Chapter 13 Southern Roots

CHAPTER 13 SOUTHERN ROOTS
Indeed, nineteen seventy-five faded into the past, and in nineteen seventy-six we started thinking about moving back to McComb, because our house had not sold and Buck was getting the rent to manage the property even though he lived in Mobile, Alabama. We believed it would be an opportunity to move back and start our own business. We would not have a house payment. We could do more spiritually, and "Lit'el Rags was still eligible to receive care at UMMC. With all things considered and all stones turned, we called the Mortins to let them know we were planning to move back to McComb.

In the meantime, waiting for our property to sell the TV series Roots became the most exciting program on TV, and we would rush home from the meeting to watch it. It made me feel shame, and it seemed to bring up old feelings between the two races in the Clearlake community as well as within our congregation. The black community became sarcastic, and the younger the person was, the more sarcastic they were, even to the point many refused to talk to white witnesses when we called on them in our door-to-door ministry. The black community often criticized the black witnesses for being out in service with the "whities" as they referred to us. This was the first time I had ever heard the term "Uncle Tom" used verbally in person, though I had heard it in movies as well as in some novels, I had read.

My view concerning the history of the slaves leaned toward the position of my ancestors were not slave owners, though Mama employed a Negro woman to do some chores around the house a couple of days a week. Beulah Waxsman, cleaned houses and ironed clothes. Her reputation made her desirable and the entire neighborhood used her.

You could recognize her from her limp as she turned the corner a block away. Her appearance dated her pre-twentieth century, straight from Africa, cold black, obese, and dressed like the original "Aunt Jamima" with a large red bandanna covering her head and hiding her hair. The large print dress, covered with large red flowers set on a background of different colors of green outlined her heavy breast and draped past her calves, giving an open area displaying a series of large multi-colored pink scar tissues formed into one large flame of twisted flesh which circled her Achilles tendon and her ankle. Curiosity got the best of Buck and he asked Beulah what happened. After Mama scolded him for being ill mannered and "it is none of your business," Beulah told us her sister-in-law cast a voodoo curse on her and sprinkled a black magic powder on her marriage bed and it infected an open wound on her leg, and it left "me as Ah am. Y’all wouldn’t knows me back then. Ah was a beautiful young girl. Dat jealous sister-in-law done went and messed me up and dat man of mine left me with child. Dat’s why Ah has to work like dis."

I wasn’t raised to be prejudice, and one of the worse fights I ever saw between mom and dad concerned Beulah when she stopped by to see if mama had any ironing to do. Mama did, and so she entered and set up the ironing board, and began ironing. Mama started fixing tomato soup and cheese sandwiches for dinner. Buck and I she set the table and invited Beulah to sit down and eat as she always did. Dad just returned from fishing, came into the house bragging about catching his limit of Bass on his way to the bathroom and when he returned to the dinning room he ask, "What’s that?"

"J B, that’s lunch honey," Mama said pointing to his place at the table, "we’re having soup and sandwiches."

"I’m not talking about the food. I’m not eating with a Nigger," Beulah rose from her chair, her eyes widen in shock, and disbelief at what came out of Dad’s mouth as he stood pointing his finger at her with contempt.

Mama bristled and told Beulah, "Beulah, sit down!"

"Miss Helen, Ah needs to go. Ah needs to get home."

"No, sit down and finish your meal."

"It’s me or her," Dad stated with authority. Beulah was now between a rock and a hard spot. Fear rushed over her face and embarrassment flooded her eyes as she stood indecisively by her chair.

"Well JB, I guess it’s her. Here, take your plate and get your ass out there with Bing. You want to act like a dog, go eat with one."
Dad was seething as he grabbed his plate from Mama and slammed out the house and threw it at Bing, "You eat this god damn food."

Beulah devoured her food pushed her chair from the table and said, "Thank y’all Miss. Helen. Ah’s appreciate whats you went and done." Mama gave her some money. Beulah picked up her basket from the floor, and rushed out as fast as her old decrepit legs could carry her.

Dad came back in and reinitiated the argument, "Don’t you ever belittle me in front of a nigger again," he said.

"Don’t ever insult a friend of mine again. Beulah is not a nigger, she is a hard working woman who works to support her children because she has a trifling-ass husband who won’t work; and by the way she will eat at the table with us like she has done every week while you were gone."

"I won’t eat with her."

"Fine, suit yourself. You and Bing make a great pair and I’m sure he’ll like your company." Dad slammed out the screen door once again and went into the little garage he turned into a wood shop.

The following week when Beulah showed up for work Dad spoke to her then called out, "Helen, I’m going to Percy Quinn Park. I’ll be back after sun down." Mama won both the battle and war.

My conscience was clear, but the racial undertone permeating the meetings made me feel terrible as I saw decisions made locally to assign more talks to the black Brothers and Sisters to compensate for any racial undertow. The Service Overseer would be diligent with assigning service-meeting parts. The majority of the field service demonstrations highlighted the black sisters as the teacher and the white sisters played the parts of the householders or students. The qualified brothers were used more to open and close the meetings in prayers and given more service meeting parts.

Once again, I was leaving in the mists of a controversy. We listed our home with a realtor and lived through the release of Rocky, and the death of Elvis before our house sold in November making it possible to move back to McComb.
We arrived in McComb in early December and in the five years we were gone the entire town had evolved into a city. The North Western section of town where I use to play in the empty fields as a kid were now fully developed properties with new names on the street signs, Highway 24 was now called Presley Blvd West and Presley Blvd. East. The McComb publishers referred to the west side of town as Snob Hill, and I later learned why as I met for field service. The west end of Delaware Ave. was now an area of medical centers and hospitals. The airport was relocated from the center of the town to a more secluded area now away from the residential zoning. The town looked new, clean, beautiful, and a far cry from the dried up dusty city of Clearlake.

We drove East on Delaware Ave. toward the old downtown area and turned right at the signal light onto Third Street until it intersected with Earl Street and I made another right as I entered into my old neighborhood past the Chandler’s and the Magnum’s and left into our drive. We unloaded a few things and went inside. Mama’s old room showed signs of a leaking roof as the flashlight picked up the stains on the drywall. My first thought as I stared at the stains was, Buck didn’t even bother to have the roof fixed, and he received all the rent. Well at least I know how to lay shingles. We have the money, thank God. We left and drove over to the Morton’s and spent the night at their place then the following morning had the utilities turned on.

The physical changes in McComb were not the only changes incurred since we moved to California. The state, counties, and cities were now fully integrated and the Society followed suit and it was not anymore evident than when we turned into the parking lot which exuded newness from the clean white stripes and filled with blacks and whites milling around, talking, and laughing.

We parked and got out, and all eyes turned to us. Sister Thompson, an older black Sister started walking out to our car, squinted her eyes and shouted, "Is dat you Brodah Dan and Sistah Trisha? The Mortins told me y’all wassa coming back." She hugged me and then pushed me back, looked me up and down, "Ida claire Brodah Dan, you done got s-o-o-o-o fat ah didn’t hardly knows you and Sistah Trisha. Lawdy me boy, California done did you foks some good," she grabbed Trisha and wrapped her arms around her, "Girl, I just gotta give yous a big hug. It’s so good to haves you home again, and y’all done brought some moe younguns into this world, and good looking too. Lawdy me, come here and met youn new brodahs and sistahs."

She escorted us over to a large group and started introducing us. Some were a little standoffish, while others greeted us open heartedly and the remainder of the congregation who knew us or had heard of us were excited to have us back, even "Ma and Pa Kettle" who was still around after the 1950s greeted us with hugs, grins, kisses, and hand shakes.

I entered the hall and standing around the podium was a group of seven men of which I knew five; Jimmy Mortin, Thorson; Joe Buckley, Louie Willington and Robert Reed who was Louie’s Brother-In-Law. Jimmy saw me and motioned me over, and as I reached the group Louie broke out in a big grin and grabbed, my hand brought me into his chest for an embrace, "Boy, it’s good to see you again. I’m sure Jehovah sent you back for a reason and I’ll talk to you later about what I mean," he then pointed to a young handsome well-built black man, "Brother Walker this is my son Louie, Jr. He was in Bethel when you moved to California. You remember my brother-in-law, Robert." There was one more person in the group to meet and Jimmy introduced us, "Dan this is James LaBeau he just moved in from Tickfaw, Louisiana," there was mischief in his voice as he said, "this here is the Dan I’ve been talking about."

"Umm," James responded in a strong Cajun accent as he rubbed his chin in a pondering manner. "So this is the Dan." He wore a I know something about you smirk on his face and mischief twinkling in his eyes.

Pa Kettle stepped to the microphone, "Ya’ll need to find yourn seat, cause da meetings bout to stot." He then introduced Louie, Jr. as the Public speaker, and after the public discourse, Louie Sr. took the lead in the Watchtower study and Joe read the paragraphs familiarizing everyone to the prescribed questions set out at the bottom of each page pertaining to the paragraph just read. The study moved along with both, blacks and whites participating in the Watchtower study.

The following Thursday night after the Theocratic School we introduced ourselves to several young couples standing around talking. Trisha pointed at the end of the isle, "Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever seen," she said as we turned our attention in the direction she pointed and saw Tren skipping up the isle hand in hand with a little black girl.

"Is dat yourn youngun?" asked Joleen. She didn’t wait for an answer. She pointed also and said in a loud scolding voice, "Judy! Whatsha doing girl? Stop dat running. You know you ain’t spose to run in Geehovah’s house." The warning went ignored as they continued to giggle, laugh, and skip toward us. They continued to squeeze their new friend’s hand swinging their arms to and fro over their heads and suddenly Tren looked up and ask, "Why is she chocolate?"

A burst of laughter exploded from our group and a friend from the other side of the hall ask, "What’s so funny over there?"

"Brotah and Sistah Walker’s baby wanted to know why Judy is chocolate." There was uproar of laughter. Two little girls brought two families together.