My Myriad Muse

Grace Hess McIntyre Smith, March 3, 1910 – May 4, 1969.

I was held by Grace

Statuesque, resolute, and the embodiment of her name –

she walked in grace.

I was held by Grace.

I don’t have a memory of her embrace;

I was a newborn child when she cradled me in her arms.

But there is a photo of her holding me which tugs at my remembrance…

I am Grace’s great granddaughter.

I was held by grace.

Flora Mae McIntyre Smith, (April 25, 1925 – January 11, 1977) a quiet spirit who was never known to say an unkind word about anyone. I am inspired by her sustaining love.

I was blessed to know Grandma Flora for almost 8 years of my life. There are many stories about this stoic woman that I could share:  stories about integration, or about her feeding the hobos who knocked on her door when she lived near the railroad line in Kewanee; stories about her “knocking someone down to size” for the crime of trying to shame her children, or about her undying love for her husband; stories about her raising her own children, and also raising her younger siblings after their father died.

Today I will share a story about a moment which I recall spending with her before she passed away.

Seven/Fourteen

I remember being in the back of my cousins’ station wagon (replete with 70s faux wood paneling on the side.) Grandma Flora was sitting with us kids in the back of the wagon as my aunt drove us to our destination. My grandmother’s health was failing at the time, but I was too young to comprehend exactly what that meant.

She told me, there in the back of that station wagon, that she would love to see me at 14 years old. What about that age made her request that wish? I was about 7 then. She passed away not too long after that.

My mother decided that I was too young to attend the funeral. In my young mind, I conceptualized her death as her moving to a faraway place where I would never be able to see her again. In that way, she wasn’t really gone, she just existed in a place intangible.

Another lifetime had passed for me between seven and fourteen (all of my years lived times two); and now and then, I would recall her having said to me that she wanted to see me at 14. On my 14^th birthday, I waited for her ghost. I was a little afraid, but I really wanted to see her. I kept waiting, intermittently all of my fourteenth year… trying to recall the sound of her breathing, the quiet warmth of her laugh, the glowing light in her smile, the softness of her palms, the slow movement of her gait; checking all of my senses for hints at her presence, listening quietly as I fell asleep at night to see if I could hear her whispering to me that she could see me.

I waited.

I don’t recall a visit from her. Maybe I was just not able to perceive her quiet presence…

Rest in peace, Grandma Flora. Your unyielding love still lives on in the ones upon whom you shined your radiant light.

My great, great, grandmother, Ora Walker, was born April 6, 1891 in Brownsville, TN. She died September 28, 1971 in Kewanee, IL.  She came north to Kewanee possibly sometime between 1925-1931, after leaving her first husband, Charley Hess, with whom she had 7 children, 5 of which died in the influenza plague of 1917. She later married Jimmy Walker. She ended up burying her one remaining daughter two years before she herself passed away.

I am inspired by her strength and perseverance, given the incredible struggles and sorrows which she endured. She was a woman of devout faith, and held on to that faith amidst her tribulations.

Following is the story that I wrote about her. (Names have been changed.)

“By and by…”

Monica J. Brown ©2012

                    By and by, when the morning comes,

                    all the saints of God will gather home,

                    we’re going to tell the story of how we’ve overcome,

                    and we will understand it better by and by.

                    (excerpt from hymnal by Charles A. Tindley, 1905)

By and by… Cause Lord knows I don’t understand it all right now. I’ve got a question in my heart, but I’ll let it rest there for now as I ponder the word. And I’m sure that the pastor will preach an edifying sermon on Sunday morning. I’ll be there bright and early and ready to hear what the spirit has to say. I’ve got my tan hat and my cream gabardine suit laid out, starched, pressed and ready.

Tomorrow is fourth Sunday. The 4^th Sunday dinner with the saints is one of my most treasured times in the house of the Lord. I’ve washed and pressed the linens for the table setting. The silverware is polished, and the menu prepared. The other sisters will make their contributions. This month, Sister Bethel is gonna bake the chickens and make the dressing. Mother Mayfield will make the coleslaw and corn muffins. Sister Ray is doing the mashed potatoes and gravy. Sister Allen will bake the sweet potato pies. I’ll bring the ham and beans. Yes, YES! It’s gonna be a nice Sunday dinner.

In the summertime I gather beans in fresh from my garden. I like to sit out on my front porch in the open air to snap them. The snapping sounds like a song once I settle into my rhythm. Sometimes I sing along, just a little hum. Makes the work go faster, too.

One day at a time, and summer will soon come. Last night’s spring shower felt like a cleansing and washing away of the last of winter. And my daffodils are starting to peek their heads out from the moist, thawing earth. I enjoy gardening: the sowing and the reaping. But for now, dried beans will have to do. There’s a little pleasure in sorting those, too, though.  I like moving through to weed out the ones that are blemished, or cracked and not whole. Sometimes I find a small clump of dirt or a pebble in the mix. It helps me meditate on the Good Word… separating the wheat from the chaff.

Although… there is a threshing in that. Chaff doesn’t just easily fall away. It’s a cloak, that conceals. First, it must go through a tribulation.

Lord knows I go through mine. We’ve all got our struggles and plenty of reasons to be discontent should we so choose. I do get weary sometimes. Been standing on my feet all day, cleaning for the Parkers. I’m thankful for the work, but my feet hurt something terrible. And this bunion is like to make me want to stay in my seat. But I will give praise when the spirit moves. I will find joy where there’s joy to be found. I will stand in the sight of the Lord and sing his praises daily. Lord, daily. Because I know his grace is sufficient.

But, there’s still this question in my heart. And one that I’ve been pondering for a while. I just can’t understand why some folks seem to find joy in giving me grief. And some of those folks will be sitting on the pews with me on tomorrow morning. Lord a mercy. And they will jump and shout and sing “hallelujah.” They’ll testify of redemption and saving grace and making it through. And as soon as their feet find the other side of that church door, they’ll jump right in with the devil, creating strife. And some of them won’t even wait until they leave the church. Tell me, what’s the meaning of all that?

Those folks want to judge me for leaving my husband. But as I stand before God, I’d rather pick with the chickens than stay with someone who won’t give me the same respect that he expects of me. He sure thought he could get way with messin’ around with that floozy next door. Thought he was so smooth and stealthy about his business.

I remember… it was a beautiful, brisk, sunny spring morning – a day just like today. I was sitting at my kitchen table enjoying a cup of coffee, (fresh cream, no sugar) when I thought I heard something whispering in my ear telling me to draw my shades open. Right now. Why should I draw those shades right now? Don’t matter none if I get up and do it in the next five minutes, the sun will still be shining. I do like to let the morning light in to feel the fresh start of the new day, but that was not the particular moment that I felt like moving. But I listened to that something and got on up anyway.

And child, didn’t I see that trifling woman next door drawing her shades closed at the same time. My friend. Louisa. And my man, smooth and sweet as he was, standing right there next to her.  Made up my mind right then and there to pack my bags and leave.

Me and that man… Don’t you know we survived the death of five of our children during the influenza. Made it through that epidemic with our own lives, and only two of our beautiful children. You’d think that that grief would’ve sealed us in love forever; but the sleight of a scheming friend slices swift and deep like a hot knife through butter. I had to let the both of them go to keep my wits about me.

There are definitely a few good friends and family who have stood by me through hell and high water; but if even but a one of those folks who want to pass judgment now had been there to help support me through any of those losses, I might give heed to their opinions. So, regardless of what they may think of me, I hold my head up high when I enter those church doors. ‘Cause I know my heart is free of malice. And I know for sure that it wouldn’t be had I stayed with him.

(She begins humming “by and by”…)

Lately, I have been collecting and writing stories about my maternal ancestors. All of my maternal grandparents passed away when I was still quite young. Watching other children with their grandmas made me feel that I had been deprived of this beautiful relationship. I longed for it, even though I don’t think that I truly understood what that longing was. Maybe it was a yearning to connect with the past – to hear the stories that are gathered and/or lost through generations of women, passed down from mother to daughter, through bloodlines and genetic memory, through dreamscapes and experiences.

My mother is a wonderful storyteller, and as a young woman she collected, names, dates, and history about the women in our family, having had the foresight to recognize the importance of remembering. Because of her work and diligence, I can name as far back as my great, great, great grandmother. I’ve done a bit of ancestry research and have been able to trace back no further than the information which she has already been able to provide.  She loves to share stories about her grandmothers whom she was blessed to spend time with as a child.

I have taken her stories and made them my own by embellishing them through creative writing to fill in the missing pieces and fragments of forgotten memory. In this way, I get to experience my grandmothers and help keep their legacy alive. And here, I will share them with you. Stay tuned…

Last year during Women’s History Month, I chose one woman for each of those 31 days of the month to feature in a compilation that I posted on Facebook: “Women Who Inspire Me.” A little over one year later, I came up with the idea of creating a blog to highlight these wonderful women. I wanted to name this blog “Women Who Inspire.” Much to my frustration, that name was already taken. But as I pondered a new name, I realized that it would be better for me not to limit myself by choosing only women to represent.

This blog will include lots of women. But, I really want to include all of my myriad muses in these posts. As a visual artist, writer, yogini, mover, thinker, dreamer… I find inspiration everywhere. This is the place where I’d like to share. Follow me?