I felt exactly like a geometry problem.
If you were near me I could talk to you for hours on the subject but I’m really not that fond of writing...
End of excerpt
It's a strange thing to read a letter of apparent affection between Mamma and her mother-in-law. Of course I came on the scene later, but my recollections of the two of them are far from warm and fuzzy. I'll give a glimpse into that as the story unfolds. For now, I'll let Mamma, Daddy, and Nannie languish in the news of the forthcoming child. And I'll let them enjoy their time away from Montgomery. Had it lasted longer, who knows what might have happened?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Love Takes Root
Mr. and Mrs. Morris Robert Jones
Announce the marriage of their daughter
Elizabeth Deane
To
George Bibb Edmondson
On Sunday, July the twenty-first
Nineteen hundred and forty
Beaumont, Texas
Elizabeth Deane Jones, my mother, married George Bibb Edmondson, my father, in a small ceremony in Beaumont, 1940, with her mother, father, sisters, and brother present. Mamma wore a navy suit, size 4. A steamy July afternoon, a platinum wedding ring, and a new name satisfied the new bride at first, but her gaze looked beyond to another open window and an opportunity to see the world. She and George Bibb left shortly en route to Montgomery, Alabama, to meet her new husband’s family, predominantly his matriarchal, reticent mother, better known in her ancestral town as Mattie Bibb.
The newlyweds landed with a resounding thud. Deane’s move as a bashful bride to the old Bibb mansion on Moulton Street provided quite the challenge. Mattie Bibb, proudly wore her heritage like the proverbial badge of honor. She was an aristocrat, both by nature and design. Her husband, a newspaper editor, had died at an early age with an infection from appendicitis and her widowed state held her captive in attire and state of mind. Mattie Bibb had coddled her son to the point of curdling as she consistently over-compensated for the early loss of his father.
Mamma's innocent beauty did little to fend her mother-in-law’s preconceived notion that her son should have married “much better” than this little uneducated girl from Kentucky. The new bride entered into this cohabitation with little choice or support, having no friends other than those who supposedly were her husband’s or mother-in-law's. The town offered the expected southern hospitality by throwing the round of parties for a new socially acceptable arrival, but after the glitter, only the afterglow remained and it soon dissipated. Deane and G.B. spent most of their time in the stuffy, hot, upstairs bedroom where writing poetry was blessed by Mattie Bibb’s adulation, and drooling over Deane was kept quiet. The isolation became stifling for the newlyweds and probably at Deane’s encouragement, George Bibb returned to work.
Work is the topic of the next post.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Montgomery Bud
Montgomery’s Buds of 1936
George Bibb Edmondson
“Beauty in the Bud”
Montgomery Advertiser
March 4,1936
"George Bibb Edmondson, whose face you can’t fail to recognize, is the son of Mrs. Mattie Bibb Edmondson. He is a recognized beauty, possessed of inherited naturalness and graciousness. Secondarily interested in art, he has loaned his talent to the Little Theater, and his ability is heartily in demand for the forthcoming year, if his consent can be had. Naturally a reticent and demure blond, he is artistic in his taste, especially among the fairer sex. Mr. Edmondson received his education among the numerous pitfalls of the University of Alabama, where he was practically a member of the Kappa Delta Sorority. He is just one of the many buds about to bloom in this year’s crop, and marked favors will probably be extended to him as a courtesy."
Meanwhile, back in Beaumont, not much more than a smile passed between George Bibb and the apple of his eye, my mother. But the spell was cast and her new suitor began a series of romantic gestures in an attempt to woo her. Employed by the Coca-Cola enterprise, he occasionally serviced the Texas area, finding more and more excuses to return and linger in Beaumont. George Bibb’s twelve year seniority made his attentiveness more alluring as he suavely and poetically romanced his heartthrob into accepting a proposal of marriage after only three months.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Gather the Roses Outside the Box
At this turn, the paper trail jumps from “the box” of antiquities, and picks up the pace or changes lanes at least. The meanderings surrounding my mother began in Kentucky and are examined via poems of affection from my father, a few letters to or from her, pieces from notes, or conversations, memories, or reflections, all attempts to creatively capture a very private person--my mother.
Daughter of Hattie Mae Timmons and Morris Jones
Married July 21, 1940
George Bibb Edmondson, Sr.
1908-1978
Son of William Thomas Edmondson and Mattie Gilmer Bibb (Edmondson)
Excerpts from my book:
"Yearly autumnal gold glowed from the three namesake trees that covered the postage-stamp yard of the house in Fulton, Kentucky, where Momma lived as a child. Elizabeth Deane appeared shy, studious, and serious, a different breed entirely from her cabaret sister, Mary Sue, clearly the star of every endeavor. For the most part, the days waxed carefree and simple in their childish minds. The only acknowledged fear came from tremulous encounters and lingering impressions of the “The Mummy”, or “Frankenstein” brought home from the theaters their father managed in the town. Those were the early imagined fears. The real monster entered their home and on a larger scale, the entire country.
The Great Depression choked life from their family and most others, depriving them of independence, opportunity, and hope. For Momma, it meant a new role of greater responsibility in the on-going drama called family.
Along with the drastic economic changes, Momma's father fell into a personal pit of despair with an exaggerated case of diabetes. His demise placed his oldest daughter in an accelerated role of nurse-maid to a father who rarely exited his room and even less frequently spoke. Momma's mother continued taking in odd jobs, trying to stitch the impossible things into an impression of stability for the family, but she too relied more and more on the oldest child for help. My mother's life began to resemble the white-wrapped mummy whom she had once viewed at her father's movie house. She too became enshrouded, her encasing woven from duty.
An unexpected move after her junior year of High School took her and the Jones family to Beaumont, Texas, where Hattie Jones had relatives. Graduation from Beaumont High School and excellent grades afforded Elizabeth Deane a window and ticket to freedom via a scholarship to a nearby college, but the winds of reality quickly slammed the opening. The family’s reliance on the small income she provided as a car-hop disabled her departure.
Elizabeth Deane’s smile and shapely legs, showcased in the required shorts and roller skates, won the attention of many customers at the local drive-in restaurant. One gentleman in particular, a “Montgomery Bud”, took a serious yen toward this beautiful brunette as she glided a tray to his car and her way into his heart."
On the "bud" tomorrow.
Elizabeth Deane Jones (Edmondson)
May 19, 1920 - May 10, 2005
The Great Depression choked life from their family and most others, depriving them of independence, opportunity, and hope. For Momma, it meant a new role of greater responsibility in the on-going drama called family.
Along with the drastic economic changes, Momma's father fell into a personal pit of despair with an exaggerated case of diabetes. His demise placed his oldest daughter in an accelerated role of nurse-maid to a father who rarely exited his room and even less frequently spoke. Momma's mother continued taking in odd jobs, trying to stitch the impossible things into an impression of stability for the family, but she too relied more and more on the oldest child for help. My mother's life began to resemble the white-wrapped mummy whom she had once viewed at her father's movie house. She too became enshrouded, her encasing woven from duty.
An unexpected move after her junior year of High School took her and the Jones family to Beaumont, Texas, where Hattie Jones had relatives. Graduation from Beaumont High School and excellent grades afforded Elizabeth Deane a window and ticket to freedom via a scholarship to a nearby college, but the winds of reality quickly slammed the opening. The family’s reliance on the small income she provided as a car-hop disabled her departure.
Elizabeth Deane’s smile and shapely legs, showcased in the required shorts and roller skates, won the attention of many customers at the local drive-in restaurant. One gentleman in particular, a “Montgomery Bud”, took a serious yen toward this beautiful brunette as she glided a tray to his car and her way into his heart."
On the "bud" tomorrow.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Will-Power on the Road
This will do it for now for Nannie and her hoots. I'll resurrect her later, though, when I need her voice to narrate.
Here are some final thoughts at this juncture.
…I consider my own survival one of God’s own miracles…When I was dying in 1948, Fred’s wife, Steele, said I must use will power. She little knew that I had been living by it since I was 17. Papa was stricken then. That night I analyzed will power to my own satisfaction. It is God’s will with our cooperation. Months later, a Negro maid who worked in the hospital while I was there met me on the street and exclaimed, “Nobody expected you to leave the hospital except in a box!” I fooled them again just last September. My great regret is that I am so weak that I can’t fulfill some family business instead of having to perform the routine duties of caring for an old woman. Most of my contemporary friends are mentally hazy so intend to form a club called the Doddering Dames so I am ready to join the Doddering Dames. The girls who forget their best friends’ names…
Always devotedly,
Mattie
_________________________________________________________
If I had given way to one of the habits of my early childhood, I would have yelled bloody murder when you and Bill drove off without me. Pa(Gov. Porter), Mamie, and Porter called my bluff one summer afternoon when they rode to the woods on horseback and left me squalling by the back porch in Paris (Tennessee), where Ma(Susanna Dunlap Porter) was sitting. As soon as the riders were out of earshot, Ma handed me a hearthbroom and said “Here, Mattie, sweep the brick wall.” Mattie obeyed like a lamb apropos of youth.
Please tell Bill that the animal he flushed under the dining table when you were leaving here was my pet weasel (alias Charlie). At the end of the day, he slips into my apartment and surprises me, so I give a loud cackle like a nervous hen…
The grandchildren here call me Nannie so I told George, Jr. that I would name my apartment, “Hootenannie Hall”. He advised against it because of the wild parties I’d have…
Dearest love,
Mattie
She was a hoot, in her own way. And she was wise, in that same indigenous manner. There are other things that she was also, but those things for now will remain under cover. I'm only ending Nannie for now. Believe me, she had much more to say in the lives of those I am about to introduce.
Here are some final thoughts at this juncture.
August 10, 1966
Dear Sarah,…I consider my own survival one of God’s own miracles…When I was dying in 1948, Fred’s wife, Steele, said I must use will power. She little knew that I had been living by it since I was 17. Papa was stricken then. That night I analyzed will power to my own satisfaction. It is God’s will with our cooperation. Months later, a Negro maid who worked in the hospital while I was there met me on the street and exclaimed, “Nobody expected you to leave the hospital except in a box!” I fooled them again just last September. My great regret is that I am so weak that I can’t fulfill some family business instead of having to perform the routine duties of caring for an old woman. Most of my contemporary friends are mentally hazy so intend to form a club called the Doddering Dames so I am ready to join the Doddering Dames. The girls who forget their best friends’ names…
Always devotedly,
Mattie
_________________________________________________________
Nov. 2, 1966
Dear Sarah.If I had given way to one of the habits of my early childhood, I would have yelled bloody murder when you and Bill drove off without me. Pa(Gov. Porter), Mamie, and Porter called my bluff one summer afternoon when they rode to the woods on horseback and left me squalling by the back porch in Paris (Tennessee), where Ma(Susanna Dunlap Porter) was sitting. As soon as the riders were out of earshot, Ma handed me a hearthbroom and said “Here, Mattie, sweep the brick wall.” Mattie obeyed like a lamb apropos of youth.
Please tell Bill that the animal he flushed under the dining table when you were leaving here was my pet weasel (alias Charlie). At the end of the day, he slips into my apartment and surprises me, so I give a loud cackle like a nervous hen…
The grandchildren here call me Nannie so I told George, Jr. that I would name my apartment, “Hootenannie Hall”. He advised against it because of the wild parties I’d have…
Dearest love,
Mattie
She was a hoot, in her own way. And she was wise, in that same indigenous manner. There are other things that she was also, but those things for now will remain under cover. I'm only ending Nannie for now. Believe me, she had much more to say in the lives of those I am about to introduce.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
On the Banks of the River Styx
Just a couple more examples of Nannie's way with words will suffice for this segment. Her letters, thankfully preserved by her cousin and returned to me, present a slice of history, not just of my family, but in general. She sticks with her theme of pending death, naturally.
The U.S. News and World Report failed to send me an expiration notice…Noah Webster failed in the last edition of his dictionary to include a word to express my gratitude to you two for keeping me from losing knowledge of world affairs…
At present, I am the only member of the family in a dying condition. Am still sitting on the banks of the River Styx, waiting for the ferryboat.
Missie here for three days after exams. George, Jr. caught a germ during holidays but is entirely well and studying hard. This is his junior year at Auburn. William will be 12 day after tomorrow. Chas. is seven, growing like a weed….
Love and countless thanks,
Mattie
My hair (all six of ‘em) is drying so am indulging myself by writing to you. George Bibb had Tuesday off because of Confederate holiday so he let me make my long belated trip to see my young doctor, Zack T. Trawick, who is the grandson of my late beloved friend, Priscilla Scott Marks. The name Priscilla runs through generations of the descendants of the famous Shakespearian actress, Priscilla Cooper, who married a Tyler, the President.
Deane took Charles to Dr. Jackson, the oculist, this A.M. because he complained of one eye when he went the other night to see his brother, Will, and other scouts at a meeting. Like Will, Charles is very near-sighted and must also wear glasses. The only comfort I can get from it is that I have been very far-sighted all my life. When I was seven, a tall country man called his family away from the race track of the county fair we were attending near Paris, Tenn. to “see the little gal with specs on.” My finest hour!
Martin seems to be the favored gubernatorial prospect. John Crommelin is considered an extremist because he tells the truth so never gets elected. His mother, Kate Gunter, another devoted friend of mine. Am now dying of hunger.
Best love to all forever more,
Mattie
PS The doctor says I must postpone my funeral. Bill probably knows Priscilla’s brother, Judge John Goodwyn, Ala. Supreme Court. .. I’ll even have to die covered by L.B. Johnson’s smoke screen--Medicare.
Nannie and her politics! William and George are my younger brothers by eight and twelve years, respectively. Deane is my mother. Her story is yet to be told.
January 20, 1966
Thursday
Dear Disobedient Children,The U.S. News and World Report failed to send me an expiration notice…Noah Webster failed in the last edition of his dictionary to include a word to express my gratitude to you two for keeping me from losing knowledge of world affairs…
At present, I am the only member of the family in a dying condition. Am still sitting on the banks of the River Styx, waiting for the ferryboat.
Missie here for three days after exams. George, Jr. caught a germ during holidays but is entirely well and studying hard. This is his junior year at Auburn. William will be 12 day after tomorrow. Chas. is seven, growing like a weed….
Love and countless thanks,
Mattie
April 28, 1966
Thursday
Dear Sarah,My hair (all six of ‘em) is drying so am indulging myself by writing to you. George Bibb had Tuesday off because of Confederate holiday so he let me make my long belated trip to see my young doctor, Zack T. Trawick, who is the grandson of my late beloved friend, Priscilla Scott Marks. The name Priscilla runs through generations of the descendants of the famous Shakespearian actress, Priscilla Cooper, who married a Tyler, the President.
Deane took Charles to Dr. Jackson, the oculist, this A.M. because he complained of one eye when he went the other night to see his brother, Will, and other scouts at a meeting. Like Will, Charles is very near-sighted and must also wear glasses. The only comfort I can get from it is that I have been very far-sighted all my life. When I was seven, a tall country man called his family away from the race track of the county fair we were attending near Paris, Tenn. to “see the little gal with specs on.” My finest hour!
Martin seems to be the favored gubernatorial prospect. John Crommelin is considered an extremist because he tells the truth so never gets elected. His mother, Kate Gunter, another devoted friend of mine. Am now dying of hunger.
Best love to all forever more,
Mattie
PS The doctor says I must postpone my funeral. Bill probably knows Priscilla’s brother, Judge John Goodwyn, Ala. Supreme Court. .. I’ll even have to die covered by L.B. Johnson’s smoke screen--Medicare.
Nannie and her politics! William and George are my younger brothers by eight and twelve years, respectively. Deane is my mother. Her story is yet to be told.
Friday, February 19, 2010
On Memory Lane
More words from Nannie to her cousin. The give-away of her angst I see now, but again, did not when I was younger. She seems evermore insistent in her wishes for an end. I see such a parallel between her old house and her own life.
It was seasonable last night, cold, and the chill is still with us in spite of beautiful sunshine. So many of my kinspeople came during December. I’ll mention a few--Porter Bibb, Dec. 4., Gov. Jas. D Porter, Dec. 7, Josiah Horton Porter, Dec. 8, Robt. A. Porter, Sr., Dec. 10, Thos. Kennedy Bibb, Dec. 10. The last named was my baby brother who died when he was three months old. It seems December favored males. After all, Santa Claus is a man.
Deane worked herself to a nub for Thanksgiving. George and Missie were here, of course, with little time for sleep. George’s little girl friend, aged 18, was Deane’s house guest. Of course, George and girl went to game with another couple and an extra fraternity brother. There were parties after the War Eagle’s feathers drooped.
Missie had a dinner date with a young Lt. at Maxwell Field Officers’ Club. I believe girls are considered grown at 19, but I can’t realize that Missie is a young lady. She was kind enough to take me to the Fair (Montgomery Fair Department Store) to get a warm bathrobe, my first trip to a store since early July. It is my ambition to die at home but I try to be prepared if they drag me to the hospital again.
The sunshine is brilliant and beautiful and berries on the pyracantha are ready for Christmas. I hope eternal rest fills my stocking this year. Pa (Gov. Jas. D. Porter) was born 137 years ago. A fine gentleman. …I used to wish to see Paris, Tenn. again.
Always with love to you and yours,
Mattie
George, my brother, she mentions in this letter was attending Auburn University whose cry for victory, as all Alabamians know, is "War Eagle". Nannie showed her way with words in her reference to the drooping eagle's wings after a defeat to "Roll Tide" Alabama.
Dec. 1, 1965
Dear Peregrinating Pal Sal,It was seasonable last night, cold, and the chill is still with us in spite of beautiful sunshine. So many of my kinspeople came during December. I’ll mention a few--Porter Bibb, Dec. 4., Gov. Jas. D Porter, Dec. 7, Josiah Horton Porter, Dec. 8, Robt. A. Porter, Sr., Dec. 10, Thos. Kennedy Bibb, Dec. 10. The last named was my baby brother who died when he was three months old. It seems December favored males. After all, Santa Claus is a man.
Deane worked herself to a nub for Thanksgiving. George and Missie were here, of course, with little time for sleep. George’s little girl friend, aged 18, was Deane’s house guest. Of course, George and girl went to game with another couple and an extra fraternity brother. There were parties after the War Eagle’s feathers drooped.
Missie had a dinner date with a young Lt. at Maxwell Field Officers’ Club. I believe girls are considered grown at 19, but I can’t realize that Missie is a young lady. She was kind enough to take me to the Fair (Montgomery Fair Department Store) to get a warm bathrobe, my first trip to a store since early July. It is my ambition to die at home but I try to be prepared if they drag me to the hospital again.
The sunshine is brilliant and beautiful and berries on the pyracantha are ready for Christmas. I hope eternal rest fills my stocking this year. Pa (Gov. Jas. D. Porter) was born 137 years ago. A fine gentleman. …I used to wish to see Paris, Tenn. again.
Always with love to you and yours,
Mattie
George, my brother, she mentions in this letter was attending Auburn University whose cry for victory, as all Alabamians know, is "War Eagle". Nannie showed her way with words in her reference to the drooping eagle's wings after a defeat to "Roll Tide" Alabama.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Mattie from Moulton to Hootenannie Hall
Nannie vacated the old house a year or so before the actual demolition. I guess it had become uninhabitable. I was away at college and totally self absorbed. How often I have wished I cared more at that age about other things than myself. Maybe I would have picketed the destruction of history.
When I think of the fact that you two are giving me fifty-two gifts in 1965, bringing 365 days of pleasure and information to me, it is hard to word my thanks.
This can’t be a real letter as life presses hard and there is little time I can call my own. If—
“The cares that infest the day will fold their tents like the Arabs and as silently steal away”
maybe I can write a real letter soon. I owe more notes than usual. Am at Hootenannie tonight, sitting on the side of my bed by a small table.
Bell T.&T. promises to move my phone Friday. Kindness prevails out here (Anna Mae Shook Aldridge brought me the best cake I ever tasted on New Year’s Day) and I like it here but have the delusion that I’ll be going home before long. Maybe it’s because “One sweetly solemn thought came to me o’er and o’er. I am nearer home today than I ever have been before.”…
Love and wonderful wishes for health and happiness for all of you in A.D. 1965.
Mattie
Of course, I wonder if the "home" she mentioned was her heavenly one or was it her home waiting for its execution.
January 5, 1965
Wednesday Night
Dear Sarah and Bill,When I think of the fact that you two are giving me fifty-two gifts in 1965, bringing 365 days of pleasure and information to me, it is hard to word my thanks.
This can’t be a real letter as life presses hard and there is little time I can call my own. If—
“The cares that infest the day will fold their tents like the Arabs and as silently steal away”
maybe I can write a real letter soon. I owe more notes than usual. Am at Hootenannie tonight, sitting on the side of my bed by a small table.
Bell T.&T. promises to move my phone Friday. Kindness prevails out here (Anna Mae Shook Aldridge brought me the best cake I ever tasted on New Year’s Day) and I like it here but have the delusion that I’ll be going home before long. Maybe it’s because “One sweetly solemn thought came to me o’er and o’er. I am nearer home today than I ever have been before.”…
Love and wonderful wishes for health and happiness for all of you in A.D. 1965.
Mattie
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
A Sad Turn in the Road
An earlier post mentioned the end of Moulton Street. I'll spend more time on that transition since it seems pivotal in this telling of times and lives. In anticipation of the forthcoming demise, an article from the Montgomery Advertiser, 1964, said, "The passing will be mourned by those who cherish Southern tradition, but time and the elements have so deeply scarred the old residence that its destruction would seem inevitable. Patch-work repairs no longer suffice and a general restoration is not feasible, either structurally or financially. Over six decades have passed since it was last painted.
Mrs. Mattie Bibb Edmondson, one of seven generations in the same family who have lived in the house, said she expects to move out in a few months. She will live with her son, George B. Edmondson, at Thorn Place."
Despite their desire, both the house and Nannie grew incapable of tending to the voices of old that had created their persona. However, the eroding exteriors did little to minimize their constant composure and rich intelligence. The demise of the old house circumvented, defined, and ended a long life and at a distance, the old gospel tunes resounded in mournful lyrics and whispered tribulations.
Nannie was a prolific and witty writer. The essay upon her graduation(posted earlier) gives merit to that statement, although her wit wasn't apparent in the flowery dissertation. The next few posts will showcase her wit as well as her grief as she prepared to exit the home of her heart. I'll use her words in a series of letters to let her speak for herself.
The wind began bombarding the northwest side of brave Moulton, 111, about 4:00 a.m. so would like to go to bed now, about 11:00 a.m…
The stove and refrigerator are already installed in Hootenannie Hall so must try to begin to live there or starve to death. My cot on Moulton is still very comfortable…
Have just phoned T. B. Hill’s office. Wish to make an appointment about re-writing my will. The one I have now is 21 years old. I am not one of those old people who wishes to dictate to my heirs after I am dead. Life has taught me that I don’t have the wisdom to read the future. Did I tell you the old gas chandeliers in the old parlors are beautiful since they have been cleaned. Pure brass. Hope to get mine in the funny, funny little parlor before long.
Devotedly yours,
Nannie of Hootenannie Hall
Hootenannie Hall refers to Nannie's new home on Thorn Place in the side apartment of her son's home that happened to be my home too. I was in college when the actual move transpired.
Nannie continues in another letter to her cousin in Birmingham, Alabama, to speak of the unfathomable challenge before her. I realize now what she must have been feeling, but back then she rarely verbally lamented her grief to me. Oh. The "Missie" of whom she speaks is me, the not-so-beautiful-but-sho-is-sweet- one. Read on to hear it from Nannie.
How in the world am I to catch up on writing you of my struggles of moving? Susie Porter(daughter) arrived by plane three weeks ago. She spent the first night here but went to the Whitley for the two other nights when was in town as the furniture men took the bed in Mamie’s room. I have slept on a cot for weeks having had my bed moved when men were moving my heaviest pieces of furniture. I am virtually policing the place until I can get most valuable moved. The weather has been kind to me but rain would be welcome if not followed by a freeze.
Continued…
Missie arrived tonight for week-end. She needs a new white formal to wear Elite Night at Montevallo, having been nominated as a beauty. She may not be beautiful, but she ‘sho’ is sweet.
Even the doctor I went to today spoke of Missie’s pleasing personality. When I told …that my only trouble was old age, he exclaimed, “Horrible! It always kills you!”
More from the horse's mouth and pen tomorrow.
Mrs. Mattie Bibb Edmondson, one of seven generations in the same family who have lived in the house, said she expects to move out in a few months. She will live with her son, George B. Edmondson, at Thorn Place."
Despite their desire, both the house and Nannie grew incapable of tending to the voices of old that had created their persona. However, the eroding exteriors did little to minimize their constant composure and rich intelligence. The demise of the old house circumvented, defined, and ended a long life and at a distance, the old gospel tunes resounded in mournful lyrics and whispered tribulations.
Nannie was a prolific and witty writer. The essay upon her graduation(posted earlier) gives merit to that statement, although her wit wasn't apparent in the flowery dissertation. The next few posts will showcase her wit as well as her grief as she prepared to exit the home of her heart. I'll use her words in a series of letters to let her speak for herself.
From Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson
To Cousin S. P. M.
Last Day of Nov. 1964
Montgomery
Monday
Dear Sarah,The wind began bombarding the northwest side of brave Moulton, 111, about 4:00 a.m. so would like to go to bed now, about 11:00 a.m…
The stove and refrigerator are already installed in Hootenannie Hall so must try to begin to live there or starve to death. My cot on Moulton is still very comfortable…
Have just phoned T. B. Hill’s office. Wish to make an appointment about re-writing my will. The one I have now is 21 years old. I am not one of those old people who wishes to dictate to my heirs after I am dead. Life has taught me that I don’t have the wisdom to read the future. Did I tell you the old gas chandeliers in the old parlors are beautiful since they have been cleaned. Pure brass. Hope to get mine in the funny, funny little parlor before long.
Devotedly yours,
Nannie of Hootenannie Hall
Hootenannie Hall refers to Nannie's new home on Thorn Place in the side apartment of her son's home that happened to be my home too. I was in college when the actual move transpired.
Nannie continues in another letter to her cousin in Birmingham, Alabama, to speak of the unfathomable challenge before her. I realize now what she must have been feeling, but back then she rarely verbally lamented her grief to me. Oh. The "Missie" of whom she speaks is me, the not-so-beautiful-but-sho-is-sweet- one. Read on to hear it from Nannie.
Montgomery
Friday, the 13th
November, 1964
Dear Sarah,How in the world am I to catch up on writing you of my struggles of moving? Susie Porter(daughter) arrived by plane three weeks ago. She spent the first night here but went to the Whitley for the two other nights when was in town as the furniture men took the bed in Mamie’s room. I have slept on a cot for weeks having had my bed moved when men were moving my heaviest pieces of furniture. I am virtually policing the place until I can get most valuable moved. The weather has been kind to me but rain would be welcome if not followed by a freeze.
Continued…
Missie arrived tonight for week-end. She needs a new white formal to wear Elite Night at Montevallo, having been nominated as a beauty. She may not be beautiful, but she ‘sho’ is sweet.
Even the doctor I went to today spoke of Missie’s pleasing personality. When I told …that my only trouble was old age, he exclaimed, “Horrible! It always kills you!”
More from the horse's mouth and pen tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
My First Steps with Nannie
In the blooming days of the home, evening meals had been served by the servants around a huge mahogany table in the vast dining room. The esteemed china and glassware may have been used regularly, but I hardly think that to be true since much of it remains in tact today. By the time I arrived on the scene, Nannie and I ate alone at a blue enamel-topped metal table in the out-dated kitchen. No one served us, though Mary Chilton faithfully worked for Nannie during the day. Such a kind and gentle woman, Mary was, but Nannie occasionally treated her with little respect. My countenance deflated with each of my grandmother’s barbed words and belittling chides, not toward me, but toward Mary who ducked her head and cowered away like a scolded dog. I, too, ducked away under the unpleasantness, more embarrassed perhaps than Mary Chilton.
Nevertheless, in my innocence, I gave my grandmother the latitude and respect she needed to hold court. She frequently and proudly reminisced with stories of old that prompted her faraway pleasant trance and the approving nods from ancestral portraits in validation of her recollections. I listened half-heartedly to the familiar refrain that echoed Nannie’s instruction on how to keep the southern belles chiming the chorus of old. Usually, when she could hold my attention or stillness no longer, I looked toward the kitchen where my favorite Danish Wedding Cookies awaited and on cue provided a timely exit from the one-way conversation.
Monday, February 15, 2010
A Noticeable Trail-The Working Woman
A few years after graduation from Mrs. Trimble's, Nannie decided to become a librarian.
From a newspaper article written on the occasion of the closing of the old library in Montgomery. At the time of this writing, Nannie was no spring chicken, but the article describes her when she was quite a young thing:
"Mrs. W. T. Edmondson, 117 Moulton, the former Mattie Gilmer Bibb, worked with the first librarian, Miss Laura Martin Elmore, when the library building was brand new in 1902. In order to secure her job she had to take a competitive examination, then serve an apprenticeship for six months without pay, except for three dollars on Sunday when she kept the library reading room open.
In 1907, Nannie (Mattie Gilmer Bibb) married a gentleman from Anniston, Alabama, named William Thomas Edmondson, Jr., a writer for local newspapers. William and Mattie had two children-- my father, George Bibb Edmondson, Sr., and Susanna Porter Edmondson, or "Susie Porter" for short. Unfortunately, William became ill and died in 1922, leaving Nannie with a fourteen year old son and twelve-year old daughter.
This next news clipping certainly brought news to me. I had previously known nothing about Nannie’s time in Birmingham or her time driving the “bibliobus”. In fact, I had never known her to drive at all. This tangential short-cut occurred after the early loss of her husband and as a result of her resolve.
From a newspaper article written on the occasion of the closing of the old library in Montgomery. At the time of this writing, Nannie was no spring chicken, but the article describes her when she was quite a young thing:
Advertiser-Journal
Social Section
Montgomery, Ala.
Sunday, May 22, 1960
Nostalgic Scenes Come to Mind as Doors Close on Old Library
By Madera Spencer
"Mrs. W. T. Edmondson, 117 Moulton, the former Mattie Gilmer Bibb, worked with the first librarian, Miss Laura Martin Elmore, when the library building was brand new in 1902. In order to secure her job she had to take a competitive examination, then serve an apprenticeship for six months without pay, except for three dollars on Sunday when she kept the library reading room open.
At the end of six months she became a paid library employee, receiving $40 a month salary. Mrs. Edmondson recalls that all the ladies working in the library were required to wear long sleeve dresses and high collars when on duty.
When she began her training as a librarian, she had to take an entrance examination in order to get in the first school of librarianship in the South, which was located in Atlanta and had been endowed by Andrew Carnegie for whom the library in Montgomery was named. This school was later absorbed by Emory University and young Mattie was one of the 10 women accepted for the first class session which lasted from September 1905 to June 1906. When she returned to work in the library in Montgomery, she was the first graduate librarian ever permanently employed in the city"
In 1907, Nannie (Mattie Gilmer Bibb) married a gentleman from Anniston, Alabama, named William Thomas Edmondson, Jr., a writer for local newspapers. William and Mattie had two children-- my father, George Bibb Edmondson, Sr., and Susanna Porter Edmondson, or "Susie Porter" for short. Unfortunately, William became ill and died in 1922, leaving Nannie with a fourteen year old son and twelve-year old daughter.
This next news clipping certainly brought news to me. I had previously known nothing about Nannie’s time in Birmingham or her time driving the “bibliobus”. In fact, I had never known her to drive at all. This tangential short-cut occurred after the early loss of her husband and as a result of her resolve.
The Birmingham News
Sunday, September 1926
A Ride on the Bibliobus
Rural Jefferson Folks, Avid for Books, Learn to Look for Trips of Bibliobus
Traveling Library Fills Long Time Need in Lives of Country Dwellers
By Edna Kroman
From atop his mule the ragged urchin flashed a smile of triumph at the librarian.
“Why Meth!” Mrs. Edmondson, from her seat aboard the Jefferson County Circulating Library bus expressed pleased surprise at seeing again the youngster she had missed for several months. For a time he had been one of her steady customers, and then, without a word, he had disappeared. “Where did you come from?”
“Howdy, mum.” Meth grinned, his eyes, however, hungrily on the books. “My folks done moved 12 miles up the country, but I been hankering after a book and knowed I’d git here for one. So ma plagued pa to let me have the mule, and it rained so hard last night he couldn’t plow, no way today.”
And the warmth which folded itself about Mrs. Edmondson’s heart made her forget the rough roads, the choking dust and the tire which she had had to change alone.
After two years, Nannie returned home to “The Cradle” from whence she came and for a year continued her work as a librarian. Her next stop on the working woman's track took her to the State Highway Department where she worked until 1956.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Nannie's Early Path 1899
At this point, I’ll track Nannie from her earliest days, or at least the ones I have in my archives. Her apparent early writing prowess began with this document, her graduation essay from Mrs. Trimble’s School for Girls in Montgomery. She had attended the school for her entire school life. She is pictured (center bottom) with her class.
I quote in part:
I quote in part:
Graduation Essay
Mattie Gilmer Bibb
Graduation from Mrs. Trimble’s School for Girls
Montgomery, Alabama
1899
Class Valedictorian
The Bloomy Flush of Life
"Youth is like a bright, tropical island in the sea of life, the fresh verdure, the rippling blue waters, the hills looming in the distance, and even the scintillating stars seem ever young and fair, for they are a part of the roseate dawn of life. Now comes the inspiration which never entirely dies out of the heart, not even after the joys of childhood are flown. The ways of the world are new to us, we have faith, and courage, we try to brave the troubles in our path, we grasp our staff, and begin to climb the mountain of difficulties which confront us, we strive for the goal of happiness on the high summit, which towers heavenward...
When the aural light of youth shines round us, we fix our hearts on some one object, which when we could clasp it, eludes us like the will-o-the-wisp, and we see the flickering light go deeper into the darkness; we gaze searchingly back through the closing gate of childhood, but it is not there; we seek to question the future but from the laughing winds and the echoing hills, we hear only the word hope. Again we see it shining before us, and we rush onward eagerly, but it fades like the beautiful mystical mirage of the desert. It is now we must lay the foundation stone for future years, when the bloomy blush of life has faded into a different but grander beauty..."
Nannie's conclusion included these words:
Now comes the sad unwelcome task of bidding farewell to the only teacher I have known, doubly sad because it was she who led me through the mysteries of the alphabet and steered me successfully through the whole scholastic course. Words cannot tell how grateful I feel for her patient training of heart and brain. We bid her farewell but only for a short time.."
Obviously, Nannie revered her long-time teacher and the group of women with whom she'd shared her formal education until her 17th year. More on Nannie's pilgrimage toward the southern bypass in the next post.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Next Up--Nannie
We're moving along at a much more progressive pace as we travel farther into the 1900s. Next in the line of sojourners is my grandmother, the one along the trail about whom I have the most extensive first-hand knowledge. We had many times together for over twenty-two years. My awareness of life and of me formed on Moulton Street with my grandmother.
Mattie Gilmer Bibb (Edmondson)
June 26, 1882 - March 4, 1969
“Nannie”
Friday, February 12, 2010
Remembering Mamie
My memories of my great-grandmother, Mamie, are hazy and few. Her husband had died decades before I entered the picture.
My earliest recollection brings to mind a very old lady seated in a dark mahogany rocker, her apparent antiquity evidenced not only in appearance, but in the scent of old age. The past era’s glow dimmed along with Mamie’s demise, yet the essence of another time hung unwaveringly like a guest who overstayed his welcome. Mamie regularly wore a somber long dress and tasseled black or white shawl, wrapped snugly like her taut white bun and braids clutching her head. Youth undeniably colored my impressions of Mamie. The article from the 1935 “Birmingham News” enhanced her image into more dimension than my memory had preserved. I was only seven when she died.
From another newspaper article:
Under a picture accompanying the article:
"Rosewood Table. Early Victorian with blue-veined marble top. The marble mantel in the background is Victorian and the vases at each end of the mantel shelf are Dresden."
The mirror mentioned in the article is partially shown in the photo of Mamie. The baby in the portrait is William George Bibb, Mamie's husband, and the other portrait is George Rockingham Gilmer, brother of Sophie Bibb who, along with her husband, built the house in 1828.
From another newspaper article:
Montgomery Advertiser
Sunday August 31, 1941
Bibb Home is Mellow with Age and Traditions
"The drawing room to the left of the front door excites the imagination with its perfect blending of period furniture. The subtle soft pastels of the upholstery and old paintings vie for first place along with the glistening patina of antique mahogany, rococo, and Waterford. Several long settees or sofas are of carved mahogany. The intricate design of the Chippendale mirror shown on this page is evidence of the quality..."Under a picture accompanying the article:
"Rosewood Table. Early Victorian with blue-veined marble top. The marble mantel in the background is Victorian and the vases at each end of the mantel shelf are Dresden."
The mirror mentioned in the article is partially shown in the photo of Mamie. The baby in the portrait is William George Bibb, Mamie's husband, and the other portrait is George Rockingham Gilmer, brother of Sophie Bibb who, along with her husband, built the house in 1828.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Montgomery Trail
We are well settled in Montgomery by this turn in the tale. Moulton Street has been the bastion for several generations by the turn of the 19th century, and new generations are becoming the keeper of the "holy grail" and all it holds dear--memories at the top of the list. Then of course, the old glass and china and furniture and what-nots beckon to be preserved and revered forever and ever. Amen. Here's a quote from a newspaper article:
The maid was dismissed and I was asked in. The moment I saw her, Mrs. Susie Porter Bibb, I knew that it was she who held the key to the delightful tranquility that emanated the beautiful old place. She was the epitome of quiet charm, the movement of her capable hands, her carriage, her soft voice.
Before I was aware, I was lost in a perfectly happy time. My hostess came to this home as the bride of Dr. Bibb, leaving the capital city of Tennessee to assume a new home in a new capital city. Her father, at the time of her marriage, was governor of Tennessee and Maxwell House itself was gay with the festivities of her wedding.
Undoubtedly she brought much to the lovely Bibb home, for even today though there are no little children slipping down its satiny banister, there is all about an air of complete living, an atmosphere that makes one feel that here little children have been reared to manhood and womanhood without regret...
…here is and has been a real home, a happy home of love, where women smiled and reigned, … and in my mind came forth memory of a verse written by someone and reading.
'Fill the house with choicest treasures,
send your vessels o’er the seas,
Gather treasures from the Indies,
and from far-famed Araby;
Hoard them up within the four walls,
vacant still the house will seem
Till some woman fair adorn it
with her smiling face serene.'
It was then I decided I was too content to seek out any other data that day. The personality of Mrs. Susie Porter Bibb had brought tranquility in the calm and pure domestic peace of the old home. …"
My take on Mamie in tomorrow's post.
Sunday, January 20, 1935
The Birmingham News—Age-Herald
Ante-bellum Bibb Home is Kept in Old Splendor
By Varian Feare
" “Shall I stop here, or knock, perchance to break this pleasant spell of tranquility?” I asked, but scarcely before I was aware a maid was at the door to announce that Dr. Porter Bibb was not in. “So endeth my assignment,” I concluded. But not so, for another adventure in personalities awaited me.The maid was dismissed and I was asked in. The moment I saw her, Mrs. Susie Porter Bibb, I knew that it was she who held the key to the delightful tranquility that emanated the beautiful old place. She was the epitome of quiet charm, the movement of her capable hands, her carriage, her soft voice.
Undoubtedly she brought much to the lovely Bibb home, for even today though there are no little children slipping down its satiny banister, there is all about an air of complete living, an atmosphere that makes one feel that here little children have been reared to manhood and womanhood without regret...
…here is and has been a real home, a happy home of love, where women smiled and reigned, … and in my mind came forth memory of a verse written by someone and reading.
'Fill the house with choicest treasures,
send your vessels o’er the seas,
Gather treasures from the Indies,
and from far-famed Araby;
Hoard them up within the four walls,
vacant still the house will seem
Till some woman fair adorn it
with her smiling face serene.'
It was then I decided I was too content to seek out any other data that day. The personality of Mrs. Susie Porter Bibb had brought tranquility in the calm and pure domestic peace of the old home. …"
My take on Mamie in tomorrow's post.
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