Lynn M. Dixon's Blog, page 17

Release!

When tragedy strikes, we should become still and let the silence permeate our beings. We should speak less and listen more for instructions from on High. Women, especially, have been known down through history to wail or scream when the unthinkable happens in their lives. We have all heard of the wailing walls.

 And then, we hear of men who moan in their sleeps as their souls look for some sense of release from pain. They have too often had to display a stiff upper lip and give off the appearance that they are strong and not hurting.

We all process anguish, feelings of helplessness, shock and disbelief in different ways when we see our children being killed in front of our eyes. We feel anger, rage and we need to know what to do with these harsh emotions.

So, it is okay to cry. It is okay to be angry.  It is okay to scream and yes, it is okay to even wail.  In Edwidge Danticat’s book, Breath, Eyes, Memory, Sophie, the main character, screamed and cried after losing he mother. When the tears subsided, her grandmother asked, in essence, “Are you now free?” This was a telling lesson in the grief process.

In the South, when someone died, the elders became very quiet. No televisions. No radio. Few, if any words. Though the thoughts were plenteous, the spoken words were minimal. The children knew to be quiet or to be absent and away from the sorrowful adults.

So, after being wet with tears and soaked in perspiration and after witnessing lives being shattered like shards glass, we must pause. Quite like emerging from a long shower, we dry off and stand up. We move forward with a calm resolve, as we are more mindful and recall how our ancestors handled their grief. We walk on at a mourner’s pace, but being in the present moment, we can least offer the next needed hug.

Lynn M.
July  8, 2022

Elvis: A Sidebar

The year was 1956. My mother, me and my three sisters, had recently arrived in Memphis. We came down from Detroit where we four were born. She was leaving my father, or so she thought but as in Little Bo Peep, he showed up soon, wagging his tail behind him. 

We were thrust into a segregated town where blacks lived on one side and whites on the other. The one thing that we had in common? Elvis Presley reigned supreme. We all rocked to his You Ain’t Nothing but A Hound Dog or Get Off of my Blue Suede Shoes. Women of both colors swooned when he sang Are You Lonesome Tonight? Love Me Tender or Falling in Love with You. Or many cried with him as he sang Crying in the Chapel, to name a few. 

On our side of town, we soon learned to enjoy events such as The Cotton Carnival or going to colored theatres like The Old Daisy or The New Daisy. We even advanced to the integrated show called The Malco (now The Orpheum). Children of color climbed the fire escape in the rear, entered the back and sat in the balcony. Whites sat on the lower level and kids being kids, sometimes dropped popcorn on their heads from up above. There, I remember seeing the movies Tamango and The Defiant Ones with Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis.

We had the radio stations, WLKO and WDIA with deejay Rufus Thomas. His daughter, Carla Thomas, had her one hit, Gee Whiz! But despite that, it was a well-known fact that Elvis was the one who put Memphis on the map in the mid-50’s. It was like the painting on the wall. It is there as a huge backdrop. We knew he had a mansion on the then, Bellevue, (later renamed Presley Boulevard) but we did not see it from our side of town.  

Then, fast forward. We left Memphis in 1963 and moved on to Chicago. I did not think of Elvis that much anymore though I always liked his slower songs. His gospels, which few people know, are quite spirited as well. And, then as fate would dictate, I returned to the South in 1977. When he passed in August of 1977, I was in Mississippi, his birth state, attending grad school. It was a stunner and one of those events where you remember where you were when you received the news. 

But was it over? Not really. I returned to Memphis in 1980 and stayed for another 10 years as an adult. Again, though he was no longer with us on this earthly plane, his spirit remained and remains. Every August, around his death date, the radios played his music for days. If I remember correctly, Colonel Parker was still around and wielding his power.  

Then, I got a job as a bookseller at Waldenbooks in the early 80’s. It was in Southland Mall, and I had to drive by Graceland every day. There were always world tourists on both sides of the highway, and I just knew to slow down until I passed that crowded location. I could easily see the Lisa Marie, his airplane, parked across the street from the white-gated Graceland. 

And, yes, though Memphis was much less segregated, going to Graceland was just not a black thing, for many reasons. Yet, Elvis impacted us all in so many ways. I think about some of the clothes my Memphis cousins have worn, which reflect Elvis. His hair styles, his choice of clothing, his highly ornate belts and so much of him are still so Memphis, though some may not admit it. 

In the 80’s, the famous Beale Street was still and is still a Memphis hot spot. We often left work at a nearby college to order the fried chitterlings. Or on weekends, we went down to Blues Alley or W.C. Handy Park. All those places are still just as crowded today as it was portrayed in the new Elvis movie, which inspired this writing. 

There are so many stories for those who grew up there in the shadow of Elvis’ greatness. I still watch his movies when they come on and I certainly enjoy his music whenever I hear it being played. I lot of people say he staged his death to get out of the abusive concert bookings. For years in the early 80’s, there were multiple Elvis sightings. Often, people would say they saw him up around the Michigan area. This was a regular conversation in Memphis back then, but that is the stuff of legends. They are always surrounded by rumors, myths, suppositions and wonderings.  

I was the last one to leave the theatre when I went to see the new Elvis movie the other day. I like to read the credits for lots of reasons. But at the end, they showed the real Elvis, though both Austin Butler (Elvis) and Tom Hanks (Colonel Parker) were quite superb. When Elvis sang his last song with his eyes wide open, I was mesmerized. I lingered so long because it was like saying goodbye all over again. Rest in peace EP. 

Lynn M.
July 1, 2022

Buckhead Days

I returned to Atlanta in August of 1979, after going back to Chicago in April when my father passed. During those four months in Chicago, I assisted my mother in cleaning out his with personal effects and made money by subbing at a school and working as a payroll supervisor at my old summer job at the YMCA. I was determined to return to Atlanta because I felt that we had some unfinished business.

My friend that lived across the lake from me in College Park was marrying her Prince Charming and heading to the Pacific Northwest. While at the wedding, I was able to sublet an apartment located in Buckhead, from one of her friends. I moved into the one-bedroom which was right off of Peachtree Street.  Actually, there are several Peachtrees in Atlanta such as roads, streets, circles, avenues, etc to truly confuse any driver new to the area.

I was off the main one at 25th Street not far from where I-75 and I-85 come together. The partying days of Cedarwoods were long over as life had truly taken on a more serious tone. I slowed down and thought things through more carefully.  I turned off the disco songs and evolved into enjoying smooth jazz radio stations. I mellowed a bit and took life more easily.

I again worked as a temp at my old reliable TempForce Agency that I had used in the past.  I was working at an insurance company that I sometimes walked to when either gas was low or if I just wanted to have a meditative walk. And, one day I was getting on the elevator at work and poof, there stood Charlotte. She was one of my sister’s best childhood friends from Memphis.

Our mouths fell open and yes, she was my proverbial ‘ram in the bush.”  She worked in the building too and had a nice, steady job with the Department of Agriculture. From that point on, we bonded, hung out together and supported each other during my second act in Atlanta. She even lived about five minutes away and eventually moved on up to Sandy Springs; but we remained close during my stay in Atlanta.

Life was relatively calm and here are a few highlights from living on the north end of town. I took a Gregg Shorthand class at Georgia Tech to stay busy. I found the wonderful Oxford Bookstore where the books of the Florence Scovel Shinn fell into my lap.  Her, The Game of Life and How to Play It was my study guide, along with her other writings.

I enjoyed driving up to Lenox Square where I once found some really soft leather walking shoes.  Across the street at Phipps Plaza, which was more high-end, I splurged and bought some green suede open-toe low heels. They were the bomb, so to speak, and I kept them for years!

Around November of that same year, I was led to a temp agency called Temporary Talent. They were looking for proofreaders and I was an English major, so I applied.  I was hired and to my astonishment, I was a proofreader for the Georgia Legislative Counsel. I held on to the name tag for years. There, I met Alisha from Cleveland and Bea from Rochester, New York.  We were all Northern women of color and up to that point, they had not been able to keep any proofreaders.

The hours may have been a factor because we reported at 8 or 9 in the morning at the gold-domed Georgia Capitol Building and did not leave until 11 pm or even midnight. We played Scrabble until legislation was over and then the typed bills came over for us to proof starting around 5 pm in the evening. Alisha and I were single with no kids and Bea’s kids were older and her husband was very supportive. Thus, we made it to the finish line of the 1980 Session in June. That experience alone could easily be a novella!

Around that time the political scene became troubling. because of the Atlanta Child Murders. It was a national story and an old friend from my journalism job contacted me to say that James Baldwin was coming to Atlanta. His arrival from France was in the headlines, but she gave me a heads-up and we rushed out to Emory University to at least get a glimpse of him.

When we arrived, there were only about 15 to 20 of us in a small lounge. He sat on a couch with large twinkling eyes. He was diminutive, yet powerful. We sat at his feet on the carpet just staring up at him as if he was a mini god. I don’t remember him saying anything, but I will never forget being in his presence. I did get his autograph which I held onto for years but lost during my many moves.

His publicist said that he rarely went to the American South because seeing the condition of his people made him ill for a period of time upon his return to France. But, he had been commissioned to write an article on the topic and I believe it was later published in The Esquire Magazine. I am honored to have seen him before his passing in 1987, some seven years later.

The proofreading job ended and I was able to get a position with Upward Bound in Ohio through Twiggy, another writer-friend. It was time to move on so I put my things in storage, went to my friend Marty’s house and we partied at a club like it was 1999 (Prince) with her Bahamian friends. Me and Atlanta ended on a good note and I felt that I had left my mark and it definitely left its mark on me!

Lynn M.
June 25, 2022

College Park, GA

We had just marched across the stage to get our master’s degrees from Jackson State University. It was the summer of 1978, and I was moving to Atlanta, Georgia and my friend helped me drive there. We had left a bland, serious academic setting, but when we arrived in Hot ‘Lanta, we stepped onto a Live Stage! Things were popping! 

Maynard Jackson was the first black mayor of Atlanta, then known as the Black Mecca. Blacks from all over the country converged there to hopefully get at least a slithering of the American pie. Fortunately, I had a network of former Chicago teachers who had already moved there, and I stayed with one for a couple of weeks until I could get my bearings. 

We took my friend to the airport to say a painstaking goodbye, but my tears soon dried. There was too much to do to stay sad for long. As fate would have it, my cousin, his wife and their three young daughters had also moved there from Memphis and lived close by. His wife used her connections to help me get my own apartment in Cedarwoods which was in College Park, a southern subdivision of Atlanta. 

It was a beauty and a gift from the gods to me for having passed the last test. The complex was a wooden-like structure, and I was upstairs. I had a large balcony which overlooked a small lake. It had ducks and I soon discovered that their leader’s name was Charlie. If we called him, the others obeyed him, and followed his moves. My furniture soon arrived and with it came a host of visitors. Everybody wanted to come to Atlanta! It was like running a hotel as many came from Chicago, Memphis and Jackson. 

My sister and her two children came down from Chicago and stayed a month. Cedarwoods had a huge children’s pool and a large adult pool. When I came home each day from my harrowing job as the boss lady at a journalism program, they hugged me, still wet from being in the children’s pool all day. Cousins came, friends came, and my mother came. The biggest challenge was keeping toilet tissue for my continual guests. 

When my mother came, I went out with co-workers and danced in her glass-like slippers until my feet were swollen. I was so happy that she was there, and I knew that she also needed a break from the Chicago scene. I found friends and I attracted foes, as life goes. I met people from all over the United States who shared their stories.

The apartment complexes had both unique names and characteristics. One friend, also a former Chicago teacher, lived across the lake in Nu Dimensions. My cousins lived in Candlewood and another teacher-friend lived in Windjammer. Most had beautiful, stretched pools which were sorely needed in the humid heat and as stated earlier, mine had two! 

I could write a novella about that summer, but here is an overview. We lived close to the airport and often teased that we could wave at the passengers as they landed. Here are some things that brought us joy. My little cousins could beg to go to Piedmont Park in a such a way that melted our hearts, and we often found a way to get them there. It is a huge, beautiful park up in central Atlanta. We partied hardy at nightspots such as Cisco’s or Mr. V’s. We preferred Cisco’s and we danced to tunes like Shame by Evelyn Champayne King, Boogie Oogie, Oogie by Taste of Honey or Bustin’ Loose by Chuck Brown and the Soul Searchers, to name a few. 

We shopped at Greenbriar Mall and often scrambled to find money to have breakfast at McDonald’s off Camp Creek Parkway. It was like eating on the French Riviera to us because money was quite scarce.  We were used to Chicago’s abundance but being broke in Georgia heightened my spirituality. We had to lean on a Higher Power to simply cope and we often made it to one of three Sunday services at Hillside Chapel to help us remain steadfast.

We also searched for the illusive celebrities who lived nearby. We looked for the singer Peabo Bryson who supposedly lived in Cedarwoods. We looked for the famed writer Toni Cade Bambara and we drove quite a distance to try to see Yolanda King (MLK’s daughter) at an acting workshop. All were in vain, but I did see Toni Cade Bambara years later in another city.

Our quests kept us on the move because in Atlanta, one can easily drive for over an hour to get from Point A to Point B. That summer is forever etched and my friend who lived across the lake is still in my life. We often relive those times in Hot ‘Lanta during the summer of 1978. Push play and enjoy the music from back in the day!

Lynn M.
June 18, 2022

Bookmobiles!

“Nothing is pleasanter than exploring a library.” Walter Savage Landor

The other day, I saw a small bookmobile parked outside a nearby middle school. The library staff had set up a table displaying books on the school lawn. Middle schoolers hungrily gathered around as they thirsted for knowledge and new books.

I paused as I walked by and smiled because it triggered precious memories from my past in Memphis. When I was about that age, we were always excited when the bookmobile rolled into our neighborhood. We were very quiet and respectful as we anxiously waited for our turn to explore the shelves and check out the latest books. 

The bookmobiles back then were very large and they could accommodate several people at a time. Somehow, the ding of the check-out machine always intrigued me and as fate would have it, I later became both a children’s and young adult librarian.

So, yes, whenever I see a bookmobile either parked in the library parking lot or certainly in action while being parked outside of a school, my heart still skips a beat.  I am happy to know that some library districts still have the will and wealth to include bookmobiles in their host of library services.

Bookmobiles include those who possibly cannot go to a physical library for multiple reasons. They bring books to the community whether they are children, teens or seniors. and they are highly valued as they minister to many souls When they pull up and park, they still bring smiles to those patrons who have been patiently waiting for its timely arrival!

Bless the bookmobiles in 2022!

Lynn M.
June 12, 2022

Greyhound!

A couple of weeks ago, I was channel surfing, and I came across the movie, A Trip to Bountiful starring the accomplished Cicely Tyson. She made the movie in 2014 at the age of 88 and she played a woman who escapes her relatives and takes a Greyhound bus back to her hometown of Bountiful, Texas. She felt that she had to go back to her roots so that she could begin to accept her current life while living in the home of her adult son (Blair Underwood) and his not-too-kind wife. (Vanessa Williams)

The movie touched me on so many levels and I have now seen it over and over, whenever Grio TV replays this highly artistic piece. Cicely Tyson (Mrs. Watts) smiles and feels her freedom as she hangs her head out of the bus window after sneaking away from her son and his wife. She meets a young married woman (Keke Palmer) and they talk about their lives, and air out their personal concerns. 

It made me think of the many Greyhound bus trips I took to see my older sister in Evansville, Indiana. During the 80’s, I traveled there from Memphis to also air out my concerns. It is my father’s hometown and that is where he always went to get away from it all. Whenever I called her long after his passing, she simply said, “Come and unravel your thoughts.” We called her Tiny and sometimes, she had to get up at 2:30 in the morning to pick me up at the bus station. That is the way it works when going to those small towns in the wee hours of the morning, as the movie also highlighted. 

Those trips allowed me to think, see middle America and to meet several interesting and memorable people, just like Cicely Tyson met Keke Palmer. I often had funny stories to share with Tiny once I arrived at her home. Once, a woman was telling the bus driver how she had been trying to help her sister and how her sister did not appreciate her efforts. He said emphatically, “Then, go home!” She said that she was on her way home. I never forgot that short but powerful lesson. Know when to leave, period. 

Another time, I was going to see Tiny but this time, it was in the 90’s and I was leaving from the south suburbs of Chicago. A woman was loud and out of control before the bus even left the station. The driver walked back towards her, and she shouted, “Don’t start in on me.” We were all very quiet and the next thing we knew, we saw her and her traveling companion deboarding the bus. Another passenger turned and said, “He could not drive with all that going on.” We all nodded in agreement, as the then serene bus pulled out towards the highway. 

I truly related to Cicely Tyson’s sense of freedom as she took flight from her troubles though she knew that it was only for a short period of time. During that time, she was able to breathe and flap her wings for a few moments until she could remember who she really was and what her life had been up to that point. Those Greyhound bus trips allowed me to also breathe, think and listen to multiple stories from other travelers.  

I had highly skilled drivers who treated their buses like ponies on a racetrack; I had talkative drivers and quiet drivers and even a couple of sick drivers who had us all wondering if we would make it. Somehow, we always did make it to our destinations. The Hound (as we affectionately call Greyhound) can still get people to locations that airplanes and trains do not go. Trailways, its competitor, is now extinct and fell by the wayside, but Greyhound remains. It truly is one of small-town America’s national treasures! 

Lynn M.
June 4, 2022

Refreshing Providence!

The other day, I was looking at the Fox Weather Channel and they were featuring pictures of different cities in the present moment. When Providence came on the screen, I felt, “Ahh.” A fresh feeling washed over me as I remembered. I smiled and thought, “Good memory.” 

For my first trip, I good friend gave me a colorful, crunchy, velvet-like hat to wear there. I was traveling by train from Boston for a job training workshop in the early 2000’s. The new hat added to my confidence as I entered new territory. It is about an hour ride, and it was a great time to air out my thoughts and get away from the congestion of the big city. 

I always took a cab to the actual job headquarters and when I saw that the address was on Jackson Walkway, I breathed even more. The name alone reminded me of one of my alma maters, Jackson State University. That was the first of several trips there and they were all pleasant. There was a nearby waterway which gave the downtown area a certain serenity. 

On one occasion, I had extra time before the train left for Boston, so I went into a mall close by, ate in the Food Court and went into a music store. I purchased some vintage CDs like Nat King Cole and Nancy Wilson. Being in Rhode Island made me think of the historic Newport Jazz Festivals as those voices from the past whispered songs in the air. 

After leaving job training another time, I went to the mall again. That time, I bought some wonderfully scented candles from a nice small shop. I was always aware of the short time that I had to do a bit of exploring before the train headed back to Boston. The trains did not run that often so I could not afford to miss it.

The train station was always clean and welcoming, and I enjoyed seeing it later in the movie Me, Myself and Irene with Jim Carrey and Renee Zellweger.  Though my train trips were business oriented, I always found time to get in a little retail therapy before heading back to Boston. When I think of that part of my personal journey, riding down to Providence always left me feeling refreshed and ready to go back and. “get on with it.”

Lynn M. 
May 28, 2022 

Salut Nikki!

Was there ever a time when I did not know of Nikki Giovanni? I ‘d have to go way back to check because she was in my college anthologies, first. But most pointedly, I had her albums and tapes of her reading her poems with music in the background. She was certainly a forerunner of rap and hip hop, as were The Last Poets. 

In my apartment in College Park, Georgia, I had her album, propped up in the living room in the late 70’s. The cover had a beautiful, brown, wide-eyed baby on the cover, and it was titled, Truth Is On Its Way. I enjoyed it as I listened to her storytelling with a powerful choir in the background. She made me think and ponder the many aspects of life. 

I liked all of it but there are a couple of pieces that stick out in my mind. In her Alabama Poem, there is an old woman sitting on her porch working on her bunions and she asks the young woman walking by what they were teaching her at Tuskegee College, down the way. She gave the passerby a few quick life lessons that would serve her for years to come. One pointer was not to judge the goodness of a man even if he has no DE-GREE. (Hilarious!) 

The other track called All I Gotta Do, helped me to learn to wait, along with John Burroughs poem called Waiting. She says, “All I gotta do is sit and wait. Sit and wait and maybe it will find me.” I have learned that yes, waiting is truly difficult, but it is still a virtue. As others began to putter out, those patient ones begin to shine. 

At my place in Evanston in the mid 70’s I loved her rendition of My House. It is definitive as she marks her own territory and says, “And my windows might be dirty,… and if I can’t see out sometimes, but they can’t see in either…” (Love it!) She has that quiet, succinct humor that sticks and stays in the psyche.

Time passed on and Sista Nikki continually evolved as I too rowed by boat further up and down the streams. She went on to do a stint with NASA. I always kept up with her movements and caught her when I could. She came to Memphis in the late 80’s where there was a conference of literary giants. I made my way over to LeMoyne-Owen College and there stood Paula Giddings holding with a bouquet of roses in the reception area.

And then like magic, there stood Nikki, alone and self-assured. In a flash, we were facing each other and about three feet apart. She smiled and I did the same. No words were spoken nor needed. We had an inaudible Namaste moment. And that moment never left me because we were breathing the same space and hopefully some of that poetic energy flowed on to me. 

Years later, I saw her speak in an auditorium at Boston Public Library in the 2000’s. I tried to see her again when she came to speak at the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago again in the mid 2000’s. When I headed to the basement to go the Auditorium. I couldn’t get in. It was packed. Closed. No room in the inn. No surprise there! 

When tragedy struck at Virginia Tech in the mid -2000’s her voice rang out. She is a Professor of Letters there. She spoke in defense of her students with care and concern, and I thought, “Nikki, being Nikki.” Always speaking the word of truth to power and exemplifying the consummate black woman and poet. A true sista, High Priestess of the Spoken Word always telling it like it is. Salut, Sista Nikki!  Speak on! 

Lynn M. 
May 21, 2022 

Going to Little Rock!

The weather was mild and sunny and the pavement was dry. It was the mid-80’s and me and my co-teacher Donna, were on the road in a community-college van filled with anxious young women. We were leaving Memphis and headed to Little Rock, Arkansas for an education conference.

Donna drove and I was her co-pilot and the young women on board were excited, but calm. As their instructors, we would have it no other way. The road trip took approximately two hours and it was a seamless trip. I found it interesting that Donna straddled the lanes as she drove but I didn’t say anything because we basically had the highway to ourselves.

We arrived in Little Rock and checked in at the sparkling, new Excelsior Hotel which had recently opened in the downtown area. It was my first and only trip to Little Rock so I took in every detail about this capitol city. We unloaded the van, approached the beautiful hotel, entered and headed towards the check-in desk.

And poof!  The unthinkable happened in a flash. A very handsome, suave man approached the young women smiling and in a matter of minutes, one of them left with him. Just like that and before one could say, “Lickety-split.”  That’s a pun because she had split- with him.

Donna and I were stymied but we had to get our bearings and take care of the business at hand. After clearing our thoughts, we checked in and got the other young women settled in their rooms. As the shock wore off, we did not know if we should go to the police, the morgue or what. This was long before the advent of cell phones so we had no way of tracking her down.

We went on with the plans and I don’t remember a lot about the conference sessions because we all had this looming plague hanging over us regarding the missing student. I do remember that the beauty and ambience of the hotel was both calming and comforting as we tried to make certain that the others had a good time.

One night, some of them ventured out and had some scary encounter. They had walked to McDonald’s to get some of the new bacon, sausage sandwiches which had recently come out. They knocked on our door like little scared rabbits, came in and filled us in on what happened. They wanted to stay in our room for a while. Thank goodness, nothing grave had occurred so we laughed as we executed our duties as chaperones. Of course, the missing student was on everyone’s mind though we all pretended that we were all fine. 

On the last day of the conference, the missing student showed up grinning. I am sure that Donna read her the riot act, but I did not even look at her. She looked insane to me so I privately decided that she was ‘not playing with a full deck’, ‘ paddling with one oar’ or ‘her elevator did not go to the top.‘ All of that street lingo applied to her. Today, she would be called ‘cra-cra.’

We let her in the van and I am sure no one talked to her as we headed back to the Bluff City (Memphis). We were just blessed that we did not have to go to the police department, the morgue nor console her distraught family members.  When I recall that experience now, I just smh (shake my head) and thank the protecting angels who had us all covered!

Lynn M.
May 7, 2022

Aunt Alma

I used to go visit my Aunt Alma on the weekends while attending Jackson State University in the late 70’s. I drove from Jackson to Cruger in Holmes County and as fate would have it, my co-worker, Mary, often accompanied me as I drove the state highways of Mississippi. I dropped her off at her family home in Lexington on my way and picked her up on my way back to Jackson. She was always pleasant company.

Aunt Alma was the wife of my great Uncle Robert Cooper. He was a preacher and a businessman and they still lived in the house where my mother was born. He was a man of few words but I knew that I was always welcomed there. Aunt Alma, a lively, spirited woman, made up for his few words. She was animated, quick and most kind to me. She probably cherished having some girl company after having four sons, though they had all long left the nest.

One had died and the other three had gone North to work in Fort Wayne, Indiana.  An older Uncle Will had gone before them and later sent for them one by one. That was the way part of the Great Migration worked as one went ahead and later sent for others to find new homes and good-paying jobs away from the sharecropping South.

When my Uncle Robert Cooper passed in 1980, Aunt Alma tried to stay in her home of over 60 years, but her sons knew that she was not able to stay there. I went back down there to assist them because the boy children had a difficult time convincing a ruling mother that she had to let her home go.

They were happy for my company as I tried to soothe things over as she made the inevitable move. The scene reminded me of an Ernest Gaines’ short story called, “Just Like a Tree.” The adult children were trying to move the matriarch of the family north with them, but she died the night before they made the trip. She was determined to remain planted by her roots, so to speak.

Anyway, Aunt Alma made the trip to Fort Wayne and took up residence with her youngest son and his family. She survived and eleven years later, my mother and I decided to take a Greyhound bus from Chicago to Fort Wayne to see her. It was 1991, and when we arrived at the house all she said was, “Lynn. What took you so long?”  I laughed and was happy that she had survived, thrived and adjusted to her new home.

My mother and I stayed in a nice hotel for a couple of nights. We went to the Cooper family homes, caught up on the latest and had an enjoyable time. Upon return to the hotel, there was a festive wedding celebration going on and this was an added lift for us. The last day we were there, we were awakened by nearby ringing church bells. It was probably the angels along with our Uncle Robert Cooper singing, “Well done, my good and humble servants!”

Lynn M.
April 30, 2022