by Neile Parisi
The school was nearly completed, and we had an open house. Everyone came; TV stations even covered the opening. They wanted to be part of the transformation and celebration, and to wish us well. We wondered how difficult it would be to move back into the old school. Some folks felt it was eerie. Others felt that angels were watching. I didn’t feel the actual presence of anyone. I just felt good and peaceful, as if we had been given a blessing.
Several of the clergy spoke and blessed the building, asking the good Lord to watch over us and keep us safe. The mayor spoke, and so did Mrs. Baxter, the new principal. She honored Mrs. Calhoun and Mrs. Blackmoore and mentioned each child by name, commenting on each of their individual talents, who was the best reader, who was the best athlete, who was the kindest, etc. She also talked about what each one of them had added to our lives. The parents quietly sniffled and the teachers and guests all agreed, nodding their heads in unison.
Together, they unveiled the bronze plaque for all to see. It had been donated by the townspeople collectively. It listed the names of the fourteen people who had perished that day in the school fire. It was mounted onto the facade of the building, so everyone could see it. Some people still felt that the building should have been razed and a park constructed in its place. Others were comfortable with renovating the old building, but adding more safety features and fire sprinklers, and moving the kindergarten to the first floor. I agreed that these necessary changes made the original building acceptable to the building department, the fire department, and to us, which was most important.
Many things were the same about the building and the school day, but many were different. The rooms seemed the same except for fresh paint and new furnishings. There was a good feeling when you walked into the rooms, which pleased me greatly. I knew that sometimes, when you enter a room or a house that is haunted or has the presence of spirits, there can be an obvious feeling—sometimes good, sometimes bad. But not here; it felt okay.
I toured each and every room, even the basement, and felt nothing. Thank God. But it was different. We missed those who had passed. We quoted them as if they were still with us. One teacher said to another, “Let’s ask Mrs. Calhoun’s opinion about that particular book,” and then realized what she had said. Both smiled with tears in their eyes. This was all normal.
Students talked about some of the students who had passed, and it evoked sad feelings in the room. At the same time, it was wonderful to talk about them. I myself still had a difficult time talking about Becky Sue. It was just too painful still. This would change with time. As my mom said, this horrific event would teach me new things, and I must learn from them. And I did. She was always right; I didn’t learn that until later in life.
After the presentation, the applause was endless, and we were all happy.
Move-in day was a week away. We still had lots to do with decorating, organizing, and cleaning; but the rooms were painted, and the furniture, supplies, and books were in place. We were ready! Mrs. Baxter had decided that we would have an assembly on the first day to welcome everyone back to the school, and to introduce the new faces.
There were five new kindergarteners, three of whom were siblings of students who had passed. We thought it might be especially difficult for them, but little children are so accepting and flexible, and they seemed to adjust better than we did. One little girl proudly announced that she was a sister of Olivia Jefferson, who had died in the fire. “I miss her, but I know she’ll help me in school.” And then there was the brother of Grady Mason. He didn’t want to talk about his dead brother, as he referred to him. And then there was the brother of Memphis Sawyer, who had adored Mrs. Calhoun. His name was Otis, and he said he was sad that Mrs. Calhoun wouldn’t be his principal. His daddy said she was a fine lady, but that Mrs. Baxter was a nice lady, too. We were hopeful that all would return to normal—whatever normal was now.
My friend Jonathan was ever-present to help me, support me, and love me. He was very quiet, letting me grieve and handle things the way I felt best, but he was always there: sometimes by my side, sometimes in the shadows, but there. I truly appreciated the fact that I could count on him his advice, his help, and even his silence. He suggested that during the first school break we get away for a little R&R, which sounded great to me. It was good to plan something happy instead of a funeral.
Jonathan had dealt with the death of his wife from breast cancer. It had been long and terrible, so he knew what it felt like to experience tragedy. He always had a great attitude. He said he cherished every day the Lord gave him. He was filled with gratitude for even the smallest things on earth. That was just one of the reasons I loved him. I had hoped that we could eventually be more than a couple. He had talked about marriage. I was reluctant, considering that I had two failed marriages already; but now it sounded good, real good. I liked that phrase. I heard parents use it often: “My children, they good, they real good.” They would frequently leave out verbs when they spoke. The language and the colloquialisms were endearing to me, and so were the Southern people.
CHAPTER 25
My Mom
MY MOM, MY GREATEST CHEERLEADER, was always there for me. She calmed the rage inside me. She supported me. She helped me survive. She never gave up on me and would defend me to the death. She was a strong woman. She had to be. She had learned at an early age that she would have to take care of herself.
Born into a large family during the Depression, Nelly learned to survive. She had ten brothers and sisters, and they all helped on the farm. My grandmother had to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and feed twelve hungry mouths every day. That in itself was a miracle. Each of the children had chores to do around the house, starting when they were three years old.
At three, Mom fetched wood for the kitchen wood-burning stove, which was also the only heat source in the house, so that Grammy could cook for the day. My mom’s chores advanced as she grew. At four, she was feeding the animals, and at five, she had to walk to the stream and fetch a big bucket of water for the day’s activities before she even walked to school. One day, she sloshed more water on her socks and shoes than she actually carried into the kitchen. She had no time to change, even if there had been another pair of clean socks to be found.
It was the Depression, and they had very little of anything. She shared socks and undies with her older sisters, whether they fit or not, and learned to wear socks as mittens in the winter. All of these experiences taught my mom to be the strongest woman I knew. She tried to teach me these lessons, but I was spoiled, and didn’t take well to her trying to curb my activities and spending.
Her mom, Nelly, said, “We always had food with chickens and eggs, and a cow and milk and vegetables from the garden.” My grandmother was the original pioneer woman and could teach self-reliance to anyone. Nelly prided herself on never missing school, or even being tardy. In fact, she had perfect attendance throughout her school years, even walking through a snowstorm one day—only to have the janitor tell her school was canceled and to go home.
The day my mother spilled the water, her teacher noticed her wet shoes and socks, and instructed her to dry them on the radiator. She probably thought she was stupid. She didn’t know the extent of the chores she was responsible for at such an early age. Nelly was obedient, however, and did as she was instructed. She never thought anyone would think poorly of her. Why would she? She hadn’t been raised that way, and she thought everyone thought like she did. She was gullible in that way. I, too, believed that everyone was good at heart, and thought the way I did. Boy, was I wrong! There were many dishonest people with evil hearts and ulterior motives who didn’t believe anything I believed.
One of the most important lessons my mom taught me was to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, because you don’t know what they are going through. She said everyone was going through their own personal tragedy on a daily basis, and we should be kind. She also said, “Don’t expect anything, and you will never be disappointed.” She had lear
ned this the hard way. She was passed over for a scholarship, and, later in life, a job promotion. She also learned she had to protect herself. When she ran for class president in ninth grade, she lost by one vote. My mom thought the correct thing to do was to vote for other opponent, which she did, and she lost by that one vote. This didn’t taint her; it educated her. My mother taught me to be kind and to love people, but to also be cautious and remember who I was. During this ordeal, I forgot who I was—along with my value and self-worth.
Her mom spent her entire day taking care of the children, the house, the animals, the meals, and her husband. There was little time for niceties or private time with her children. She would tell me that she admired her own mother, because every night, she had a meal on the table for twelve people. She also made sure there was breakfast, and the children came home for lunch, too. Mind you, she was also nursing a baby as she did everything else.
What a rough life; but, as my mom would say, “We never knew we were poor, because we always had food, and during the Depression, some folks didn’t have food. Nelly’s father, “Grandpa,” or “Ta,” as we called him, said we didn’t have to wait in those lines and take free food, we’d make do.” They always survived. Grammy had no time to teach my mom to cook. She would tell her to watch, but she couldn’t touch, because if she spoiled the food or did something wrong, there would be no dinner. Well, she must have watched really well, because she became a gourmet cook. She tried to teach me, but I had other ideas.
In first grade, my mom survived a test that would shape her entire life to come. At the end of the school year, she and another student were told they would have to remain in the first grade and repeat it because there were not enough chairs or desks in the second grade. She knew she wasn’t dumb; she hadn’t done anything wrong. They just randomly chose two students. What a lawsuit this would be today. Imagine No Child Left Behind. She was hurt and wondered why the teacher had done this to her. She made up her mind that she would be the smartest student in the class and the best reader in the school, which she did and was. At the end of the school year, they promoted her to third grade—she completely skipped the second grade.
She continued to excel and got straight As in all her classes, reading voraciously every day. She would walk to the library and come home with as many books as they would let her check out. She thought, How wonderful, I can go anywhere and be anyone when I read. At night, she used a kerosene lamp to read and study by.
I know who I am. She taught my brothers and me to “always remember you are a child of God; you come from kings. Now straighten your crown and carry on.” She believed in being kind to everyone and honest with your fellow man.
She also believed in standing up for yourself and defending what was true and right. She said that in the end, it would all work out. If it hadn’t worked out yet, then it wasn’t the end yet. At the age of ten, she wanted religion, so she walked down to the local church and asked a nun to baptize her, and the priest did. She was innovative, powerful, and bold. She knew who she was.
And at twelve, she experienced one of her first tragedies. She and her best friend Violet went to the local quarry to gather tadpoles for a science project. They were leaning over the jagged rocks and reaching into the water to scoop them out. It was getting dark, and Nelly told Violet she had to go home. She tried to persuade her to follow, but Violet said, “Just a couple more,” as she climbed higher and perched himself precariously on a jagged ledge. That was the last time my mom saw her friend alive. She apparently slipped into the water and drowned. The police came to interview my mother because she was the last person to have seen her alive. They lived near each other, and had walked home from school together daily. Nelly’s older brother, a champion swimmer, had to retrieve her body. It was so tragic. Violet’s family never recovered, and moved away that summer.
Nelly was no stranger to death. One of her other classmates had rheumatic fever, and she would bring him his homework after school. One day, when she went to visit, she looked in the window and saw that he was dead on the porch. She was curious and sad, and wondered why young children had to die. She also learned at an early age that her sister Nellie had died at the tender age of three from scarlet fever. My mom looked like her, and her father always loved her and felt she was a special angel that God sent after they lost Nellie. One day, her mom said Nellie appeared in the kitchen all dressed in white beside the wood-burning stove, with her long blonde curls and a big white bow fastened in her hair. Her mother had always placed a big white bow in her hair. She knew it was Nellie, and it gave her great comfort to see her for a brief moment. She did not speak. She only smiled, and then she was gone.
My mom was born three years after Nellie’s death. She became strong as these events shaped her life and prepared her for her own future tragedies. Over the course of her life, she buried two babies, her mom, her dad, her husband, five sisters, four brothers, one sister-in-law, and one brother-in-law. That is a lot of death to endure. And she was responsible for handling nine of their funerals.
She also became a top athlete. (I certainly didn’t take after her in this area.) She won the medal of honor in athletics. Whatever she participated in, she did to the hundredth degree. She taught my siblings and I that if you’re going to be involved in something, give 100 percent of yourself. She should have been the dean of a women’s college—she was perfect for that occupation. In her senior year, she received a scholarship, but wasn’t able to go and receive it. There was no money to take a train or any other transportation. It was the Depression. This saddened her, but again, she straightened her crown and went on to find work and help her mom and dad with the bills, donating half her paycheck to the household. She knew her parents were doing the best they could.
Her mom never learned to read or write English, and couldn’t defend her or help her. My mom defended me, though, and helped me always. I felt like she hadn’t gotten her fair share. She deserved more from life. It was never easy, but she learned more in those formative years than most people learn in their entire lifetime.
When I was accused of hitting my student, my mom vehemently opposed my accusers. She wanted to fight for me. I loved her loyalty, and asked her to pray for me. I saw her every day, and she consoled me and reminded me who I was again and again.
My mother never really fulfilled her dreams, but she fell in love with her boss at the local grocery store. She was sixteen, and applied for a job. He said he wanted to hire her, but there was no ladies’ room in the store. He told her to come back in a week, which she promptly did. He first gave her a tour of the bathroom he had built for her, and then he hired her. That was my dad—my hero! How romantic to have someone build a bathroom for you. It was a great story to tell your grandchildren, as they say.
Images of my family, especially my mom, flooded my mind, and whenever I felt like I was lost, forsaken, or couldn’t go on, these images sustained me. Nothing but the thoughts and images of my loved ones made any sense anymore. Just a thought or a quick talk on the phone or a visit to my mom was enough to rejuvenate me, buoy me up, and help me keep my head above water so I could go on. I spoke to her every day.
My dad was eighteen years older than my mother, and my grandparents vehemently objected to their marriage, but they were in love—true love. My mom had never been off the hill, as they said. She had never traveled or really gone anywhere. My dad loved showing her new places, new food, and new activities. He took her to out to dinner for her first lobster, and laughed watching her eat it. He eventually taught her how.
He took her on her first trip to New York and to her first opera, La Boheme. She quickly fell in love with opera, and both my parents adored Luciano Pavarotti. I am so grateful that my parents instilled a love of opera in me. I listen often, and am calmed and fulfilled by its grandeur. Because of them, I have attended many, many operas, and have seen Luciano sing in person twice. So, my little Italian father who looked like a mafioso taught my mom a variety of things in
their forty-eight years together, and we, in turn, learned to appreciate many of these.
They finally married with mom’s parents’ blessing, and left on a honeymoon to Florida. Halfway there, my dad went into anaphylactic shock from eating some seafood in a Southern restaurant. He was driving, and pulled into the first hotel just as his eyes swelled shut. My mom was nineteen, a new bride, and didn’t know how to drive. She ran into the lobby and begged the hotel manager to call a doctor, which he did, and tended to him. The doctor said he could have died. They stayed the night, and continued their trip. My innocent nineteen-year-old mom had almost lost her husband on their honeymoon. This was one of the adventures that made my mom strong. They raised three children, and lost another two. My mother began working at age thirty-six, when we were all quite settled in school.
My dad wasn’t well, and we needed the income. At fifty-six, my father lost his job and opened his own business. Within ten years, my mom was taking care of her husband, three children, and her own mother. It was a struggle to take care of everyone and work full time. My brother was divorced, and my mom was now raising her grandson. Soon after my divorce, I moved back home to add to the burden.
My mom is the strongest woman I have ever known. She could make it through any situation and come out with her head held high—and better for it. I wished I was as strong as she was. She tried to give me her strength, and sometimes, it worked. How I wished that I had paid more attention to her when she had tried to teach me the lessons of life. I had trusted too much, believed too much; and now I was suffering. I didn’t know it then, but my mom later told me that she cried every night about me right before she prayed for me. She once said she couldn’t leave this earth until all her children and grandchildren were settled in life and joyous. I guess she will never die, if those are the conditions.