As I noted earlier, my maternal biological grandmother was Matilda Snow Cheek Russell. She was the daughter of Nathaniel Augustus Cheek, Sr and Annie Garnes Cheek.
After Ann Marie retired from the US Post Office in 1995, she decided it was time for me to get to know some of my biological relatives.
Thanksgiving weekend 1996, I convinced my friend Reggie (now my husband), to go with me to North Carolina to meet the relatives. During that weekend, I attended my first Cheek-Garnes Family Reunion. Most of the people there had not known that Ann Marie had had a child … and there I was, a full grown daughter that Ann Marie knew and was now introducing to everyone as her daughter.
I returned home to Boston, amazed that the weekend had gone well. The people I met were all open and loving and welcomed me with open arms.
Since then, I have attended two other Cheek-Garnes Reunions, one in 2004 and one in 2008 (reunions are every 2 years during Thanksgiving weekend). At each one I have met more people and at each one I continue to feel their love and support.
In addition to the Russells mentioned a few essays back, I have an extended biological family on my grandmother’s side that includes the following families: Cheek, Garnes, Odim, Belle, Hairston, Ephraim, Carroll, Clements, Fogg, Nicholson, Russell and at least 20 other family names.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thanksgiving Conundrum … Fake Leftovers
Yes, we all said thanks yesterday, because no matter what our situation, we know that it was through the grace of God, that our situations were not worse.
After saying thanks … it is all about the food. I love to entertain and I love to cook, however, since moving to rural NC in 2005, I have lost my desire to ever hostess another Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey is too cumbersome (little turkeys need not apply); the zillion side dishes; the dessert table left with half-eaten desserts; and the dreaded clean up. That’s right, I never want to do it again!
I still want to eat a good meal, so two options work for me:
1. Going to a good restaurant; tons of food and I did not have to cook it,
2. Going to friends, just as good, especially if they are good cooks. Again, tons of food and I did not have to cook it – that’s what we did yesterday.
In theory this works, but there is one small problem: no leftovers! The best part of Thanksgiving is the refrigerator full of comfort food leftovers. God bless the Huffington Post for providing two recipes last week that will help me with this year’s fake leftovers. Perfect leftovers include at least one specialty recipe and gravy to go with the turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes. Terrible leftovers include jelled and/or whole berry canned cranberry sauce.
The first recipe was for Cranberry Conserve: a mixture of cranberries, pecans, cinnamon, orange juice and zest. I made this on Monday and placed in the refrigerator to wait until after Thanksgiving. We had a big spoonful in our oatmeal this morning, replacing the normal fruit and nuts.
The second recipe was for Greatest Gravy … Ever. It starts with turkey wings and ends with onions, carrots and celery; all to be set aside, so the broth can be made into gravy. I salvaged the discards and renamed them, leftovers. I will make the gravy tonight for dinner.
Another year of fake leftovers is off to a good start.
After saying thanks … it is all about the food. I love to entertain and I love to cook, however, since moving to rural NC in 2005, I have lost my desire to ever hostess another Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey is too cumbersome (little turkeys need not apply); the zillion side dishes; the dessert table left with half-eaten desserts; and the dreaded clean up. That’s right, I never want to do it again!
I still want to eat a good meal, so two options work for me:
1. Going to a good restaurant; tons of food and I did not have to cook it,
2. Going to friends, just as good, especially if they are good cooks. Again, tons of food and I did not have to cook it – that’s what we did yesterday.
In theory this works, but there is one small problem: no leftovers! The best part of Thanksgiving is the refrigerator full of comfort food leftovers. God bless the Huffington Post for providing two recipes last week that will help me with this year’s fake leftovers. Perfect leftovers include at least one specialty recipe and gravy to go with the turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes. Terrible leftovers include jelled and/or whole berry canned cranberry sauce.
The first recipe was for Cranberry Conserve: a mixture of cranberries, pecans, cinnamon, orange juice and zest. I made this on Monday and placed in the refrigerator to wait until after Thanksgiving. We had a big spoonful in our oatmeal this morning, replacing the normal fruit and nuts.
The second recipe was for Greatest Gravy … Ever. It starts with turkey wings and ends with onions, carrots and celery; all to be set aside, so the broth can be made into gravy. I salvaged the discards and renamed them, leftovers. I will make the gravy tonight for dinner.
Another year of fake leftovers is off to a good start.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Cast of Characters: My Biological Mother
Annie Marie Russell, youngest daughter of the late Oscar Boyd Russell and the late Matilda Snow Cheek Russell, died December 15, 2008 from complications of Alzheimer's. Her memorial service was held January 31, 2009.
“Sixty years ago today, Ann Marie turned sixteen and one week later, she gave birth to me," were my opening remarks.
One day when I was eight years old, Mommy (Jessie Butler) took me into her bedroom for a private talk. She explained about adoption and that she and daddy had adopted me. She explained about fifteen-year-old girls, young love and unchecked passion that sometimes became a ‘mistake’. She explained that some couples couldn’t have babies. She explained that fifteen-year-old girls are not prepared to raise a child on their own. God had provided adoption to help in situations like this. She told me that my birth mother was someone that I knew. My birth mother was Ann Marie Russell, who had come to visit us sometime. From that point on, I called her Ann Marie.
It is just this year (2009), following Ann Marie’s death, that I realized that I have had a shadow-life, as a result of that conversation. The characters of my shadow-life immediately began being introduced, when I was eight years old. As an adopted person, I would always have the family I had known since birth. They loved me and they were there for me; they were legal and real, never to be taken away. However, there were biological relatives, who could never be acknowledged in my mainline life. And in my shadow-life? Sometimes acknowledged, sometimes not! They could pass on the street and not speak.
Some people that became characters in my shadow-life, in addition to their roles in my mainline life:
• Edna and James Waters, from church, were Ann Marie’s sister and brother-in-law. Ann Marie had come from North Carolina to stay with them, while she was pregnant with me. They knew mommy and daddy wanted children, so they suggested that the Butlers adopt me. Edna and James and their five children were residents of both of my mainline life and my shadow-life.
• Sam and Mary Russell, also from church, were Ann Marie's brother and sister-in-law. Another couple added to my shadow-life’s cast. They had no children. Mary was killed in a freaky, bizarre auto accident. Sam later married Sadie, who I do not think that I have ever met. After, I had graduated high school and left Lakewood, they had a daughter, named Sandra.
• James and Mary Helen Russell lived across the street from us on Ashley Avenue. He was Ann Marie’s brother! They had five boys and one girl, Cynthia. Their children were younger than me, so we were not friends. In children’s lives 3 or 4 years seems like a generation. However, their children were the ages of my brothers, so the boys were in school together; played street games and sports together; and tortured poor Cynthia together.
• Louise was Ann Marie’s other sister. She and her husband lived in New York and had visited us, with Ann Marie on different occasions. Louise later married Randy Patterson, moved to Miami and they raised three sons.
This is strange, but Grandmother Matilda Russell existed larger than life in my mainline life. She had been hidden from me, but after my knowledge of the adoption, she gained equal footing with my other two grandmothers. She sent birthday and Christmas cards. She brought or sent packages of raw peanuts. Yes, brought! She would walk across the street from her son, James’ house to visit the Butlers and there was always a little package for me.
“Sixty years ago today, Ann Marie turned sixteen and one week later, she gave birth to me," were my opening remarks.
One day when I was eight years old, Mommy (Jessie Butler) took me into her bedroom for a private talk. She explained about adoption and that she and daddy had adopted me. She explained about fifteen-year-old girls, young love and unchecked passion that sometimes became a ‘mistake’. She explained that some couples couldn’t have babies. She explained that fifteen-year-old girls are not prepared to raise a child on their own. God had provided adoption to help in situations like this. She told me that my birth mother was someone that I knew. My birth mother was Ann Marie Russell, who had come to visit us sometime. From that point on, I called her Ann Marie.
It is just this year (2009), following Ann Marie’s death, that I realized that I have had a shadow-life, as a result of that conversation. The characters of my shadow-life immediately began being introduced, when I was eight years old. As an adopted person, I would always have the family I had known since birth. They loved me and they were there for me; they were legal and real, never to be taken away. However, there were biological relatives, who could never be acknowledged in my mainline life. And in my shadow-life? Sometimes acknowledged, sometimes not! They could pass on the street and not speak.
Some people that became characters in my shadow-life, in addition to their roles in my mainline life:
• Edna and James Waters, from church, were Ann Marie’s sister and brother-in-law. Ann Marie had come from North Carolina to stay with them, while she was pregnant with me. They knew mommy and daddy wanted children, so they suggested that the Butlers adopt me. Edna and James and their five children were residents of both of my mainline life and my shadow-life.
• Sam and Mary Russell, also from church, were Ann Marie's brother and sister-in-law. Another couple added to my shadow-life’s cast. They had no children. Mary was killed in a freaky, bizarre auto accident. Sam later married Sadie, who I do not think that I have ever met. After, I had graduated high school and left Lakewood, they had a daughter, named Sandra.
• James and Mary Helen Russell lived across the street from us on Ashley Avenue. He was Ann Marie’s brother! They had five boys and one girl, Cynthia. Their children were younger than me, so we were not friends. In children’s lives 3 or 4 years seems like a generation. However, their children were the ages of my brothers, so the boys were in school together; played street games and sports together; and tortured poor Cynthia together.
• Louise was Ann Marie’s other sister. She and her husband lived in New York and had visited us, with Ann Marie on different occasions. Louise later married Randy Patterson, moved to Miami and they raised three sons.
This is strange, but Grandmother Matilda Russell existed larger than life in my mainline life. She had been hidden from me, but after my knowledge of the adoption, she gained equal footing with my other two grandmothers. She sent birthday and Christmas cards. She brought or sent packages of raw peanuts. Yes, brought! She would walk across the street from her son, James’ house to visit the Butlers and there was always a little package for me.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Cast of Characters: the Adoption Side
I recently put old Playbills up for sale on eBay, and as I looked through them, I found the most impressive thing about them was their cast of characters. For Playbills, it’s the name of the person acting or directing that determines the value of it, as a keepsake.
We have characters that come in and out of our lives, making an impression, leaving their mark; sometimes good, sometimes bad. As my story unfolds through this blog, I thought it might help you to follow along if I gave you my cast of characters. I decided to break the list into at least two parts, maybe more by the time I am done. We will see.
In the 1950’s, the standard grade school reading curriculum involved a series of books featuring the typical American family: mother; father; a son, Dick; two daughters, Jane and Sally; a dog, Spot and a cat, Puff. The image was confirmed by the mid-50s television programming: Father Knows Best, Leave It to Beaver and The Donna Reed Show.
As I was growing up, except for the dog and cat, I felt that I lived a life close to those images. I had a mother and father. He went to work everyday and she stayed home to take care of me. They did not want me to be raised alone; for fear that I would become spoiled. Since they were unable to have children (I was adopted), they became part of New Jersey’s Foster Care System.
From that system, I have three lifelong brothers and some others that I was fond of, but I have lost touch with them, for almost fifty years.
My Parents:
• William Henry Butler (1915-2000), second of seven children, his mother, Minnie Lee – I have her middle name. Three of his siblings were regulars in my life, Uncle James (and his wife, Aunt Ann), Uncle Vincent and Aunt Marie.
• Jessie Elma Butler (1903-1976), fourth of six children, her mother Rachel. Jessie’s siblings were a part of my life because they were all in the ‘north’ Her sister, Aunt Meme and her four brothers, my uncles, Chauncey, Edward, Milton and Howard.
• Gloria Wilder Butler, my adopted stepmother still lives in Lakewood, NJ and we talk every few months. She has a son, James, who lives near her with his wife Annette and their son, James, Jr.
My Brothers:
• Chester Lee Henderson, foster brother, came to live with us when he was six months old and I was four. He lives in California with his wife, Enriqueta.
• Clifford Paul DeChalus, foster brother, came to live with us when he was six weeks old and I was nine. He lives in New Jersey with his fiancé, Aretha.
• Jay Jamison Butler, adopted stepbrother. Even though he came to live with us when he was 10 days old and I was seventeen, his adoption did not go through until after mommy died, so Gloria is his legal mother. He lives in North Carolina (2 and ½ hours away), with his wife, Tracy and their three children, JJ, Raven and Caleb.
Other Foster Children: if you know them, please try to connect us
• Deborah Dunn
• Maurice Lewis
• Barbara Howard
• Valerie Howard
Extended Family: to be filled in later
We have characters that come in and out of our lives, making an impression, leaving their mark; sometimes good, sometimes bad. As my story unfolds through this blog, I thought it might help you to follow along if I gave you my cast of characters. I decided to break the list into at least two parts, maybe more by the time I am done. We will see.
In the 1950’s, the standard grade school reading curriculum involved a series of books featuring the typical American family: mother; father; a son, Dick; two daughters, Jane and Sally; a dog, Spot and a cat, Puff. The image was confirmed by the mid-50s television programming: Father Knows Best, Leave It to Beaver and The Donna Reed Show.
As I was growing up, except for the dog and cat, I felt that I lived a life close to those images. I had a mother and father. He went to work everyday and she stayed home to take care of me. They did not want me to be raised alone; for fear that I would become spoiled. Since they were unable to have children (I was adopted), they became part of New Jersey’s Foster Care System.
From that system, I have three lifelong brothers and some others that I was fond of, but I have lost touch with them, for almost fifty years.
My Parents:
• William Henry Butler (1915-2000), second of seven children, his mother, Minnie Lee – I have her middle name. Three of his siblings were regulars in my life, Uncle James (and his wife, Aunt Ann), Uncle Vincent and Aunt Marie.
• Jessie Elma Butler (1903-1976), fourth of six children, her mother Rachel. Jessie’s siblings were a part of my life because they were all in the ‘north’ Her sister, Aunt Meme and her four brothers, my uncles, Chauncey, Edward, Milton and Howard.
• Gloria Wilder Butler, my adopted stepmother still lives in Lakewood, NJ and we talk every few months. She has a son, James, who lives near her with his wife Annette and their son, James, Jr.
My Brothers:
• Chester Lee Henderson, foster brother, came to live with us when he was six months old and I was four. He lives in California with his wife, Enriqueta.
• Clifford Paul DeChalus, foster brother, came to live with us when he was six weeks old and I was nine. He lives in New Jersey with his fiancé, Aretha.
• Jay Jamison Butler, adopted stepbrother. Even though he came to live with us when he was 10 days old and I was seventeen, his adoption did not go through until after mommy died, so Gloria is his legal mother. He lives in North Carolina (2 and ½ hours away), with his wife, Tracy and their three children, JJ, Raven and Caleb.
Other Foster Children: if you know them, please try to connect us
• Deborah Dunn
• Maurice Lewis
• Barbara Howard
• Valerie Howard
Extended Family: to be filled in later
Friday, November 6, 2009
Facing End of Life ... and Health Care
Does end-of-life care prolong life or does it prolong suffering? Should it be a part of health-care reform?
End-of-life counseling would have been helpful for my family when we faced decisions about my aunt in the summer of 2008.
My aunt had been a bright, feisty, charming, full-of-life woman who had faced and conquered many challenges during her lifetime. By the summer of 2008, she was in final stage-Alzheimer's with a feeding tube going in and a Foley catheter going out.
When her husband and life-partner died in the mid-1990s, she started her way down the Alzheimer's path. In 1999, her sister moved her from Miami to rural NC, to ensure that she was looked after by a loving family member. A noble effort but it could not stop the ravages of Alzheimer's. My aunt continued to recede into childhood, so that by the summer of 2008, she was a bedridden infant. In final stage Alzheimer's she had little, to no, recognition of anyone. She did not even have the curiosity of a baby, all of her brain functions, almost completely gone.
The nursing home, despite their best efforts, could not turn her enough to prevent her heel from becoming infected. The infection would not heal. She had to be taken to the hospital for treatment. The hospital could not stop the infection, it was spreading into her ankle. She would lose her foot.
The trip to the hospital caused my aunt to stop eating. I have since realized that trips to hospitals for Alzheimer's patients are like pushing them down into a dark, frightening hole. A decision needed to be made. My aunt was in the care of the county, they had become her guardian in 2004, when her sister was unable to maintain my aunt's care. I believe the county policy was to not have a feeding tube inserted, however they knew that there was concerned family, so they called me.
My husband and I have instructed each other not to use extraordinary measures to keep either of us alive to live in a vegetative state. So our response was no feeding tube. I believe that my aunt, if she could have stepped out of her situation would not have wanted to be this body-attached-to-tubes. However, I did not feel we had the right to make that decision alone. So I told the county Social Services to check with others and I also told Social Services, that I would not argue if the other's decision was for a feeding tube.
Others wanted the feeding tube, so my aunt is alive today in something very close to a vegetative state. I understand she smiles occasionally and sometimes opens her eyes, when called. The hospital removed her leg above the knee to make sure the infection would not get into her body.
We faced the feeding tube question and as individuals, we had mixed feelings. I believe quality of life is important. Others think life in any state is important.
Ultimately God is in control. However, I think the only 'winner' here is the nursing home: they get her Federal Social Security check plus NC Medicaid payments, while providing minimal services.
As a fiscal conservative, I think this current health care system is speeding over a cliff, when the federal and state governments are paying big $s to nursing homes without any hope of some of the patients getting better! I would rather use that money to pay the health care costs for someone whose life would be improved.
Oh yes, to my original question: regarding my aunt's life, her end of life care is not providing her with quality life and it is not reducing her suffering, because she is not suffering. If anything, it is prolonging the suffering of those around her, who are reminded daily of her loss of vitality.
End-of-life counseling would have been helpful for my family when we faced decisions about my aunt in the summer of 2008.
My aunt had been a bright, feisty, charming, full-of-life woman who had faced and conquered many challenges during her lifetime. By the summer of 2008, she was in final stage-Alzheimer's with a feeding tube going in and a Foley catheter going out.
When her husband and life-partner died in the mid-1990s, she started her way down the Alzheimer's path. In 1999, her sister moved her from Miami to rural NC, to ensure that she was looked after by a loving family member. A noble effort but it could not stop the ravages of Alzheimer's. My aunt continued to recede into childhood, so that by the summer of 2008, she was a bedridden infant. In final stage Alzheimer's she had little, to no, recognition of anyone. She did not even have the curiosity of a baby, all of her brain functions, almost completely gone.
The nursing home, despite their best efforts, could not turn her enough to prevent her heel from becoming infected. The infection would not heal. She had to be taken to the hospital for treatment. The hospital could not stop the infection, it was spreading into her ankle. She would lose her foot.
The trip to the hospital caused my aunt to stop eating. I have since realized that trips to hospitals for Alzheimer's patients are like pushing them down into a dark, frightening hole. A decision needed to be made. My aunt was in the care of the county, they had become her guardian in 2004, when her sister was unable to maintain my aunt's care. I believe the county policy was to not have a feeding tube inserted, however they knew that there was concerned family, so they called me.
My husband and I have instructed each other not to use extraordinary measures to keep either of us alive to live in a vegetative state. So our response was no feeding tube. I believe that my aunt, if she could have stepped out of her situation would not have wanted to be this body-attached-to-tubes. However, I did not feel we had the right to make that decision alone. So I told the county Social Services to check with others and I also told Social Services, that I would not argue if the other's decision was for a feeding tube.
Others wanted the feeding tube, so my aunt is alive today in something very close to a vegetative state. I understand she smiles occasionally and sometimes opens her eyes, when called. The hospital removed her leg above the knee to make sure the infection would not get into her body.
We faced the feeding tube question and as individuals, we had mixed feelings. I believe quality of life is important. Others think life in any state is important.
Ultimately God is in control. However, I think the only 'winner' here is the nursing home: they get her Federal Social Security check plus NC Medicaid payments, while providing minimal services.
As a fiscal conservative, I think this current health care system is speeding over a cliff, when the federal and state governments are paying big $s to nursing homes without any hope of some of the patients getting better! I would rather use that money to pay the health care costs for someone whose life would be improved.
Oh yes, to my original question: regarding my aunt's life, her end of life care is not providing her with quality life and it is not reducing her suffering, because she is not suffering. If anything, it is prolonging the suffering of those around her, who are reminded daily of her loss of vitality.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Continuing the Journey
A major downfall in my life is personal organization. A major fear is that I will not get a handle on it and I will become a hoarder. I need assistance in determining what to keep. I also need help in developing systems for keeping track of the 'stuff'. Now I am channeling George Carlin; I do not want to be keeping track of 'stuff' that keeps track of my 'stuff'.
Enough rambling, the points of today's entry are personal and related specifically to this blog; I need to:
1- get organized; within two weeks I will define a regular schedule for blog postings
2- let go of fear, I will release thoughts without fear of your disapproval
3- just write, let the writing flow and sort it out later
okay?
Enough rambling, the points of today's entry are personal and related specifically to this blog; I need to:
1- get organized; within two weeks I will define a regular schedule for blog postings
2- let go of fear, I will release thoughts without fear of your disapproval
3- just write, let the writing flow and sort it out later
okay?
Friday, October 9, 2009
319 Linwood Avenue
Since my father, William Henry Butler died in July 2000, I make few trips to Lakewood, NJ - the town of my youth. It having grown as far away from me as I had moved away from it. Since his death, I have only passed through town, spending the occasional night with my stepmother, Gloria Butler, on my way to Boston or North Carolina.
On visits before dad's death, I would usually take a ride to Fourth Street to see where I had lived in my early years: 319 Linwood Avenue. It was a two-family house owned by Mr. Cantor, almost at the end of a dead end street. We lived on the right side of the house. There was a dirt street in front, where Karen Cantor and I sometimes played as little girls.
Reggie and I were in Lakewood in July 2009 for Linda and John's 20th wedding anniversary. Because we were in Lakewood for more than an overnight, I found my way to Fourth Street and looked for Linwood Avenue. It was not there! The entire little street was gone.
There is something disquieting about someplace that I do not visit, never being available again - in case I want to drive by. They say “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”. I never thought about that happening to the places of my past.
__________________________________
Here in rural NC, we have a small writing group that meets at the Warren County Library and our facilitator, Arlene S. Bice, gives us writing prompts. In September 2006, the writing prompt was something like: describe how to get to a place you have lived. Well, I wrote about 319 Linwood Avenue and it looks like that will be my last memory of 319 Linwood Avenue.
Directions from Newark Airport to 319 Linwood Avenue:
In 2000, 319 Linwood Avenue in Lakewood, NJ still existed and looked much like it did when I was growing up there in the early fifties.
Leaving Newark Airport, driving south on Route 9, the urban/suburban road congestion continues well past Freehold and then the traffic begins to thin out as you approach Howell, then drive into Lakewood.
Just after you enter Lakewood, the Regent Diner is still on the left of Route 9, with its marquee style sign that glittered like Hollywood in the sixties, but now it is old and dull. Crossing over County Line Road – the cemetery is still at the corner of 14th Street. There’s Temple Beth Am on the right. That brings back memories of the interfaith services held in the mid-60s with Sixth Street Baptist Church and Temple Beth Am. My godfather, Rev. George Crawley and Rabbi Yedwab were leaders that were ahead of their time.
The Post Hotel’s beautiful ceramic mosaic artwork is missing, gone forever. Where the hotel once stood majestic are now apartments. Maybe they are condominiums, but I cannot imagine Lakewood with a condominium lifestyle community.
At Fourth Street, turn left crossing Clifton Avenue, then Lexington Avenue, then Monmouth Avenue, and finally crossing Park Avenue. The old synagogue is still at the intersection of Fourth Street, Park Avenue and Ridge Avenue. On the corner of Park and Fourth there is new construction – new housing, new homes. However, Fourth Street has not changed much since the fifties and sixties.
Not quite the distance of one block after crossing Park Avenue there is Linwood Avenue on the right. It is still a simple, unpaved, dirt street. A few houses back on the left side there is 319.
There is still a porch across the front of the house. There are still two doors leading to the two separate living quarters. Our door was on the right. In the summers, growing up in the early fifties, frequently the door behind the screen door was open. There was no air conditioning, so the front door was left open, along with the back door, to allow natural breezes to flow through the house. God’s air conditioning helped to make the summers bearable.
Our neighbor from the left side of the house, Mrs. Zachary frequently sat in a rocking chair on the porch in the summers. I remember her as big and fat and dark and happy. She had this wonderful smile that showcased her white teeth.
© 2009 Sandra Butler Tubbs
On visits before dad's death, I would usually take a ride to Fourth Street to see where I had lived in my early years: 319 Linwood Avenue. It was a two-family house owned by Mr. Cantor, almost at the end of a dead end street. We lived on the right side of the house. There was a dirt street in front, where Karen Cantor and I sometimes played as little girls.
Reggie and I were in Lakewood in July 2009 for Linda and John's 20th wedding anniversary. Because we were in Lakewood for more than an overnight, I found my way to Fourth Street and looked for Linwood Avenue. It was not there! The entire little street was gone.
There is something disquieting about someplace that I do not visit, never being available again - in case I want to drive by. They say “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”. I never thought about that happening to the places of my past.
__________________________________
Here in rural NC, we have a small writing group that meets at the Warren County Library and our facilitator, Arlene S. Bice, gives us writing prompts. In September 2006, the writing prompt was something like: describe how to get to a place you have lived. Well, I wrote about 319 Linwood Avenue and it looks like that will be my last memory of 319 Linwood Avenue.
Directions from Newark Airport to 319 Linwood Avenue:
In 2000, 319 Linwood Avenue in Lakewood, NJ still existed and looked much like it did when I was growing up there in the early fifties.
Leaving Newark Airport, driving south on Route 9, the urban/suburban road congestion continues well past Freehold and then the traffic begins to thin out as you approach Howell, then drive into Lakewood.
Just after you enter Lakewood, the Regent Diner is still on the left of Route 9, with its marquee style sign that glittered like Hollywood in the sixties, but now it is old and dull. Crossing over County Line Road – the cemetery is still at the corner of 14th Street. There’s Temple Beth Am on the right. That brings back memories of the interfaith services held in the mid-60s with Sixth Street Baptist Church and Temple Beth Am. My godfather, Rev. George Crawley and Rabbi Yedwab were leaders that were ahead of their time.
The Post Hotel’s beautiful ceramic mosaic artwork is missing, gone forever. Where the hotel once stood majestic are now apartments. Maybe they are condominiums, but I cannot imagine Lakewood with a condominium lifestyle community.
At Fourth Street, turn left crossing Clifton Avenue, then Lexington Avenue, then Monmouth Avenue, and finally crossing Park Avenue. The old synagogue is still at the intersection of Fourth Street, Park Avenue and Ridge Avenue. On the corner of Park and Fourth there is new construction – new housing, new homes. However, Fourth Street has not changed much since the fifties and sixties.
Not quite the distance of one block after crossing Park Avenue there is Linwood Avenue on the right. It is still a simple, unpaved, dirt street. A few houses back on the left side there is 319.
There is still a porch across the front of the house. There are still two doors leading to the two separate living quarters. Our door was on the right. In the summers, growing up in the early fifties, frequently the door behind the screen door was open. There was no air conditioning, so the front door was left open, along with the back door, to allow natural breezes to flow through the house. God’s air conditioning helped to make the summers bearable.
Our neighbor from the left side of the house, Mrs. Zachary frequently sat in a rocking chair on the porch in the summers. I remember her as big and fat and dark and happy. She had this wonderful smile that showcased her white teeth.
© 2009 Sandra Butler Tubbs
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
WWJD … A Story of a Mother’s Wisdom
The acronym WWJD has come to mean, ‘What would Jesus do?’ For me it is an instant reminder of Jessie Butler’s wisdom. Jessie Elma Mason Butler was the smartest woman I have ever known, so the question for me is: what would Jessie do? Or more appropriately, what would mommy do?
Born in 1903, she is only remembered today by a handful of people – most of her contemporaries are deceased now, like her. She died in September 1976, but to me it seems like last year because her legacy is so strong.
To most people, there was nothing special about her. She was a housewife, who did her laundry on Mondays, her ironing on Tuesdays, etc. At church she was a deaconess, missionary and choir member. Everyone loved her homemade rolls and three-layer coconut cakes. Before I was born in 1949, she did days-work by cleaning other people’s homes and helping care for their children. Before that she did boring factory work.
In her life she fell in love at least twice, getting married both times. The first time was to a man that I did not know, not even his name. In the pre-Roots fifties and sixties, people did not tell their children their history. He died long before William Butler, tall and handsome in his World War II uniforms, came into her life and certainly before I was born.
I only knew of Jessie’s first husband by an occasional overheard conversation of the grown-ups and from one story she shared with me when I was in middle school.
It seems that Jessie and her first husband lived in the country of Ocean County, near Whitesville, New Jersey in the 1930’s. Jessie worked, but did not drive. She received rides to work with friends that worked with her.
When Jessie needed to go to the store she had to wait for her husband to take her. When Jessie needed to see the doctor or dentist or ophthalmologist, she had to schedule appointments for when her husband could take her. So there were definitely no free moments to window-shop or explore anything new or to chat with shopkeepers or friends. Jessie felt stifled. Stuck in the country with no car, she had no opportunities to visit friends for a cup of tea or to visit an ailing church member. Jessie’s first husband was going to teach her how to drive, but somehow he never found the time to teach her. It was not his priority.
So what’s a woman to do?
Jessie knew that if she learned to drive, the quality of her life would improve tremendously. Encouraged by her co-workers, Jessie set upon a plan to learn to drive. She got home before her husband and she used that time for her co-workers to teach her how to work the brakes, the clutch, shift gears and all the other things she needed to know in order to drive a stick-shift car, in the days before automatic transmissions. They used the land around Jessie’s house as a training ground. Jessie practiced backing up and u-turns and k-turns. And then one day she was comfortable driving a car by herself. It was time for her to get her driver’s license.
The three conspirators picked a day when they would go to work late and they took Jessie to get her driver’s license. She passed both the written and driving portions of the test and got her New Jersey driver's license. She went on to work that day and came home that evening, as if nothing had happened. She cooked dinner. She and her husband ate dinner. She washed the dishes.
Then she calmly asked her husband for the keys to the car so that she could visit her friend Marie. He asked her why she wanted the car keys when she did not know how to drive. She pulled her new driver’s license from her pocket, proof that not only did she know how to drive but also that the state of New Jersey had approved of her driving.
He was so shocked and stunned that he had nothing to say and he handed her the car keys, without any argument or discussion. Jessie drove cars for the rest of her life, nearly forty years.
This story was told to me in the late fifties, early sixties when there was little encouragement for ‘colored’ girls to find themselves. Jessie shared this story to let me know that women and especially Negro women did not have to be stifled by someone else’s ideas of what they could and could not do.
As human beings we are responsible for finding our own destiny. It is in the simple things that people get lost and trapped into lives they do not want. To Jessie, driving was an important piece of defining her destiny. Once she knew how to drive, she could change her work from mindless and meaningless in some sweatshop to day’s work. In the twenty-first century that does not seem like much, but it allowed her to be her own boss – to work for who she wanted. It allowed her to deal as an adult with two families, who in spite of their racial difference, treated her with respect and friendship. A friendship that lasted beyond the years that she worked for them.
Jessie’s first husband would have died content if she had never learned to drive, but instead he was able to die content that she had learned to drive. She was a better partner, able to share in the tasks and carry her own weight by bringing more income into the household.
Jessie’s legacy to me is to not be trapped by my circumstances. ... use my mind and whatever God-given talents I have and work my problems out.
Jessie taught me that some situations do not require a heated argument or debate. She could have spent years fighting and fussing about when her husband was going to teach her to drive and they would have grown to hate each other. He did not say she could not drive; he just did not have the time to teach her.
Jessie taught me to figure out what is the true problem and then solve it. In the situation with Jessie’s driver’s license, the true problem was learning to drive and not that her husband had to teach her how to drive.
Jessie taught me to never settle. She encouraged me to not become content with where I was. She encouraged me to seek out and learn new things. In my twenties and early thirties, I worked for United Airlines and used my travel benefits to visit Hawaii, Europe, South America and the Caribbean. When I returned to visit Lakewood, NJ, the mothers at Sixth St Baptist Church always looked for an engagement ring and asked when I was going to settle down and marry? And Jessie would always tell them “leave her alone, she has plenty of time to settle down - she’s traveling and seeing and learning new things.”
Jessie’s wisdom was the strong foundation that I needed to go forth into a world that would present many challenges to a young, intelligent, black woman. I believe that I have faced them and that I have conquered them because of Jessie’s wisdom.
As I face challenges in the future, I believe that I will conquer them because of Jessie’s powerful legacy of wisdom, encouragement and love.
© 2009 Sandra Butler Tubbs
Born in 1903, she is only remembered today by a handful of people – most of her contemporaries are deceased now, like her. She died in September 1976, but to me it seems like last year because her legacy is so strong.
To most people, there was nothing special about her. She was a housewife, who did her laundry on Mondays, her ironing on Tuesdays, etc. At church she was a deaconess, missionary and choir member. Everyone loved her homemade rolls and three-layer coconut cakes. Before I was born in 1949, she did days-work by cleaning other people’s homes and helping care for their children. Before that she did boring factory work.
In her life she fell in love at least twice, getting married both times. The first time was to a man that I did not know, not even his name. In the pre-Roots fifties and sixties, people did not tell their children their history. He died long before William Butler, tall and handsome in his World War II uniforms, came into her life and certainly before I was born.
I only knew of Jessie’s first husband by an occasional overheard conversation of the grown-ups and from one story she shared with me when I was in middle school.
It seems that Jessie and her first husband lived in the country of Ocean County, near Whitesville, New Jersey in the 1930’s. Jessie worked, but did not drive. She received rides to work with friends that worked with her.
When Jessie needed to go to the store she had to wait for her husband to take her. When Jessie needed to see the doctor or dentist or ophthalmologist, she had to schedule appointments for when her husband could take her. So there were definitely no free moments to window-shop or explore anything new or to chat with shopkeepers or friends. Jessie felt stifled. Stuck in the country with no car, she had no opportunities to visit friends for a cup of tea or to visit an ailing church member. Jessie’s first husband was going to teach her how to drive, but somehow he never found the time to teach her. It was not his priority.
So what’s a woman to do?
Jessie knew that if she learned to drive, the quality of her life would improve tremendously. Encouraged by her co-workers, Jessie set upon a plan to learn to drive. She got home before her husband and she used that time for her co-workers to teach her how to work the brakes, the clutch, shift gears and all the other things she needed to know in order to drive a stick-shift car, in the days before automatic transmissions. They used the land around Jessie’s house as a training ground. Jessie practiced backing up and u-turns and k-turns. And then one day she was comfortable driving a car by herself. It was time for her to get her driver’s license.
The three conspirators picked a day when they would go to work late and they took Jessie to get her driver’s license. She passed both the written and driving portions of the test and got her New Jersey driver's license. She went on to work that day and came home that evening, as if nothing had happened. She cooked dinner. She and her husband ate dinner. She washed the dishes.
Then she calmly asked her husband for the keys to the car so that she could visit her friend Marie. He asked her why she wanted the car keys when she did not know how to drive. She pulled her new driver’s license from her pocket, proof that not only did she know how to drive but also that the state of New Jersey had approved of her driving.
He was so shocked and stunned that he had nothing to say and he handed her the car keys, without any argument or discussion. Jessie drove cars for the rest of her life, nearly forty years.
This story was told to me in the late fifties, early sixties when there was little encouragement for ‘colored’ girls to find themselves. Jessie shared this story to let me know that women and especially Negro women did not have to be stifled by someone else’s ideas of what they could and could not do.
As human beings we are responsible for finding our own destiny. It is in the simple things that people get lost and trapped into lives they do not want. To Jessie, driving was an important piece of defining her destiny. Once she knew how to drive, she could change her work from mindless and meaningless in some sweatshop to day’s work. In the twenty-first century that does not seem like much, but it allowed her to be her own boss – to work for who she wanted. It allowed her to deal as an adult with two families, who in spite of their racial difference, treated her with respect and friendship. A friendship that lasted beyond the years that she worked for them.
Jessie’s first husband would have died content if she had never learned to drive, but instead he was able to die content that she had learned to drive. She was a better partner, able to share in the tasks and carry her own weight by bringing more income into the household.
Jessie’s legacy to me is to not be trapped by my circumstances. ... use my mind and whatever God-given talents I have and work my problems out.
Jessie taught me that some situations do not require a heated argument or debate. She could have spent years fighting and fussing about when her husband was going to teach her to drive and they would have grown to hate each other. He did not say she could not drive; he just did not have the time to teach her.
Jessie taught me to figure out what is the true problem and then solve it. In the situation with Jessie’s driver’s license, the true problem was learning to drive and not that her husband had to teach her how to drive.
Jessie taught me to never settle. She encouraged me to not become content with where I was. She encouraged me to seek out and learn new things. In my twenties and early thirties, I worked for United Airlines and used my travel benefits to visit Hawaii, Europe, South America and the Caribbean. When I returned to visit Lakewood, NJ, the mothers at Sixth St Baptist Church always looked for an engagement ring and asked when I was going to settle down and marry? And Jessie would always tell them “leave her alone, she has plenty of time to settle down - she’s traveling and seeing and learning new things.”
Jessie’s wisdom was the strong foundation that I needed to go forth into a world that would present many challenges to a young, intelligent, black woman. I believe that I have faced them and that I have conquered them because of Jessie’s wisdom.
As I face challenges in the future, I believe that I will conquer them because of Jessie’s powerful legacy of wisdom, encouragement and love.
© 2009 Sandra Butler Tubbs
Beginning the Journey
A private person with lots of thoughts, I have decided to use this venue to express them.
NOW I live in rural North Carolina and I do not have many outlets for casual chit-chat about hot topics, current or past; heated, passionate discussions on political or social issues; or just general, rambling conversation over tea. I moved here in 2005 to deal with aging-parent-with-Alzheimer's issues. The parent (more later) died December 15, 2008 and up to then I was kept busy with the endless challenges and resultant decision-making of being in that situation.
BEFORE I lived in the Boston area, the San Francisco bay area, the Chicago neighborhoods and its suburbs, and small town New Jersey, with lots of friends, acquaintances, organizations and activities along the way. My brain was always stimulated.
After four years here I do not want to go back to BEFORE, but I long for more then NOW. Watching the ladies of The View is no longer enough, I need more!
© 2009 Sandra Butler Tubbs
NOW I live in rural North Carolina and I do not have many outlets for casual chit-chat about hot topics, current or past; heated, passionate discussions on political or social issues; or just general, rambling conversation over tea. I moved here in 2005 to deal with aging-parent-with-Alzheimer's issues. The parent (more later) died December 15, 2008 and up to then I was kept busy with the endless challenges and resultant decision-making of being in that situation.
BEFORE I lived in the Boston area, the San Francisco bay area, the Chicago neighborhoods and its suburbs, and small town New Jersey, with lots of friends, acquaintances, organizations and activities along the way. My brain was always stimulated.
After four years here I do not want to go back to BEFORE, but I long for more then NOW. Watching the ladies of The View is no longer enough, I need more!
© 2009 Sandra Butler Tubbs
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