Emory's Ember

After the death of my mother in 2006, unseen photographs of her mother, Winnie Potts Bridges, magically appeared.  Like long lost spirits freed from the prison of a cardboard box, those buried treasures  sprang  to life... images  from the late eighteen hundreds and early twentieth century. Creased and faded from time, they became a bittersweet  study in what might have been and why it had not. Contributors: Cousin Ileene Dillard and  citizens of Rains and Hopkins Counties: Woody and Gail Garmon, Kathey Russell Weatherford and The Rains County Leader.

                                                   

Winnie Potts and friend.

Mother knew I would find the photos of her mother after she passed away. Those surprising, long ago images  presented a  tender  chapter  in the story of Winnie and Clyde... before our grandfather Harold rewrote the ending . Mother may have known that an ember of girlhood romance died when her mother Winnie took her last breath. She had never shown me those pictures for a reason and kept them separate from the family albums, as if they were part of an old secret.

Before I found the photos,  I never really knew my grandmother in depth. She  was frozen in time .... as simply  "Gram-ma"of my early childhood,  in Angelina County, Texas. In my mind's eye, she is still in her garden pulling okra and butter beans, working  silently, her face half hidden by her cotton  bonnet with the tiny blue flowers, looking back to make sure I am close by. I see her churning  butter on the back porch,  sleeves rolled up, expression determined, working the wooden paddle  endlessly and pressing the final product into the round butter mold  with the daisy pattern.The image of that glorious mound of pressed fragrant spread, was and is an amazement to me.

 Then the intricate butter flowers  melt slowly in the heat of my grandmother's kitchen...as if a thing of perfection can hardly be expected to last... 

Winnie Elizabeth Potts Bridges was as  solid and enduring as a boulder...she who secretly watched from behind the curtains, as I rode my bike around the bend and past  my grandparents' little rock  house...right up until I arrived safely at the school across the road. There is little doubt that she checked on me at recess from her front porch. It was she who sent my uncles over with the huge old upright piano, so I could practice my lessons at home, and of course, it was a misplaced good deed, as I preferred the woods to sitting at the piano bench... try as I did to conform in a family of musicians.

Without a doubt, my grandmother Winnie was a good woman and even a fun-loving woman when she had the chance to be. Yet , sometimes, there was about her a slight sense of detachment, as if she were somewhere else in time.

Then many years later, after my grandparents were gone and mother had joined them, I pulled the first photograph from the box while going through my mother's personal effects. I would not have known it was my grandmother had I not read her name scrawled at the top. She was a dark haired teenager, smiling coyily at a WWI soldier sitting beside her on a bale of hay. His name was written beside hers: Clyde Kearney.

Winnie Potts and Clyde Kearney, 1918.

Winnie, Clyde with sister and beau, 1918.

My naive assumption that Winnie had no suitor except Harold Bridges  flew out the window.I call the photo above, left,  the "hay bale picture". It was taken during World War I. The soldier's name was Clyde Edward Kearney. Of Irish descent, he was born in Bristol, Tennessee in 1897 and arrived with his parents to Emory, Texas around 1910. He went to war in 1918 and returned  home safely. Winnie's life, however, took a different direction...away from that quiet rural village, away from a  flame that  may or may not have been  fully extinquished .

The "bouquet photo" below is haunting in its somber, even sad feel. We can guess forever as to what the circumstances might have been. Clyde and Winnie appear younger  and quite serious. Whatever the situation may have been, they are outdoors and dressed up. This image might depict nothing more than  a problem that Clyde resolved with  hand picked wildflowers. Yet  the moment seems significant to me somehow.It may have been the day he shipped out. It may have been something even more tragic.The completion of the puzzle is impossible, as Winnie took the final misssing piece of it with her.

 A pensive Clyde and Winnie, before 1918.

What happened to Clyde and Winnie?

We know by the first "hay bale" photo that the couple continued to be friendly, even after he entered the army in 1918. During his service abroad, Winnie must have met Harold Bridges, they married in 1920 and settled in Lufkin.  Winnie left her home town of Emory  and all she had known.

 My grandfather Harold Bridges was a tall man in his youth, with chiseled features and dark skin. Clyde, in contrast, was slighter of frame with softer features and fair skin. Something makes me sense that he was quiet and sensitive. So what happened? All I know is what my grandparents told me when I was seventeen...but Clyde's name was never spoken.

 "I chased your grandma 'round a lake on horseback 'till I  caught 'er," Grandpa boasted.  I picture Harold on horseback galloping after Winnie and swooping her off her feet, swinging her up into the saddle . Why was Winnie running? Apparently, she was reluctant to allow Harold to court her, because, as she told me:" The girls told me to watch out for Harold."  She then, in certain terms, let me know that  Harold had been  a romeo of sorts...as are many men in their youth. I finally decided, Harold simply swept Winnie off her feet and stole her away most likely while Clyde was away at war.

Harold and Winnie Bridges, married 1920.

The marriage had his challenges. The depression hit and jobs were scarce in East Texas. Nine children were born at home with the use of chloroform to ease the pain. Eight survived until adulthood. Winnie's grief must have been profound after the loss of her baby boy, but there was little time to mend a broken heart, as the next child was soon to arrive.  My guess is the loss of her baby was another reason for the change in her personality.

My mother Ruth, who was the oldest child, related  to me that Winnie was often frail  during pregnancy, and the smell of meat cooking made her deathly ill. When mother was old enough to reach the stove,  it was she who cooked the meat....if there was any to be had. The family's diet consisted primarily of garden vegetables and sometimes milk. The girls  hauled water from a creek  for boiling and washing clothes in the black cast iron pot outdoors. Their hands were raw and numb from scrubbing laundry on wash boards and hanging the clothing in the  chilling wind of winter....a wind that blew through the gaps between the boards of their primitive little house as they shivered in bed after a hard day.

Harold was a proud man who would not accept food subsidies as did many families during those years. In the early years, he got on with the Lufkin Ice Company in the 1920s and delivered blocks of ice by horse and wagon. He was  often  late coming home, causing Winnie to go in search of him. There's was the story of many in that era...clinging to life , surviving, and somehow finding  joy in their music. The marriage was not idyllic. It was real.  The union lasted as much out of  love, I think, as necessity.

 During the thirties and forties, Harold worked for a government program called Civil Conservation Corp. and was a stone mason, traveling all over Texas to  build stone walls and edifices at State Parks. His work remains a tribute to one man's effort to keep his family alive. Harold was not a perfect man, but he matured through the years to become, at last, the man that Winnie wanted him to be...the one who loved her enough to pursue her  on horseback.

And what happened to Clyde Kearney, the old flame who brought Winnie a bouquet of wildflowers? The soldier came home to Emory from World War I,  eventually married, had  a successful business and lived out his days,  uneventfully, until his death in 1979. Did the two old sweethearts ever see each other again? My guess is that they ran into each other at some point on Winnie's visit to family. But it could never be the same. The lively, carefree  girl of  the old photographs was gone, and in her place was a stoic woman who had been tempered to steel. But in my heart I know that the ember from the old flame in Emory glowed dimly... until  1985, when Winnie at last took her rightful place... with Harold in Paradise.

                                                      

Maude's Hope: Against the Storm

A serious minded Maude at left.

Twisters are a part of life across the  flat fields and prairies of  North Texas, and the residents take it all in stride, except for a long ago introspective child named Maude Terry. Within any darkened sky, the little girl watched for dark funnels of destruction, as  hail  plummeted  the tin roof of the tiny frame house in open field. She waited for disaster, certain it would come.

In Spring,  an occasional  black wedge pointed a deadly finger to the earth and morphed into the  mindless monster ...something almost alive in its  intensity. No one is left to tell us what  Maude  may have experienced, but I am certain the dread of  twisters plagued Maude for many years.You see I came to know her as my mother's great aunt many years later when I was a small child.


By the time I came along, Maude was married to Hope Gill,  her second husband, and had moved south to Deep East Texas. She and Hope settled down next door to be near our family  in a little community springing up around the Southland  Paper Mill.  The Gills' marriage was an idyllic union. Hope  gave Maude security, and she provided him with a   home filled with lace doilies and doo-dads, waxed floors and a pantry filled with canned vegetables from the garden .

 In her later years, Maude was like a little bird who had forgotten its song and never learned  to soar. Standing well under five feet tall,  quiet and quick , she was the exact opposite of Hope who was lumbering and boisterous....a Major Hoople type.  Hope was confident and aggressive, while  Maude was  serious and restrained. Yet both were alike in their love for children and treated Joe and me with affection. We loved to visit  their sunny little kitchen which often provided freshly churned ice cream. If I was shy about accepting a dish of it,  Hope would set things straight: "Better have some ice cream, little gal. It'll make you purty!" How could I refuse?

Each week, Mother sent brother Joe over to buy fresh eggs from Maude, who was able to provide herself with a little mad money compliments of  productive hens. One giant white chicken  decided to follow me home. I gave it the predictable name of Henny Penny.It became my own special pet and followed me about. Ours was a happy alliance with the relatives next door, and all was peaceful...for awhile any way.

Maude's tornado watch never ended. A sudden thunder storm or  straight wind would cause her to scan the sky and warn  the neighbors: "Storm's a'coming!"
She would run back home to keep her eagle eye on our roof top television  antenna  as it swayed in the wind. If ever it was askew, she would trot over  to tell us in her tremulous voice. My father would patiently cajole her by saying she need not fear, that  he was aware of it. She appeared to be disappointed in his lack of  concern.Yes indeed, wind fired Maude  up like  nothing else . It was as if the violence of storms sparked a primitive  part of her inner being. Sometimes it seemed  a funnel cloud whirled up from within her tiny body,.from somewhere deep and dark.

  Maude finally hit a home run with her emergency weather bulletins. That was the day Daddy   loaded us up in the Chevy  in an attempt to outrun  some suspicious dark mass in the sky. He drove as fast as he could safely do so, as Joe and I stared out the back window fearing a make- believe monster that suddenly dissipated.  It was  such a disappointment.  I don't know how far we traveled,  but we  came home late to business as usual. The house still stood, and the garage, which  leaned, had done so  for awhile any way.  I  wished there had been at least a moderate disaster, maybe a few limbs down, anything to make my father's wild journey less embarrassing . Although I could not see Mother's face in the front seat, I remember the sound of barely contained laughter. Aunt Maude was having a maddeningly merry effect on her great niece, much to my father's consternation.

Maude's surprise in-person weather updates built to a crescendo  before  we got a proper bathroom. Privacy was difficult to achieve when the only place you had to bathe was   an aluminum wash tub set on the linoleum floor in the kitchen. It was tricky to say the least. We never knew when Maude would charge over to rattle the back screen door that  led to the kitchen/make-do bath to deliver her  weather reports. Sometimes my father barely escaped being caught racing from the bath water.


Something had to be done. Finally, Hope Gill saved the day. He decided to take matters in his own beefy hands. Before the next Spring,  he set out to dig  a huge wide hole in the Gill's back yard. Enough was enough. Maude was  wreaking havoc with her obsession.  He decided to provide Maude  with the safe haven and sense of security she craved. It was a fine thing. Yes, indeed.  Hope Gill was going to build his little wife a storm cellar.

Now everyone knew Hope was no builder. I 'm sure he had help with the concrete room that was to be Maude's underground shelter, but he doggedly  stayed right with it. The project brought to mind the time Hope worked on their garage roof and fell through. I witnessed the entire event. There was a loud crack of the framing and a loud PLOP! when the big man hit ground. I heard his desperate screams as Maude rushed outside  to help lift him up. Considering his inept history,  everyone around the paper mill wondered how  Hope was  going to  finish such a remarkable achievement as a storm cellar. The neighborhood was abuzz the day construction began.

Nevermind the naysayers. Hope was on an inspired mission, and the shelter was finally finished without incident.Trouble was, it was never used for its intended purpose. The refuge became a fabulous  hiding place  for me. I can still smell the acrid aroma of cement and visualize the  shelves loaded with Maude's  canned goods and emergency supplies. I may have been the only one who  found a purpose for that underground room. Yet just knowing it was there seemed to give Maude a sense of safety she had never had. I guess that's all she really wanted.

 I am sure there are those who thought Hope was a fool, but he paid no attention.  There were a few   shelters in Deep East Texas, and no one  else in our neck of the woods had thought it necessary to build one. Everyone knew tornadoes were scarce in the Pineywoods, and mild when they did touch down. Yet Hope was strong in his resolve, and Maude was happy. The pep in her step returned, her ice cream maker churned away, and peace returned to our house too.

Long after I grew up and left home, I was told that Hope had passed away. They found him propped against a big shade tree on the banks of the Trinity River, fishing pole clutched in his hand,  eyes closed peacefully, a smile on his face. From bits and pieces heard here and there, I learned that Maude had begun to lose her grip on reality with the passing of her Faithful Protector. Mother found her wandering  the roads, trying to get to the grocery store and  picked her up and took her there in the car.

"I just wanted to get me some candy," she whispered peevishly as she clutched her coins tied up in a starched white handkerchief.

 Mother found her along the road on a hot summer day in a state of frustration. When  asked  what was wrong, she  announced " I was trying to go to church, but  nobody was there, and I was locked out! "
Mother  explained that it was not a regular day for worship services, unruffled her feathers and brought her home.Sometimes I think Maude  lost her compass when Hope died. Finally,  our special friend and relative passed on to a place where there were no more dark clouds, no more worries.

Decades passed, and the old storm cellar became obscured by overgrowth, and  its wooden door rotted away. New folks moved into the neighborhood, and no one knew it was ever there. But I remembered. For it was I who  made use of its underground depths when the world above was off kilter. It was I who knew what it really represented. After all was said and done,  that old cellar was a cement monument, one man's tribute to the love  of  his life. Maybe that was all it needed to be.

                  

STAYING BETWEEN THE LINES

Note:  The following essay has been rewritten from the original, which was published in the Houston Chronicle "Texas Magazine" in 2002...JFH.

 It all started with first grade in 1950. It was to be the year I learned many things, not the least of which was to conform... or suffer the consequences. There was no escaping the rules, and being a shy and obedient six year old,  I wanted more than anything to please the adults in my life. I knew that if I did everything my parents and teacher told me, I would go to Heaven.

The indoctrination began on that very first day of school: "Learn to color between the lines...like this," Teacher said as she held up a classmate's artwork displaying  a neat blue band across the top for sky and a neat green band across the bottom for earth. My picture, on the other hand, displayed a sky and earth whirled recklessly together  with colors more common to a 64 count crayola box than nature. First Grade Rule Number One:" Color Between the Lines".

There were  other new rules that went against the essence of childhood... although in later years, the rules made more sense to me: No wading in the creek. No climbing trees. Without these outlets, we turned to watching the janitor's hogs. It being a somewhat rural area, it seemed not at all unusual for Mr. Pigg ( yes, that was actually his last name) to pen up his porkers behind the school and feed them the ton of scraps from our  lunch. It began to be a source of entertainment to watch the animals  scarf down our cafeteria leftovers...especially the green peas which comprised over half of the swill.

 Lesson #1: Nothing really fun lasts forever. Teacher decided we needed  organized  "social" games, like "Red Rover" and "Farmer in the Dell", neither of which made sense to me, but I followed along  Obviously, watching pigs feed was never going to be an actual part of recess if she had her way.

 By the time Teacher got us under control, it was time for the Spring Pageant. The boys and girls selling the most tickets would be crowned kings and queens for each grade. With the number of realtives I had, it was inevitable ...but still a shock to me:  I somehow ended up  Queen of the First Grade. My relatives bought up every ticket I had with little effort on my part...often wrenching it from my sweaty little paws. I wasn't sure what went with that title, but I had to be the best queen I could be  Me...who was so bashful, I hid behind the door when strangers came to our house.

My coronation costume was as unique as the person who made it. "Aunt Ruby" was a distant, elderly relative on my mother's side She bustled into the house one day with tape measure,  crepe paper, and inspiration. She had come, she said, to "whip up the stage dress" It was  to be a creation of tier after flouncy tier of  buttercup yellow crepe paper, which when finished, stood out stiffly and crinkly.... and wonderful.


The King of the First Grade was  to be crowned "King Charles", although some of the other boys called him various other names. He and I were given rules for entering the auditorium and standing in place on stage.  Things had to be done  "THE RIGHT WAY" Teacher said. "Children remember...kings must stay to the left and Queens to the right. Always." When the music started, we were to walk with the rest of elementary school royalty to the stage. We were to stand next to floor length, torch-like candlesticks, complete with lighted candles  atop. There was to be a crowning ceremony, and then we would traipse off stage.  How difficult could it be? There was no way we could mess it up. All I had to do was remember that critical "Stay on the Right Side Rule". I focused on it with all my might.

The night of the pageant, I arrived at the school auditorium with my family. Decked out in Aunt Ruby's creation, I floated into a feminine gaggle of taffeta and lace. I was the only one wearing crepe paper... yellow at that. I was like a renegade canary in a flock of doves. King Charles arrived with hair slicked down, wearing a bow tie, holding flowers. He stumbled toward me after a gentle push from his mother. I had no idea why he was carrying a bouquet in place of his usual water pistol. For some reason, he handed them to me. I thought maybe he wanted me to hold them for him, because he was embarrassed.

Suddenly piano music drifted out from the auditorium, and the older kids pushed us to the front. I remember nothing about walking down the aisle to the stage. I have no idea if I  remembered  that critical " Right Side Rule" or if I even remembered to breathe. My brain had been flash-frozen by fear.

Somehow, I ended up on stage before a packed auditorium, standing next to the torches whose flames burned brightly in the darkness. I felt sick with sheer, mindless panic. My knees began to shake, and the crepe paper flounces rustled like a cornfield in  a windstorm. I was about to end my reign by keeling over... or worse...throwing up in front of hundreds of loyal subjects. There went my kingdom in one swoop of indignity.  I couldn't even get myself  crowned without flubbing it. In an effort to steady myself, I grabbed the candleholder for support. So desperate was my grip, that as I swayed to one side, I pulled the lighted taper toward me...a sinking girl-queen grasping a flaming life line.

 I heard one huge common gasp from the darkened auditorium.

"Move!Move!Move!" ... "Oh No!" came the shouts. All I saw were the whites of hundreds of eyes...all focusing on me, the Queen of the First Grade. Ha, that was a joke.What a miserable queen. Then I heard the wooden seats flipping up in unison and imagined the entire audience storming the stage.

 I knew what I had done! I had forgotten the Right Side Rule. Everyone else knew it too.


"Trade places quick," I whispered to to King Charles. "I'm on the wrong side!"
The dazed boy-king actually obeyed, maybe for the last time in his life. I handed him back his bouquet. I had held it for him long enough. He looked at me dumbfounded but took the posey of viloets  and held them in front of him with shaking hands. I knew I was going down fast. My crepe paper dress rustled harder. My shaky legs began to buckle, and  as I gripped the other floor length candlestick, it began to move with me.  The flame felt warmer and warmer, as my cardboard crown shifted with each sway of my shaking body.

Now people were out of their seats and shouting  at me. Was there no pleasing them? Hadn't I finally remembered the Right Side Rule?  I looked off stage to Teacher for direction, but  her mouth was opened in a silent scream of horror. I knew as soon as she came to her senses she was coming to take away my crown. Suddenly, someone rushed the stage and huffed mightily in an effort to extinquish the candles. It was all too much. The curtains closed, and my reign had ended. I had failed miserably.


Mother looked both distraught and relieved as she talked to Teacher. I picked up words like "fire," "candles", "crepe paper". Mother was saying things like "If I had only known..."

That's when Truth wormed its way down into my petrified brain. At last I knew the truth.

After the most exciting pageant in school history  came to an end, life went on as usual. Teacher looked at me with eyes filled with pity. She even let me draw and color as I pleased, although her mouth tensed at the idea of running over the lines. I learned a lot in first grade, but I never learned exactly what was expected of me. Even now, I tend to run beyond the borders of convention...just a little... still... always... looking for that line.I just know it's there somewhere.