Dear Joseph

© 2004 T. S. Eure

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 07/15/04

ISBN: 978-1-4184-6260-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-4737-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-4738-0 (dj)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my parents, Albert and Dorothy Eure, for their love and to my wife Clarena, who has supported me throughout this process.

Illustration by:

Ron Sykes

mrszaire@hotmail.com

Contents

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18.

About the Author

1.

I was only fourteen years old when I experienced the greatest challenges of my life. During the Depression years of the thirties, many fourteen-year-olds were doing adult tasks, and it was not uncommon to see children working in textile mills or coal mines. It is very strange how you can grow up in a few days. One day you’re content collecting ants in a jar, and the next day you’re struggling to keep a family together.

As a child in Fayville, Kansas, I remember my mother as a small olive-colored woman with a worn and tired face. The embedded wrinkles and graceful lines that fell upon her face were like a curtain of hurt that she wore. Like most women in 1934, she had only one good dress: it was a plain blue dress, not torn or spotted, that she wore to church only on Sundays. Yet deep within my mother was kept a constant well of understanding and love from which she let us children drink.

At one time our house was filled with much love. My father worked as a Pullman Porter for the railroad. He was a tall, light-skinned, gray-haired man with a very impressive look, a mixture of Greek and Turkish characteristics. He did not fit the mold of the average Colored man of the time. Perhaps he could have passed for other than Colored, but his wool-like hair and broad nose were identifying characteristics that could not be hidden.

Dressed in his Pullman Porter uniform, I used to imagine him being the captain of a luxurious ocean liner. He was so proud to be a Colored porter; for it was the kind of job that people in the community respected. He kept telling us that there were opportunities regardless of what color you were. He was meticulous in his job, serving the people on the trains and living as if his color did not matter. He lived in a dream world, refusing to see the signs around him that said, Colored Only. He walked as if discrimination was an unnoticeable fact or that it did not touch him, but the Depression was slowly eating into every fragment of society.

When he would take us to the train station, it was exciting to see so many people walking and moving about with large and small baggage or carrying great bundles in their arms–an ecstatic river of life, moving and dignified with briefcases and newspapers. Their expressions were serious and their eyes were filled with destinations as yet unseen. Great and magnificent chandeliers hung in the station like sacred lights in some ancient temple. Doors of shining, polished brass were like the entrance to a majestic, golden kingdom. Fashionably dressed people, men wearing neat pinstripe suits, women with hats decorated with peacock feathers, paraded through the station.

My father walked around the station as if he owned the whole place, pointing out the different kinds of trains, telling us stories about each train. Big and black trains came into the station, heaving like uncontrollable giants filling the loading area with white, beautiful smoke.

Those were good and happy times when we could afford a real Christmas tree and presents wrapped in silver and gold paper, awaiting us on Christmas morning.

Then everything changed. My father lost his job. The Depression was like a plague eating and devouring everything. Fewer and fewer trains were running: people did not have the money to ride them any longer.

Gradually the proud man began to change too. Drinking and smashing furniture, he was no longer loving or caring, but hateful. He stayed drunk all the time and, worst of all, he started beating my mother. Nothing remained of the gentle man who spoke with kindness and wisdom. Perhaps it was the reality of prejudice surrounding his every move. That which he had kept so far from himself now surrounded him. He began to realize that he too was nothing more than a poor Colored man.

I will never forget one night when my father came home drunk. My mother was asleep in the small room next to ours. He yelled at the top of his voice, Where is my food, woman! Mama sprang from the bed, ran down the stairs to the kitchen, and began to heat the baked chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy she had prepared for him earlier. I crept from the bed that I shared with my brother David, sneaked down the stairs, and peeked around the kitchen door. Father lifted his fork, took two morsels of food, and then flung the entire plate against the wall. Thick hunks of mashed potatoes splashed across the wall and floor and porcelain shattered into a thousand pieces. Then his fist came down on her face. Her small body collapsed from the force into a huddled mass of pain.

I ran to my mother’s rescue as she cried out in terror as he tried to kick her. One of the blows from his foot caught me in my stomach. I too cried in pain while David and our two sisters, Ruth and Sarah, came into the room and huddled around us, crying in fear for our lives.

Sometimes at night I would pray for him to die, or that he would never hit my mother again. But the drinking and beatings continued, until one day he won a large sum of money from gambling and walked out the door to be seen no more.

My mother suffered greatly through those years. Her deep smile vanished, and in its place grew a beaten and destroyed countenance. She was fortunate to find a job cleaning the homes of rich ladies who were untouched by the Depression. The money that she earned was barely enough for her own needs, let alone that of a whole family. She made one dollar and twenty cents a day; and when she came home late at night, she was often too tired to do anything but sleep or pray that she had enough strength for the next day.

She used to cry herself to sleep every night, praying to God for a miracle for her family–a miracle that never came. She sewed and patched our tattered clothes to the best of her ability, yet we still looked like orphans. Many times she would not eat dinner so that we could have a little more food to survive. I cried at night, listening to my mother in her room pleading that God would help her soon.

Then my mother became sick, so sick that she had to stay in bed. One day Dr. Johnson reluctantly came to the house even though Mother didn’t have any money to pay him. As I pressed my ear against the door, I heard him saying, The bone cancer has spread and consumed most of your body. I am sorry but you don’t have much longer. There is nothing that can be done now.

Now I knew the reason why Mother cried every night. She was in pain, but she did not want us to know. Things went from bad to worse. The landlord threatened every day to evict us. Mother pleaded with him to let us stay just a few more days, because a miracle was coming.

Then it happened. I heard a loud cry come from Mother’s room. I ran up the old wooden stairs of our little frame house with David, Ruth, and Sarah following close behind me. My mother was smiling; it was the first time I had seen her smile like that in years. She held out her hand to me.

Joseph, come closer to me. God has given me my miracle. I have spoken with the Lord. I touched His hands. And he told me not to worry anymore, that he has given each one of you, my children, a special miracle and a blessing. Joseph, my son, you are chosen for a great work. I must leave you now for a little while. I love you, my children.

Her eyes became clear and bright, like the sunlight reflecting off the bottom of a lake. Then she died. We gathered around the bed, all four of us weeping and holding the dead body of our mother.

As the hours passed, I finally arranged for the Gentleman Funeral Home to come and take her body to the mortuary. It was a terrible day, raining and thundering outside. It seemed strange to look at my mother’s dead body, the body that once had such vigorous strength, energy, and enduring kindness. A strange stillness settled around the room, as though something had been removed, some unexplainable force or beauty taken from the atmosphere never to appear again. That small body that moved from room to room cleaning, washing these old walls, now lay huddled in silence, with a deeper secret, now untouched forever.

The mortician arrived in his long black hearse. I had never heard a man’s voice so dignified and poised, like whispering in a whining song of sorrow that made me feel even worse. But the soft, trembling, compassionate mask that he wore became twisted and distorted upon his face when I told him that I had no money to bury my mother, but that in time I would repay him. His whole appearance changed, turning into a grotesque figure of outrage and insult. In a whining voice, he said, I am sorry son, but your mother didn’t have an insurance plan with us. And it is our policy for customers to have the money in advance. Maybe you can borrow the money from someone to bury your mother. I am sorry but we cannot take her body.

I was devastated. Looking at my mother’s body, I worried about how I was going to bury her in a decent way. I thought about my relatives, but they were poorer than we were. Then I remembered the church; surely there was someone there that could help.

Reverend McDaniels was the pastor of the Brownstone Methodist Church. He was a big, round, roly-poly man with a deep, loud voice. His sermons were terribly boring and usually put me to sleep. But my mother’s nudging became a constant reminder to me to stay awake during his Sunday torture sessions.

I ran over to his beautiful home out of the slum area of my neighborhood and pounded as hard as I could on his door. When he finally opened the door, he was in a rage saying, Who in the hell is making all that noise out here? My family is trying to eat their evening dinner.

My tattered clothes were covered with rain and mud, and I cried, Reverend McDaniels, my mother has just died. I called the funeral home to come take her body, but they refused, because I didn’t have the money to bury her. I need your help. I fell exhausted into the rain-soaked earth, my fingers groping through the mud, seeking some meaning to life.

A brief silence erupted between us as he stood staring down at me. I rose slowly. As if my eyes had the power to peer through flesh and bone, I could see him looking at me very annoyed and impatient. All that really mattered was that I had spoiled his dinner.

He bent down and touched my shoulder. Like an actor reading a script, he spoke saying in that pious, loud manner, Your mother was a good member of our church. The Lord has his own ways in dealing with us. You have to accept whatever will come. The church cannot be responsible for each of its members. We must be responsible in life and also in death. You cannot use the Lord or his church for your own use. God will show you a way. There are many others suffering greater misfortunes than you. However, I will perform my duty by doing the eulogy for your mother, but we cannot assume such a financial obligation or burden. Call me when you need me. I will be here to do what I can. May the Lord guide you on what to do. Now, if you will please excuse me, I must go back to my family.

Then he shut the door as the rain fell upon my face. No one could see my tears except the Lord.

That night I covered my mother with a blanket and shut the door of her room. A whole day and night had gone by and Mother still lay dead in her room. That night all four of us children slept together on the floor of the living room. A year ago the electricity had been turned off in the house; since then we had used candles for light.

With the small candles burning in the room, I lay thinking about the happy times my family had enjoyed–the times we laughed and shared Christmas and special days together. Then I remembered my mother’s wedding ring. I felt a cold chill run through me. I felt joy and sadness at the same time. Who was I to take the only thing that signified her marriage–that endless and eternal time that lived forever within her heart and was symbolized by this sacred ring? I could not bring myself to do it. But it had to be done.

I ran upstairs and stared a great while at my mother’s lifeless, gray body. Touching her hands, I said, Please, forgive me, Mother. Then I removed the ring that she wore for so many years.

The next day I sold the ring for two hundred fifty dollars. I called the funeral home and told them that I had money. The mortician arrived, asking first for the money, and then counting it. We usually charge three hundred dollars, but we will take this, he said. They told me that the casket would be just simple wood, nothing fancy. I felt hurt that I could not afford flowers, but neighbors brought some early tulips.

Two days later we had the funeral at the mortuary. Reverend McDaniels came wearing his long black robe, saying that he had come to deliver the eulogy. I told him in front of everyone that I didn’t want him to say anything over my mother. The mortician told me to be quiet; he didn’t want a disturbance in his place. Then Reverend McDaniels asked, Who do you have speaking the Word of the Lord for her? I replied, I am. He left in a great huff, his robe flying in the breeze as he walked away in anger. He resembled the flapping of a bird whose wings were broken.

I was surprised at the number of people that had come. People from every walk of life were there. I didn’t know that my mother had known so many people. They were all shocked when I rose to speak.

My mother was a woman that knew God, not just a person that talked about God. You could see God in her. She would clean a floor the way God would clean a floor. She would wash dishes the way God would wash dishes. She would cook a meal the way God would cook a meal. Many times I felt God in her life. We should pray that we find God in us that way.

Tears rolled down my face, hitting the floor in great drops. I had often considered my mother a quiet, very withdrawn woman. On the contrary, her life was full, vibrant, and radiant with meaning.

As time went on, the state people sent us to orphanages and foster homes. We tried to write to each other and keep in contact over the years, but there were too many miles between us to ever become a family again.

2.

I was placed in the most terribly depressing orphanage ever built. It was a ruined Victorian mansion where some fifty children struggled for existence. Large pieces of plaster had fallen out of most of the walls, lying in shattered fragments on the decaying, creaking wooden floors. None of the housemothers thought it was necessary to clean up the debris that cluttered the house, for in a sense we were no more than debris to be gathered and dumped in an obscure corner, void of affection and compassion from those who ruled and disciplined us. The cold wind of winter swept through every crack of the house. The bitter drafts caused sickness and disease to infect many of the children with outbreaks of whooping cough and polio.

I still remember the tasteless, cold, and skimpy meals that we received. I was so hungry that oftentimes I would become dizzy and fall into brief periods of unconsciousness. The constant noise of children whining and fighting for food and warmth and for tattered blankets to cover their shivering bodies gave me a feeling that I was losing my sense of reality. I would lapse into periods of dreaming and would imagine myself eating until I became full. At night I would lie awake crying silently on a mattress stuffed with old rags and newspapers.

In my heart I cried out to God, asking him what my life’s purpose was–to suffer endlessly without hope? I used to pray that I would die, or go to sleep and never have to return to this life, or to assume someone else’s life and destiny; for I believed that my life had been set for failure.

In winter they marched our cold, feeble bodies over barren railroad tracks to look for lumps of coal discarded from moving freight trains. We would tote the coal to the furnace bin of the orphanage. It would provide barely enough warmth for us to keep from having frostbite. It was so cold in the orphanage that you could see your breath.

The constant feeling of being trapped in a web of suffering and despair almost drove me to the point of breaking. I tried to escape from an environment that sought to entangle my very spirit into hopelessness, where I was no longer perceived as a human being having potential to accomplish or achieve anything. But in the eyes of the orphanage people, our humanity was reduced to something that needed food and clothes.

When Sunday arrived, they made sure we were clean. They gave each of us a rough, dried, white shirt and a pair of old, coarse, corduroy pants to wear. Then they marched us into the dining hall. A huge, broken, dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling, almost as a symbolic resemblance of our lives in the orphanage. If only the children in the orphanage were polished with love and restored with affection, and not broken with hatred and taught only to distrust. But no one took the time to polish their brilliance.

When foster parents would come to pick children to adopt, we all secretly prayed that we would be one of those chosen to live in a beautiful house where we could escape the daily struggle for food and warmth. I hated this Sunday ritual. I felt like a piece of property to be felt and handled. Yet I desperately wanted someone to adopt me. I smiled stupidly and tried to appear cute, but each week I was passed over. Only the children who were three and four years of age were adopted from the group. And it helped to look like little cherubims that had fallen from the throne of God. I hated the foster parents as much as the housemothers, because they never wanted to look further than the physical surface. They cared little how we felt, what we thought of, or what our aspirations were. I heard some of the housemothers talking about me, saying I was too tall and I was almost sixteen, too big for anyone to adopt.

The women who worked at the orphanage were called housemothers to give the impression of a home environment, but often the children were slapped in the face for the most trivial reasons. They were beaten and brutalized to the extent that they could not laugh or play like normal children, and in their expressions was a dead lifelessness. I felt like a prisoner of war, forgotten in a dungeon of hate and prejudice. I felt an empty void in the depth of my spirit, that my life no longer had a purpose or meaning. I was dead to all that I understood of life. I stared like a slain ghost out of the shell of my body, desperately seeking someone to love me.

Mrs. Bradenkins, the superintendent of the orphanage, was a tall, ugly woman with a long, crooked nose. With bony knees protruding from under her dress, she looked like a deformed chicken when she walked. She was constantly reminding herself, when she approached me, that I was a troublemaker, because I had fought so long trying to keep my brother and sisters together. She would point her bony fingers at me saying, You little crumb snatcher. You need to be in reform school, not in an orphanage. She hated me because of my defiant spirit. I would not respect her just because she was an adult. Examining her motives and how she related to the children in the orphanage, one could see what a harsh, cold, callous person she was.

Every day I endured the daily degrading of my self-worth. I remember the day before I left the orphanage for good. We were all gathered in the dining hall, being served our evening meal. The dinner consisted of a cold, creamy wheat batter that clung thickly to the spoon. It was almost like trying to swallow lumps of paste. And the rolls that they served were so hard you could have played baseball with them. We were all gathered around the old oak table waiting for Mrs. Bradenkins to give us the gesture with her hand that we could eat.

A small boy, who had just arrived at the orphanage that afternoon, was seated next to me. He was unfamiliar with the kinds of food served in the orphanage. Looking at his bowl of wheat paste, he flung it to the floor not realizing the severity of the crime for disobeying the rules. He had jarred the table, knocking down my bowl of food along with his own. Everyone became paralyzed with fear, scarcely breathing.

I felt a stinging hand against my face. Mrs. Bradenkins hit me so hard that I fell out of my chair and broke a front tooth. Before I had time to tell her that I didn’t throw my food on the floor, another one of her crashing blows struck my head. I tried to tell her that I was innocent, but all she saw was my food on the floor. She didn’t even see what the small boy seated next to me had done. Yet another part of me believed that she knew what had happened, and she had been waiting for the opportunity to hit me. I began spitting blood from my mouth.

She was now on top of me and driving her long fingernails into my throat. I was weak and dazed from the first blows. Then she began gripping my throat and smashing my head against the hard wooden floor until I could feel warm blood on the back of my neck. I heard her screaming in a loud, shrilling voice. How dare you throw away this good food that was given to us! How dare you upset this house! Her grip tightened around my throat, and I could feel pieces of my flesh being torn away by her fingernails.

As we rolled across the floor, I strained all of my muscles trying to break free of her strong grip around my neck. Somehow I was able to break free and grab the tablecloth, pulling everything to the floor. I heard a loud clang on the floor. A butter knife had fallen next to my head. We both wrestled to get to the knife. I broke free from her grip and plunged the knife to within an inch of her throat. Everyone was silent now as I contemplated taking her life. From deep within me, I knew that I could not sacrifice my principles and beliefs. I would not accept the hideous beast that she had tried to create in me.

The children started screaming in terror and hate saying, Kill her, do it now. Kill her! My hands trembled uncontrollably. I felt another blow to the back of my head. One of the housemothers had hit me over the head with a broom handle, leaving me almost unconscious. The housemothers dragged me back, hitting and kicking me, until I was a mass of bruises.

Mrs. Bradenkins rose to her feet like a demon, her eyes rolling strangely in her head. She rushed at me, scratching and hitting me even more. Finally one of the housemothers restrained her. For a long while she stood, screaming and cursing at me until they took me away.

3.

Mrs. Bradenkins decided that I was too hostile to remain in the orphanage. The next morning she called the sheriff and had me arrested and transferred to reform school. She suggested that I serve a four-year sentence at hard labor in the textile mill without compensation, so I could learn how to behave like decent people.

My body was a collection of bruises, and I could hardly find the strength to walk. I needed medical attention for my head, for it was still matted and wet with blood. I was given a mop and a bucket and told to clean up the dining hall where I had fought with Mrs. Bradenkins. The housemothers watched me closely as I tried to mop up my own blood as it dripped on the floor in a speckled array of pain. Inside my heart, I cried out to Mama, Why did you have to die? Why did you leave me alone? I didn’t know there were people like this in the world. I crawled through the debris, picking up broken dishes and bowls and pieces of bread, and scooping up the wheat paste meal from the floor. I scraped it off my fingers into a container to be eaten later by the children.

As I reached into one of the bowls to scrape out the portions of wheat paste, I felt something inside the bowl. It was a key with a string tied around it. Mrs. Bradenkins’ key! She had lost it during the fight when the bowl of wheat paste fell on the floor. I finally knew this ungodly food was good for something, for the wheat paste had hardened around the key, forming a perfect camouflage. I had seen Mrs. Bradenkins shove children into closets and lock them up with a key similar to the one I now possessed. I slipped the key into my pocket, as a smile of triumph broke over my bruised face.

Having completed cleaning the dining hall and with my arms twisted around my back, I was thrown into a basement closet. In the dark, cold room, I heard a small boy whimpering. He was shaking with fear. When I finally reached him, he clung to me as if his next breath depended on me. He whispered in my ear, There are rats in here. One has already bitten me.

I jumped in terror as something ran over my feet. I ran to the door pounding on it with my fists and screaming, Let us out, you bloodsuckers! Damn you! Damn you!

The silence and darkness of the house was not disturbed by the fear and pain crying out from the basement. Something clung to my sock, and I kicked