Whenever I venture south to visit my parents in Dothan, Alabama, and reach the crossroads of Forrester and Cottonwood Roads, I am profoundly aware of how deep my roots are in the soil beneath my feet. Forrester Road, I am sure, was probably named after my great, great, great Uncle Benjamin Albert Forrester, the first senator of Houston County. Regardless of the direction, north, south, east, or west, I am within miles of someone who contains the same blood commingled by our ancestors. Depending on the side of the family, my family dates back for generations in the triangle of lower east Alabama, upper northwest Florida, or lower west Georgia. And whenever I think of my childhood, the small towns of Cottonwood, Marianna, Ashford, St. Marks, Blountstown, Cowarts, Cottondale, Dothan, and numerous more invade my memories. The distinct southern accent that draws out every word to multiple syllables echoes within my brain when I reminiscence about those days and the people connected to those moments. But despite the imagery, the cadence of the sounds, the familiarity, and the knowledge that I am retracing the steps of those whose blood I carry droplets of, oddly enough, I do not feel connected to those small towns, people, or events that have come to help define me. It seems that no matter where I go. I do not belong. The stories that belong to my ancestors are the only connection that I feel to my past. They seem to scream from within inside and demand retelling. Beyond that, there is nothing but a sense of not belonging anywhere and to anyone. What does link me and continues to remind me that I am still a piece of a chain is my name which represents the love of three great men! My hyphened last name Moats-Herron represents my father and husband and the love, pride, and respect that I have for the two of them. And my middle name, Jacquelin, is after my grandfather, Ollie Lee "Jack" Davis, who I barely knew but have always felt connected. Here is my grandfather's story. So hopefully, his legacy continues beyond my name and his grandson's, Joshua Quinton Jack Davis.
My grandfather, Ollie Lee "Jack" Davis, was born September 22, 1906, in Clinton, East Feliciana Parish, Louisiana, to Sallie Elizabeth Landis and George Montgomery Davis. His name, Ollie Lee, was after his dad's brother, Ollie Lee. However, he was always referenced as Jack, although the reason is unknown. He was the third child born to my great grandparents. Before my grandfather's arrival, they had Clyde Montgomery (October 11, 1903) and James Robert (February 21, 1904). After my grandfather, my great grandparents welcomed Lille Belle (March 22, 1908), Gladdis (about 1910), Lonnie (about 1914), James Forrest (February 22, 1916), and a twin to James (February 22, 1916). According to 1920 census records, my great grandfather, George, was a sawmill cutter in a sawmill factory. Since George and Sallie's children were born in various locations, I believe that they may have also been sharecroppers. Regardless though of his occupation, they were an impoverished and struggling family. But their family lacked more than money. Their home was also void of love and affection since Sallie was emotionally distant. And according to her son, Robert, and various other family members, his mother was incapable of showering her children with terms of endearment or physical embracements. Unfortunately, my grandfather lost his dad on January 4, 1928, when he was only twenty-one. So, it became his responsibility to look after his mother, despite her remarriage in 1930 to John Benjamin Bridges. Her marriage to John lasted only seven years because of his untimely death on July 9, 1937. Even though their bond was not exceptionally a tight one, my grandfather remained loyal, protective, and defensive of his mother until her death on October 11, 1952. Very few words were spoken by my grandfather about his childhood, except in regards to his brother, Lonnie's, death. He resented the doctor's misdiagnosis of appendicitis, which resulted in his brother's death, with who he seemed particularly close.
Love for my grandfather did not come early in age; instead, it waited until he was almost thirty-eight. The specifics are unknown, but he and my grandmother, Fannie Bea Laster, the daughter of William Earl Laster and Martha Ann Anderson, began as pen-pals, despite neither of them being able to read or write, ironically. Their correspondences required the aid of someone else for them to write their letters of love and affection towards one another. And my grandfather often joked that my grandmother only married him on December 19, 1944, in Donalsonville, Seminole County, Georgia, because she believed that he had money since someone else was writing the letters for him. My grandmother, of course, protested his humor, denying that she thought that he had wealth. Anyone who knew them, though, knew that my grandmother's love for my grandfather was unyielding and devotional, regardless of the life in poverty that destiny, unfortunately, rewarded them. Through their love, they conceived nine children: Bernard (November 25, 1945), Bonnie (November 25, 1945), John Randall (November 19, 1946), Dewey Lee (December 12, 1947), Sara Nell (October 11, 1949), Edna Earl (December 25, 1950), Martha Ann (March 31, 1953), Henry Lee (September 12, 1956), and Robert Earl (January 27, 1958). However, their marriage was not flawless. My grandfather had many adulterous affairs and frequently escaped their household under the false premise of seeing a movie at the drive-in with his Uncle Forrest, who was near in age. They were one another's loyal alibis and accomplices to each other's deception. But my grandfather was also careless with his extramarital actions. Incredulously, my mother once discovered him having intercourse with one of the neighbors in the kitchen behind the woodstove while his family was near footprints away. However, in the bedroom shared by the entire family, in the quiet night, whispers of love between my grandparents were often overheard by their children. And one night, my grandfather muttered to my grandmother that he was sorrowful over his deeds and regretted his actions and disloyalty to her. Her love for him was undeniably deep, so it allotted for her forgiveness that night with the wind bellowing between the slates in the walls.
As parents, both of my grandparents were human, and they did the best that they could with what little assets they had. Illiteracy, poverty, prejudices, and favoritism affected their abilities to co-parent effectively and efficiently. At times, challenges met them beyond their capabilities to understand due to their limited external exposures. And when they lost their firstborn daughter, Bonnie, within mere hours after her delivery, neither knew how to mourn their loss. The mothers that born and raised them failed to teach either of them that it was okay to express grief. Instead, Bonnie's death was locked away by my grandmother's postpartum sickness and foggy memories of the events and by my grandfather's unwillingness to discuss the gross deformities that had taken their daughter. When their second and youngest sons, John Randall and Robert Earl, were born with albinism, a congenital disorder, both looked for a place to lay fault. And unfortunately, my great grandmother's benighted accusations concocted false narratives that planted seeds of paternity doubt towards my own grandmother's faithfulness. Their illiteracy created barriers that disallowed proper education towards their sons' disease processes. Because of their lack of understanding, my uncles did not get taught needed coping mechanisms, adaptive ways to adjust to their blindness, and an adequate education that they needed to adapt to society's demands and pressures. My grandfather's prejudices did not allow for their younger son to attend the same school that their older son, John, briefly attended, The School for the Blind, Deaf, and Dumb (now known as Florida School for the Deaf and Blind), because the school had begun accepting black students. Among their children, each had their favorites, which inevitably led to one child being in the fighting arena against another. Regardless of the outcome between the battle of siblings, my grandparents had already picked who they would always perceive as winners, Martha Ann and Dewey Lee. In comparison, the other children mostly felt inadequate, unwanted, and unloved. That is especially true for their two children, who stood out with white hair, red eyes, and pale skin.
Unlike his mother's ancestors, my grandfather was not an educated man of prominence engaged in his community and governmental affairs. For wages, he cut firewood, worked in lumber yards, and was a logger. He was also a bootlegger. Since he couldn't read, he compensated by making drawings and figures in the binder book that represented his accounts receivables for the work he did. Instead of their names, he would draw something reminding him of the customer's home since he could not write their name. Sometimes, it was something as simple as a tree. When asked by my mother, Sara, why he drew the drawings, he said, "when you can't read or write, you do what you can." He was just as creative when it came to concealing his bootlegging business. When the IRS forewarned him of planned police raidings, he would hide the jars of moonshine in the dirty water in my grandmother's ole wringer washer machine. My parents laugh that he hid the bottles beneath a pair of my grandfather's filthy overalls in water so disgustingly dirty that the law enforcement agencies would never contemplate looking beneath the facade. My mother eventually, though, did teach my grandfather how to write his name.
There are memories of my grandfather that have become my family's legacy. They include his ability to be a perpetual bullshitter. My Uncle Dewey's and my brother's personalities closely mimic his. He was infamous in his community for telling stories that everyone knew were complete lies. People would frequently stop him and say, "Jack, tell me a lie." And sometimes, in a very grave manner, my grandfather's response would be, "I can't right now, so and so is in the hospital," and abruptly leave. Usually, the person he named was someone my grandfather knew was related to that person who requested the lie. Later on, he would see that same person, and the person would say, "Jack, you lied to me. That person wasn't in the hospital." My grandfather would smile and say, "well, you told me to tell you a lie." There were other ways that my grandfather was notably devious. As a young child, he had a hernia. Since he was my great-grandmother's favorite, he used the scar as a way to manipulate her against his brothers. Whenever he could, he would falsely claim that they were hurting him where he had previously had surgery, which frequently resulted in severe discipline for his siblings. In retaliation, his brothers once placed him in a barrel and rolled him down the railroad track. His brother Clyde said to my mother, "we barely got him off the tracks in time." For my father, even when his memory begins fading, I doubt that he ever forget his Friday nights with his father-in-law eating raw oysters or the pennies that he hid in the slates in the walls that sometimes would fall out of their hiding place. My dad adored my grandfather, and those memories have always been endearing to him. My favorite story of my grandfather is the one told by my mother about my grandparents' Christmases together. She said every year, my grandfather gave my grandmother new slips, bras, and panties, and in return, she gave him a new pair of overalls and a new white shirt. Despite the necessity of the items to both of them, they still represented love and romance. It will always serve as a reminder to me of the real meaning of Christmas. Instead of the commercialization that we have allowed to now replace it. And of course, his reactive cry over his friend backing over his grandson, Anglish Jerome Martin, with his vehicle will be permanently etched into my Aunt's memory because it was her son that they both lost in that instant.
My mother will always have deep regrets regarding her dad's death, comingled with her memories of him. In the early weeks of 1972, my grandfather was ill and hospitalized with pneumonia. After his discharge from the hospital, she recalls visiting him. During that visit, he pleaded with my dad to take him to the store to get some pork. Sickness had not upset his appetite. Her brothers Bernard and John were fighting, so she had my father take her home instead of taking her father to the store. Amid the chaos of the fighting, my grandfather became upset and had a stroke. She contributed their actions and their sibling rivalry drama to his stroke. The guilt that she felt for not taking him away from the commotion of the moment has remained with her bitter memory. Upon his death bed on February 6, 1972, at the Jackson County Hospital in Marianna, Florida, she said her father whispered inaudible words that she never understood. Precious words that perhaps could have brought her peace and closing had they been communicated to her during that moment. A regret that stays with my mother since she still attempts to decipher what he said when she is alone with her memories of him.
After my grandfather died, my grandmother died too. Slowly, bit by bit, she faded away from us all. Her overwhelming grief led to the remaining of her years spent suffering in silence. Her undiagnosed depression resulted in extended periods without baths, being forced to eat, and staring endlessly at the television. The television became her only reprieve from her memories of the man she lost and who still possessed her heart. She only had one healthy close relationship during her final years, and the relationship was with my sister, Angie. My sister resembled her, and I am sure that she represented her youth to her. To the rest of us, however, she remained closed off and detached. There were brief moments from time to time, however, when she vaguely resembled the persona of a typical grandmother. But, those moments seemed rare. My favorite memory is when she took me and my cousin, Martha Elizabeth "Liz" Coulliette, to a drug store and purchased us both dollar barbies. And of course, I will never forget the times when she would have my sister, cousin, and I escort her to my other grandmother's, Rosie Mae Anderson, home, who was her best friend and first cousin. The two would "cop a squat" alongside the rural highway while we stood by observing for any passing traffic. After hoping and waiting for death for nearly fourteen years so that she could be with my grandfather again, she finally passed away on May 2, 1986. Their interments are at New Salem Baptist Church in Kynesville, Jackson County, Florida.
In the next few months, my parents will be moving away from the area where they both grew up. It holds so many of their childhood memories. They will leave behind their roots, their past, and their blood. And, they will leave behind me, since I will not be able to travel the increased distance to visit them. My parents and brother, Kenny, will relocate to Bradenton, Florida, to be closer to my sister, Angie, and her children. The next trip made to say goodbye to them will be the final time I see them and feel the familiar dirt beneath my feet. My sacred time with my parents and brother will be ending, but the memories and love that I have for them are everlasting. They say the loss of a child is profound, and that is true. But the loss of a parent is equally profound, as evidenced by my mother. My grandmother died nearly thirty-four years ago, and my grandfather lost his life fifty years past. My mother has never stopped missing them and has never made peace with her conflicting feelings. I am blessed to know that when I wave to them for the final time that there are no regrets between us. I am truly blessed to be the daughter of Sara Nell Davis and Kenneth Wayne Moats, who have survived financial hardships, sickness, and the ebbs and tides of marriage. They have always been the biggest supporter and fans of all of their children. And I can honestly say that because of this blog, there are no unspoken words between us! I love you, Mom and Dad! Always!
Dedicated to Summer Leigh Ann "Verano" Coulliette. May you know your past so that you can successfully charter your future!
PHOTO GALLERY:
SOURCE REFERENCES:
1 Interview with Sara Nell Davis
2. Interview with Edna Earl Davis
GENEALOGY:
Presented by Progenitor Portal
Join Progenitor Portal at https://djherron040769.wixsite.com/progenitorportal for more genealogical history, family photos, and newspaper clippings.
Comentarios