A Promise Kept

Okay, Google was acting weird, so I apologize if you saw this title with no blog underneath it. This is the intended blog.

This particular blog is dedicated to my aunt, Theresa Hardin Marsh, who told me that I needed to tell my grandmother’s story. Sadly, before the story could come anywhere near fruition, my aunt passed away. I will be the first to admit that my aunt and my grandmother were both my primary muses. When my aunt died, I stopped working on my books, and when grandma died, I found I couldn’t write anything more than short information pieces. As John Legend says in his song “All of Me”: “you’re my downfall/you’re my muse/my worse distraction/my rhythm and blues.” Yes, I know JL’s song was directed at a lover, but what you need to understand is that my grandmother was the greatest love of my life. One clue that she was a life’s blessing and an angel personified was that she was born on Valentine’s Day. What could signify love more than that? If you believe in astrology, or even in the fact that people born in the same season and month have similar traits, you will understand that as a February baby, an Aquarian, the water sign, my grandmother epitomized the same quality of water: soothing and calming, with this ability to wash over you. My uncle will contend that she was jealous when it came to my grandfather and displayed a temper, but this just tells me that she loved fiercely. Water rages at times too.

What’s funny is that although I had lived next door to my grandmother since I was two, I didn’t get to really start knowing her until I was ten years old. To be totally honest, there is very little of my life that I remember in my childhood, other than mental snapshots of memories. But one thing that I do remember is that until age ten, I saw my grandmother as the woman in the kitchen who cooked, made great cakes, whistled an unknown tune, and acted as disciplinarian in contrast to my grandfather. Granddad (or Daddy Welford as we called him) was everything a young girl could have dreamed of in a father: a tall man that worked with his hands, constructing the storage shed and shelves where he kept his tools and my grandmother’s canned goods, the woodshed where piles of cut and split wood became our childhood obstacle course, and even a wheelbarrow which to this day, I want to reconstruct for my own yard. My grandfather was tall and cocoa brown, and his trademark was one of tucker caps that resemble baseball caps except they have the plastic mesh in the back. He would always keep the snaps real tight and wear it at a crooked angle on his head; to this day, a few of my male relatives do the same thing. But the best thing about my grandfather to a little girl like me is that we would play a little game: I’d come in the house and peek around the corner until I heard him bellow “Candi-Mandy!” and then I’d go barreling full-speed into him, whether he’d be sitting in his wooden chair at the table or stooping down to greet me as he enveloped me in a tight hug. You would have thought that I was his only grandchild, but as I told you in the previous blog, I have a lot of cousins (I’ll run down the numbers later). I was enamored of my grandfather, so much so that his presence blinded me to my grandmother’s personality.

It wasn’t until after his death that I started really getting to know my grandmother, who was known to all as Manita, a culmination of Ma and her first name, Anita. One of the factors that helped me get to know her better was the way she took in all her family members. When my grandparents knew that my mom was in a bad marriage, they “rescued” her and her two children: me and my brother, and set them up in the old family home next door. At the time, my three of my cousins lived with them. After two graduated and moved on, my aunt and her three children came to live with her. On the other side of my grandmother’s house was my uncle (talked about in my “Life Goes On” post) who had two older children. Then there were the cousins who would visit for the summer. In all, there were nine steady cousins during the school year, plus another 4-10 that would visit at different intervals. Add to that the fact that many of our cousins’ friends would come to visit, plus Manita’s other children, grown grandkids, neighbors, their friends and classmates, AND Manita’s siblings and cousins and friends and missionary cohorts and church members and their families, and there is this large mosaic of folk. So there was never any lack of company. We were rich in relationships if nothing else.

No description of my grandmother would be complete without a physical description of her. Whereas my grandfather was tall, lean, and chocolate, my grandmother was just the opposite. Grandmother never quite cleared over 5’5” and when I was growing up, she had an ample figure that looked pretty good for having birthed 13 children. As for her complexion, she and all her siblings were very fair skinned; in their younger days, all of them could have successfully passed for tanned white people. They were what would most accurately be called quadroons: one quarter black and the rest of mixed heritage tracing all the way back to England. My grandmother and at least two of her siblings (two passed before I ever knew them) had hazel eyes. Amazingly enough, these hazel eyes keep popping up in later generations; my cousin Ashley of the “Mommy Sings the Blues” blog is one and so far, there are another seven that I can think of.

Diminutive though my grandmother was, she was powerful. She didn’t yell much, but when she did, she could be heard at least a quarter mile away (usually she would reserve that call for when one of the children under her care was in trouble). Her mindset was also strong: to my grandmother, there was nothing stronger than family, regardless of whether it was extended, by marriage, or by divorce. I can always remember Manita on the phone talking to, writing to or receiving a letter from some relative, some of which, I rarely recall by face. For instance, she kept in contact with my great aunt on my grandfather’s side (her sister-in-law) Aunt Edith, who lived in New Jersey (or New York).

On top of being a mother and great communicator, she also worked outside of the home. Keep in mind, being born in 1913, she grew up in a time when the modern conveniences just didn’t exist. She talked to me about not having electricity and working by candlelight and kerosene lamp. She talked of how their means of preserving food was either through canning, curing, or purchasing ice blocks. She reminded me constantly of the conveniences that she did not have. There were no mass market grocery chains where almost every item was just a drop in the basket. To feed the family, the livestock had to be slaughtered, and the vegetables had to planted and picked and seasonal fruit was exactly that. Dry goods existed in bulk, but milk came either from the cows or from the milk man’s delivery. She reminded me that there were no such things as disposable diapers and that all had to washed and reused. She lived through the Great Depression; as one of the few black landowners in the county, they were able to survive. She used to regale me with stories of how she worked at a tomato factory and shucking oysters, and of the small wages that these occupations earned. Growing up there, I remember my grandfather still stayed close to the land with his own garden. I remember helping plant seeds in the early spring and picking the vegetables during the harvest time.

And man, could she cook! One of the traditions that I remember most frequently is that whenever it was someone’s birthday, that person would get his or her favorite cake. I still remember that one of the constant favorites of almost everyone’s was a yellow layer cake with chocolate frosting. Although in her latter years, she started relying more heavily on boxed cake mixes, my grandmother could also make cakes from scratch with the old fashioned measurements of a “bit,” a “pinch,” and the “about a __of this.” This was great for eating, but not so much for following a recipe. I remember asking her for a recipe for pound cake (my favorite) over the phone. What would have been fluffy buttery delightfulness in her hands became a freakishly heavy cinderblock that thudded to the bottom of my trash can at the end of my experiment. To this day, I’m sure my neighbors thought I had fallen. I won’t even begin to discuss the fact that the cake tasted like I’d poured rosemary in it.

But cakes weren’t her only specialty. I can remember my grandmother canning peaches, making grape jelly, homemade apple sauce, and blackberry dumplings. I can remember her fried chicken and that she went by the old school rules that the ratio of chicken was proportionate to your size and age: granddaddy would get the breast and the youngest children the wings. I can remember her mashed potatoes and how she told me how to make it so that they would not get stiff after cooling. I’m happy to say that I can replicate her corn pudding and thanks to her make a pretty good sweet potato pie (although I only came super close to hers one year). And I can remember her breakfasts: everything from pancakes to sausage with sage to broiled fish and potatoes, things that just have me reaching back into nostalgia and shaking my head when I think of them.

Like my grandfather, my grandmother had this penchant for letting people know they were special. She remembered almost everyone’s birthday, and this was quite a feat. As I stated earlier, she had 13 children. At the present time she has 32 grandkids, and most of us have kids making that number over 50; and on top of that, some of those kids have kids [there are at least a dozen]). I can easily say that her legacy spans over five generations, and I can more easily say that she had a hand in raising a good percentage of the 3rd and 4th generation. I know for certain that she raised me, even though I lived with my mother. Whenever I or any of my cousins ever had any grumbling about the shortcomings of our parents (and there were quite a few), my grandmother would remind us that regardless of their flaws, they were still our only set, and that without them, we would not be here. This is just another instance of the love and compassion she always showed.

So many of my memories from my childhood and beyond are wrapped around my grandmother. Even as I grew older and moved away, there was always random day during the week where I would call into work just because I had this overwhelming urge to be near her, to just sit by her and listen to all the wisdom she had to impart. Most recently, after I finally gave into motherhood, she would say, “Now you see what life is all about.” And she would laugh and say about Ayden, “Soon he’ll be grabbing his coat and going out the door when you go.”

As a centenarian, Manita lived through 17 presidents, and voted in every election including America’s first black president. She also outlived all her siblings (two sisters and three brothers), seven of her children, including her youngest daughter (my aunt to whom this is dedicated), and her husband. Manita was often asked her secret to her longevity and her replies would center on a prayer relationship with God, at least eight glasses of water a day, and treating people right. I live every day of my life recounting all the gemstones of wisdom she shared with me and others. My only wish is to be able to accomplish even a small portion of what she achieved.

Shout-Out Series I: An Ode to Fathers

This morning, I woke up early and, as is my tradition for any major holiday, I prepared a special breakfast. As I was making the lemonade, my thoughts drifted to the blessings of having so many fathers in my life, much as I did mothers. And since fathers always claim they get a bad rep for Father’s Day, this year, I decided to start my shout out series with them (more details on the shout-out series later). Below is a somewhat comprehensive list of my “fathers”—those who have imparted some love of my life at some point in my life, and hold a special part for making me who I am as a woman.

God: He is my Creator and every day I am in awe of the ways in which we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Daddy Welford: My grandfather is the first daddy I can remember. We lived right next door to my grandparents, so it was a privilege to see him every day as a little girl. There was nothing like jumping in his arms as a little kid and listen to his booming voice call me “Candy-Mandy!” Some of my warmest memories are of his larger-than-life six-foot lean frame with that trucker’s hat cocked sitting at a jaunty angle on his head, with a ready smile, whether he sitting in his chair or carrying a watermelon on his shoulder.

Daddy: My dad’s favorite story is when I looked at him and asked, “Are you my daddy?” This memory is bittersweet for me because while touching, it was sad that I had to ask, and is indicative of the childhood relationship I had with my father. Most often, he was a voice over the phone or a card in the mail until I turned 17. Then he became a steady presence as we grappled with him getting to know me as a woman in a way he never had when I was a little girl. What’s more amazing was getting to know him on an adult-to-adult level, helping him cope with and conquer his mental health demons, and becoming best friends in our own little apartment cocoon. And even though the roles of who takes care of who have slowly reversed over the years, I am still Daddy’s little girl.

My uncle list is huge, mostly because I have a lot of them on both sides of my family. But each one holds some special piece as men who raised me. I’ve known my mom’s brothers all my life without question. Uncle Cheese: his real name was Linford, but none of us ever called him by his name. I’m not even sure I even knew his birth name until I was in my teens. The oldest of all my uncles, he lived next door and reminded me of my grandfather, even though he favored my grandmother, too. He was tall and lanky and walked with a swagger, greeting everyone with a “Heeeey!” reminiscent of The Fonz and a clap on the shoulder. He was the uncle who had a cup in his hand in every picture. Sunday morning, he would stick his boombox out of the window and play soul and blues music; he’s the reason Thunderbird and screwtop are forever associated words, and why I knew all the words to Clarence Carter’s “Strokin’” before I knew what stroking was. But most of all he was the uncle who could do everything: fix cars; chop, cut, saw, and build with wood; raise a hog, then slaughter that same hog and prep the meat; go boating, fishing, and crabbing with ease. And he looked out for his mama, his sisters, his daughter, his nieces, his women and their kids. Welford: the junior of my granddaddy, he’s the one whose temperament is most like his. On the quiet side but with a good sense of humor, a love for kids, and green thumb, I can still go to him for a watermelon or sweet potatoes, and having that piece of Daddy Welford in name and in deed is more precious than he’ll ever know. Ernest: the most cosmopolitan of my uncles, also looks like my grandfather, yet has a more vivacious sense of humor, a knack for finances, and a penchant for being brutally honest. One his pieces of sage advice is that people will always contribute words but not money. Jim: the other uncle next door, he was widower to an aunt I’d never met and also a provider to our small neighborhood. He’s the other reason I smile when I hear Thunderbird, because he had a Cadillac of that name. Gone during the week to cook on a fish boat during the warmer months, on the weekends he would pile us in it for summer trips to the store or Dairy Queen when there were only a few of us and frozen Kool-Pops when there were a lot of us. For the school year, he helped his nieces and nephews with supplies or clothes, and during Christmas, he gave us money envelopes. He was on the choir at our church and often had the host house when the church sold fundraising dinners. He could also cook; people used to come from all over the county to get some of his fried chicken, fish, or oysters. And he was in the know; he somehow had a pulse on who was doing what (or who) in our community. Isaac: he’s technically an in-law uncle for me, even though for some of my cousins, he’s a double uncle since two sisters married two brothers. But he’s been so much more. Always in a great humor, he used to play pinochle, smoke cigarettes, and have a few beers. When he accepted the call to Christ, all those things faded away, and later he accepted the call to preach when I was in my teen years. I can lay most of my deep desire to study the Bible at his feet since he was my Bible study teacher. Even though I’d been baptized at 12 and had attended Sunday School and vacation Bible school, being in his classes as an adult made me truly thirsty for the Word. One of the first lessons he taught me before even teaching a formal class was when I was young and foolish and asking him for change for $5 to put in church. It was then that he challenged me to put it all in and watch God’s increase. I did and have never regretted that decision nor forgotten that long ago advice. Charles: One of the wild bunch (along with Cheese, Henry, and Marvin), he was probably more consistent with being a lover, even though he was a fighter too. Of all my uncles, his prowess amazed me the most because he could have multiple women at the same time, and these women were friendly with one another! Even after having a stroke and recovering with a cane and partial paralysis on one side, my uncle could get around town better than most able bodied people I know, and he could still pull the women! In fact, my uncle’s been gone for some years now, and a family friend who was only a brief girlfriend (or maybe even a crush) still visits frequently and speaks of him in wistful revered tones. He truly appreciated my independent nature; whenever my grandmother would predict a female visitor, he would always say he knew it was me because he knew I’d roll down there anytime (his words). Henry: the third of the wild bunch, my early memories of him are tied to motorcycles. My cousins and I would always say he reminded us of Jeffrey Osborne when he was younger. Uncle Henry is just cool and laid back and taught me not to rush or worry about others’ opinions and be true to myself; he had children later and married even later than that when I was 19. I remember one Thanksgiving, he brought a bottle of Hennesy, and my cousin and I, who were well above drinking age, were still too chicken to drink some as adults. He laughed at us as he poured his over some ice. Marvin: the youngest and final member of the wild bunch, he is the uncle who looks most like my mom. Like Charles, he is also a lover, and will hold his own in a fight. Unlike Charles, he probably wouldn’t be the one to initiate the fight or be baited into one quickly. Like most men in our family, he can cook. He is always looking out for his nieces, probably because he has a daughter himself. When we were girls, he was usually the first one to call for us to come in the house when it got dark, even though the boys could stay outside and most of them were our relatives. Even as a young adult, I have fond memories of him helping me just because he could: one time, he procured me four new tires and all I had to do was ride to get them. When I made the trip, he even had lamb chops waiting for me. As an adult, I have been able to be candid with him about relationships, both his and mine, often enjoyed over a cup of coffee during our early morning co-cooking sessions when at my grandmother’s house. Fish and potatoes, bacon, eggs, and conversation.

Now to my father’s side of the family. Unlike my mother’s side, I actually had to be introduced to most of my dad’s brothers, mostly because of the strained relationship between my parents when I was young, and partially because they all in lived in a different state. Although I didn’t grow up with them constantly as I did my mother’s brothers, they are nonetheless close, both to me, and to one another. In many ways, they are more of a cohesive unit, and I think that comes from having to rely on each more heavily since their parents died when they were all relatively young teens, adults, and in one uncle’s case, a child. Arthur: the oldest of my father’s brothers. Short in stature, but a true patriarch. As a little girl, I have a vague memory of him teaching me the rudiments of chess. And even though he lives in another state now, he’s never failed to show his support, being one of the first to see us in our new home when up for a visit. Louis: second in command, so to speak, not only in terms of being the second oldest brother, but as far as helping with my dad. Of all the brothers, he is usually the one I call first. There is truly something so soothing about his presence that even if I am rattled and riddled with anxiety, talking to him helps me reason out the source and come up with a solution. He is a shining example of visible spirit. On top of that, he makes single look good with his immaculate taste. Joe: another of my dad’s brothers, he’s the jokester of the clan. An ex-Marine to the core, he’s also been an unwavering source of support. Jerome: the baby of my dad’s brothers, my childhood memory was of visiting him when he lived in an apartment in DC around the corner from where I stayed for two summers. His shock, which actually startled me, was prevalent as he expressed how much I favored his mother. Yet I wasn’t scared of his declaration since I’d heard it from so many others that same summer, and then felt some cosmic connection my grandmother, this woman I would never meet. But beyond that Uncle Jay is the baby of the family, and as such, someone I can relate to as a younger sibling. And just knowledgeable about everything. Of all my uncles, I would most like give him the superlative of renaissance man with his myriad interest in everything from cars to weaponry, to winery, and a thousand things in between. He too, makes single look good and is not afraid to date (I may have inadvertently blown his cover by mixing up a date or two [sorry unc!]).

Though the uncles are done, I still haven’t quite left out of the family sphere yet. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my oldest brother, Lil Melvin. He calls himself CeJa, but that has never stuck with me. I remember idolizing him as a child. Seven years my senior, he taught me the largely fundamental things like how to read, and also the little things, like how to tie my shoelaces (although I must not have listened to him well on that front because mine will never stay tied). And although I did the things that lil sisters tend to do in terms of teased, tormented, tortured, and tattled, one regret that I will always have is that we did not continue to grow up together. When I was seven, he went to live with dad, and when I was seventeen and moved with dad, he moved to Atlanta. One of my proudest moments of him is his being a father. Although Ariana is undoubtedly his greatest gift as well, she is indeed the greatest gift he ever gave me. My continual revenge as a little sister is that she favors me quite a bit, and that he ends up yelling my name first, then hers.

Though I only have one blood sibling, I was lucky enough to grow up with a brood of cousins were as close or sometimes closer than siblings. One was Clarence. Physically strong, he used to let us swing on his biceps and spin us like helicopter blades. My memories of him include always watching him wash and polish his car, which was usually some sort of sports car (I remember the dark silver Camaro the best). Sometimes he would even let us help with the tires. From him, I got my attention to car detailing and my love of Prince and Sheila E. He also truly taught us the value of sticking up for our family. Though our uncles often regaled us with stories of just how they’d done this, Clarence was our living example since we got to witness a couple of them.

Finally, there is of course Terry, my first cousin who is a mere six months older, something I was constantly reminded of when we were young. If anything, he became the surrogate brother when Lil Melvin left to live with dad. Thanks to our close proximity in age, we spent most of our childhood fighting either with each other, or our other cousins. In our fights, the result was always the same: we’d argue, he’d hit me, I’d cry, fight over. Even when we weren’t fighting, we were pretending to fight as we played games like The Newlywed Game. But as we grew older, the fighting lessened. By the time he’d graduated high school, we’d progressed to hugging when we greeted and departed (which my cousins will tell you is a big deal).I was there as he had his first child, and a frequent visitor with the second, and eventually, the third and fourth. And I watched how having children changed and matured him. Mostly, I loved treating his kids like they were nephews and nieces as well. Considering that his only daughter just graduated high school, I would say he did a great job. Now that we’re in our forties, I get to remind him of our age gap and the visible gray hairs (which on men look distinguished but on women merely look old).

Kenny Carter: my cousin Alicia’s husband. It’s weird seeing someone you rode the bus with as a kid grow up to be adult and become part of your family, but nonetheless Kenny fit seamlessly. Remembering him as a kid, I’m amazed at how much little Kenny (my godson) looks exactly like him, even down to the ears and the height. But what I love about Kenny most is his steadfastness. He’s a good man who has matured and progressed in so many ways over the years. And over the years, I’ve watched how good and loving he is to my godkids and of course, I had no compunction whatsoever about returning the favor and making him Ayden’s godfather. As a positive role model, Ayden will have no one better outside of his own father.

Mr. Douglass: an elderly distant cousin through my grandmother. In fact, I think that it was actually his wife who was Manita’s cousin. For two summers, my mom and I stayed at the Douglass’ home in DC. I think my mom went to help them since Ms. Douglass was suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease. Although elderly, Mr. Douglass’ mind was still extremely sharp. He and my mother were often at odds during our stay over small things, like how much sugar to put in the lemonade. Mr. Douglass won that particular battle since he ended up locking the sugar away, only rationing it a cup at a time so that my mother wouldn’t make it too sweet. It is inevitably this memory that triggered my desire to write today’s blog: Mr. Douglass taught me that it was okay to challenge my mother when she was wrong, and to not be afraid to one day get her the help she needed when it was within my power to do so. It was a lesson that I eventually used with both my parents.

that about covers it for the relatives, but I just couldn't stop there. As an adult, I have been graced with the good fortune to develop close friendships with men whom I've observed in various stages of fatherhood, and these men taught me lessons about the type of man I wanted in my life, whether it was just admiring their positive vibe, or the trial and error of knowing that while they were good men, they weren't the men for me. First, there's Trevelin: It takes a special man to take on children who are not his own and my DBBF’s ex-husband was one of those rare people who did just that. Then on top of that, he had two more with my DBBF, and although their marriage did not work out, they still remain friends and agreed to give him custody of his son and daughter, where for the longest time, he took almost sole responsibility for raising them. He recently remarried and had yet another child! Just the fact that he still has hair is a feat in and of itself. In addition, he took me on as his “little sister,” and dealt with a lot of the accosting that I subjected my brother to.

D’Andre, Tony, Mark, Judson: men I got to know in an urban setting. Two married and had kids at a young age, one in his mid-twenties, and one waited until he was old fogy like me (our sons are a year apart). What sets these men apart is that they prove all the statistics wrong. As my cousin Victoria stated earlier, they are defined as fathers by more than just their DNA markers. They are active parts of their children’s lives, taking them to practice, cooking meals, washing clothes, and their overall cheerleaders.

Eric, Patrick, Dwayne: other men I got to know in an urban setting. But unlike the fathers listed above, I watched these men struggle to gain their foothold and right to fatherhood. With so many women complaining about the men that weren’t there, these men wanted to remain consistent in their children’s lives, but often faced obstacles from their mates. It’s hard enough being a black man in this world.

Last but by no means the least is my very own husband Lane. He was God’s choice as my mate. Subsequently, God chose to make me the vessel to carry his legacy. I watch my husband show thousands of signs of love a day to his son, trying to teach him lessons as he enjoys his company. I listen to my son constantly commandeer his dad’s attention, whether it’s doing the live version of Hop on Pop, or going into the bedcover cave and telling his dad he’s his partner. It is at times all I can do to stifle a giggle as Ayden asks everything from “Can I play your iPad?” to “Can you wipe my boo-boo?” All in all, Lane is fully and thoroughly wrapped around Ayden’s finger and it is great for all of us to bear witness to that bond.

Once again, I have to mention God—He is after all The Alpha and The Omega, and worthy of every bit of thanks, especially as He has allowed me this divine inspiration to have written all this about these wonderful men. His part is the easiest to write and the hardest to stop because there is so much to be said for His Goodness and His Mercy. Thus concludes my list for now. Though it took me almost all day, it was indeed a labor of love.