On Zion's Hill

by Anna J. Small Roseboro

  A better than average student, Angie did not earn grades outstanding enough to get a full academic scholarship. She’d played field hockey in high school, but didn’t know anyone who offered full athletic scholarships for that sport, so that was out. But, as Grammama always said, “God’ll make a way out of no way”.

  IN HER SOPHOMORE YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL, Angie was having a rough time with Latin. In just so happened a neighbor taught Latin and English at the high school across town. It just so happened that this teacher, Miss Wicks, was looking for someone to help her with the inherent English teachers’ paper overload. Now, it also just happens that someone had told her about Angie needing a job and Miss Wicks sent word asking Angie to come see her. Who but God could arrange all those elements to come together at just the right time?

  Miss Wicks invited Angie to come to talk about becoming a grader. She was willing to exchange Latin tutoring fees for grading service. What a bargain.

  Miss Velma Wicks is a kindly, no-nonsense, no excuses kind of person. From the very beginning she not only hired Angie, but also insisted that she knuckle down and learn how to translate Latin literally. She also encourages her to switch to a French modern, spoken language that Miss Wick also knows. Once Angie began studying French Miss Wicks insists that she speak that language with her Angie to help develop the ease of speaking like a native. No more guessing and hoping. During the next three years, Miss Wicks becomes Angie’s tutor, advisor and then mentor. Très bien!

  In exchange for those tutorials, Miss Wicks assigned Angie to correcting grammar worksheets and reading first drafts of sloppily-written student essays. Surprising to them both, Angie proved to be an effective and efficient teacher’s aide. Her wide reading trained Angie’s ear for good writing. She had a good sense for what works and what doesn’t and often included useful recommendations for students to consider as they began the revision steps in their writing.

  Looking at essays from the teacher’s perspective, Angie gained insight about herself. Paper after paper, Angie observed ways that careless writing clouds communication. She began to take more time not only with her French homework, but also on English assignments as well. Over time, under the tutelage of Miss Wicks, Angie’s grades rose slightly and leveled off across the content areas, and she began to see herself as a competent high school student who possibly could become a teacher.

  That meant going to college. No one else in her family had finished college and it wasn’t expected of her. The guys in her family got government jobs right out of high school and the girls got married. Period.

  After working with Miss Wicks for about a year, that period became a semi-colon. Miss Wicks had attended college in town and stayed at home with her family until she graduated and got her first teaching job. She encouraged Angie to explore similar options and assured her that having four years of foreign language would help round out Angie’s college application. Knowing Latin is fine, she said, but Angie also should take a modern language, ergo French.

  One of the memorable stories about speaking French that Miss Wicks shared occurred in Charleston, South Carolina when she had gone to a convention for foreign language teachers.

  THAT FIRST EVENING, SEVERAL OF THE LADIES MET for dinner at an offsite restaurant, but the maître de wouldn’t seat Miss Wicks, the only Negro in the dinner party. Her friends, embarrassed for her and for themselves for not remembering where they were, agreed to get take out and return and eat at the convention hotel so Miss Wicks wouldn’t be alone.

  The next evening, she had worn African attire and the group went back to the same restaurant. This time they only spoke French! The same maître de nearly fell over his feet, scraping and bowing and leading them to the meilleure table à la place, right by the front window.

  Years later, Miss Wicks smiled telling the story, but both she and Angie grimaced, sad to think how awful it must be for others who live in towns and work in restaurants, but cannot eat there – not even seated back by the kitchen, far away from the window. While the two of them would sometimes chuckle about this incident, Miss Wicks wanted Angie to get the message that confidence in oneself and just a little chutzpah can go a long way.

  Angie needed to keep that in mind when she saw her friends applying to several out of town or out of state college. Most of their parents either could afford to pay their college expenses or the classmates had earned an academic or athletic scholarship. Angie had neither.

  True, Angie had a decent record in high school, had taken all college prep courses, played on one of the less competitive sports teams, even became field hockey captain, and to embellish her college application, joined a wide range of school clubs and even volunteered as a library aide.

  Instead of a second study hall, twice a week she worked in the school library, reading the shelves, making sure the books remained in Dewey Decimal order, or typing out late notices for students who failed to return books on time. Being around books was a pleasure, even if she seldom had time or interest in reading more than assigned books and her middle school preference for thumb-thick historical novels written as series.

  OVER THE YEARS, MISS WICKS proved to be an invaluable mentor, challenging Angie to think about all sorts of things.

  “Making any progress on your college applications, Ange?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. But, Miss Wicks I really want to go to Michigan State.”

  “You get an acceptance letter?”

  “I got accepted and all and have been saving for tuition. But I’m never gonna have enough to pay for room and board, too.”

  “So, Angie, why don’t you wait and work full time for a while?”

  “Aw, Miss Wicks. I don’t really want to put off starting college if there is something else I can do. My mother isn’t in a position to sign for me to get a loan. She’s maxed out already. I’ve applied for scholarships, but my grades aren’t quite good enough.”

  “So, Angie. Why don’t you go to school here in town?”

  “Here in town? You gotta be kidding. That would mean I’d have to stay at home. I wanna GO to college. Staying here in town would be like going to high school. I’ve had it with high school. I wanna go away.”

  “What’s more important to you? Going away or going to college?”

  “I want both.”

  “What if you can’t have both?”

  “I’ve been praying about this and I believe God’s gonna make it happen.”

  “What if He doesn’t?”

  “What do you mean, what if He doesn’t? He promised if two or three pray and agree, He’d do it. Carol at church and Lily from camp meeting are praying with me. That’s three. That means I should get what I want, right?”

  “That’s not the way it works, Angie. I’m not all that religious, but I know that God doesn’t always give us what we want just because we and our friends pray for it.”

  “Well, why bother? Why bother asking somebody to pray with you or for you if God’s not gonna answer your prayers and give you what you want?”

  “I’m not sure, Angie, how all that works. But my advice is to be prepared for the answer of ‘No.’”

  “No? Not me! I’m praying and believing. Carol and Lily are praying and believing with me. So there! Can we just talk about something else, s’il vous plait?”

  “Sure, Angie.” Wise Miss Wicks knew when to drop a subject. “Let’s study those irregular French verbs. You’re not going to find French that hard after studying Latin, but there are just enough differences to trick you into making silly errors. Remember, you’ve got to pay attention to the patterns in families of verbs. So again, how do you conjugate the verb, devoir?”

  GOD DID NOT ANSWER ANGIE’S PRAYER to go to her first choice college. She did not get to go to Michigan State and she did have to live at home her freshman year. Her grades were good, so she applied for a scholarship; but didn’t get it. However, she did get accepted into the work-study program and her mother agreed to let her move onto campus in September, if she coul
d pay her own expenses.

  That’s why she was working so hard this summer. Not buying all new clothes for camp meeting, but saving for school fees! And that’s what was keeping her from Ken. This job on the grounds and no nice clothes. “God, why’d you let me meet such a nice guy and then put this bill for college in my way? Why can’t I have both? I’ve been good.”

  She’s says she’s been good, but she certainly hasn’t been napping. It’s eleven forty-five already. Better get up and at ‘em. Gathering her toiletry bag, wash cloth and towel, she heads down the hall, thankful the communal bathroom is unoccupied.

  “Oh. Oooo – weee!” The shower water suddenly turns cold. Angie shivers, turns off the faucet, jumps out, grabs her towel and dries quickly. She puts on fresh underwear and applies a generous application of Yodora cream deodorant.

  She doesn’t want to be the one in the stand whose antiperspirant breaks down in the heat of the day. She doesn’t want to be like funky Handy-Randy. Angie shrugs into her housecoat and scampers back to her dorm room, noting by the clock that more time has passed than she thought. She scuttles back to the room. She’s arranged to meet her grandparents for lunch before their afternoon nap.

  Quickly slipping into her skirt and shirt, Angie slides into her dark green flats. They’d been one of her few impulsive purchases. On sale, of course. From Reyers Shoe Store. And they do complement the flowers in her skirt so well; she didn’t even try to resist the urge when she saw them.

  Now she’s glad she hadn’t. She may not be a fashion princess like Ken’s Lady in Navy, but Angie is satisfied with the way she’s dressed today. She grabs the suitcase handle and drags it out, crams her stuff inside, shoves it back under her cot, looks around to see that all is in order and leaves, locking the door behind her.

  When she reaches to the top step of the stairway, she catches sight of her grandparents walking together out of the side door of the tabernacle; they glance around as though looking for her. She’d promised to be waiting just outside the dining room so they could go in together where she will treat them to one of their favorite meals. It’s meatloaf day and that home-style meal always draws a crowd, but fewer at lunch than at dinner.

  Thankfully, this year, her uncle had given her cash for her birthday with which she’d planned to buy the text for her summer class. But, she’d been able to get a used one; she saved the remaining money just for this occasion.

  Her grandparents are dear to Angie. She and her siblings had lived with them off and on over the years when Angie’s mother had been ill. Even after her mother’s recovery, Angie continues to spend at least a week with her grandparents each summer, usually right here on Zion’s Hill. Such a nice break to be an only child for a week.

  Her grandmother spots Angie and nods to acknowledge they’re on their way. But, someone taps Grampoppa on the elbow and he turns to talk with him. Grampoppa is well known on the grounds and loves chatting with Saints he only sees here once a year. Grammama is used to waiting for him, even if it means they’ll be a little late for lunch. They usually take a nap afterwards, so they’re not in a hurry.

  But Angie is. Ken just may come up this afternoon and she has to eat and then get back over to the stand by five o’clock. Why does she cares? What about the Lady in Navy?

  WHILE SHE OBSERVES HER GRANDPARENTS TALKING WITH FRIENDS, Angie recalls a poem she wrote about them in her freshman English class. The assignment was to use vivid vocabulary, appealing to the five senses to create mental images and to recreate a memory of someone special to you. She chose Grampoppa.

  Observing her classmates’ response to Angie performing it, the professor had asked if he could include her poem in the college literary magazine he edited. Angie consented with pride that her grandparents would be memorialized in that way.

  Today, she sits on the top step of the dorm porch and to pass the time until lunch, Angie quietly quotes it, to herself this time.

  Grandfather, or Grampoppa, we called him

  Working at odd jobs

  Living out his faith.

  God called him to pastor

  To shepherd his flock,

  To care for his family.

  Amidst the dusty-pew odor

  And sour, mildewy hymnals,

  Intermingled with colognes

  and after shave

  Energine and perspiration,

  I see him sitting on the platform

  In a small rented church,

  His skin glistening like warm maple syrup,

  His bald, billiard bare head

  Thrown back or cocked to one side,

  Inspired, but unmusical hymns

  Stirring him to respond.

  Sometimes Grampoppa would

  raise his arm

  To beat the time

  Like a mime

  Restricted to precise,

  but invisible boundaries

  Like a Marine

  Guarding the tomb

  of the Unknown Soldier.

  Sometimes the emotions

  burst from his glowing face

  In an arousing “Glory!” or “Hallelujah!”

  These eruptions startle and amuse us,

  We, who sit in the pews, observing like peeping Toms,

  Our grandfather’s response to

  Songs of praise

  Songs of adoration

  To the God who called him to be a pastor.

  Pastoring his family –

  Providing food, clothing and shelter.

  Fond memories of love and devotion

  For each of us and his wife for life.

  His wife of fifty-five years – loving to the end.

  I can see the two of them

  She in a small-print cotton dress

  Covered with a full-checkered apron,

  Hair neatly combed

  Feet neatly shod,

  Carrying him a tray of food

  Throwing him kisses before returning to the kitchen.

  I see them – my first house guests my first year of marriage.

  Me – married fewer than fifty-two weeks;

  Them – married more than fifty-two years!

  What a model! What a challenge!

  “Oh!!” Angie yelps. “Me married a year!” Startled at the thought, she stands and stomps down the stairway from the dorm. “Was I really thinking about my own marriage when writing that poem? Was the Lord speaking to me in anticipation of my meeting Ken here on Zion’s Hill?”

  She’d heard authors admit that their characters sometimes speak for themselves. Here, as she recited the poem, she realizes she’d included incidents that had never happened, and may never happen, at least not with Ken. What she’d seen last night, Ken with the Lady in Navy, didn’t look like he was interested in Angie any longer. Oh well. So much for recreating past events in a poem. Or was she really writing prophecy?

  Puzzled by the thoughts, Angie has already descended the stairway when she sees her grandmother looking at her watch and tapping her grandfather’s elbow. He nods, gives his friend a hearty handshake, adjusts his preacher-sized Bible under his left elbow and reaches for his wife’s hand.

  It’s nearly twelve twenty before her grandparents join Angie in the line waiting to enter the dining room. Lily waves them through saying, “No charge today!” and one of the teenagers, like Angie had done years ago, escorts the senior citizens to a quiet section of dining room. Another trio of grey heads have just left, so there is room for the three new diners. When her grandparents question the no charge, Angie just says it’s all been taken care of. Thankfully, they accept and sit down to enjoy the meal.

  How proud she feels, being able to treat the ones who have cared for her so long. Angie pulls out the chair for her grandmother as the young lady does the same for her grandfather.

  This new group of assistants is being trained the way she had been…to treat the elderly with care and respect. That’s probably why so many older folks return to Zion’s Hill year after year. For some of the
m, it is special on many levels. Eating the lovingly prepared home-style dinners in the dining hall where they were treated so well makes the meager furnishings in the dorm rooms and sparse cabins tolerable.

  Since there is only one entrée choice each meal there is no need for menus. Today, waiting diners are served a generous plate of meatloaf, just a little crispy on the top, but succulently moist inside. The cooks don’t extend the loaves with loads of breadcrumbs, but blend three kinds of ground meat with their secret blend of spices, just a touch of chopped onions and green peppers, then baste the firm loaves with a tasty tomato sauce with a hint of brown sugar to give them an appetizing glaze.

  Angie had observed the cooks lots of times when she was younger and had been assigned kitchen duty. That meant sweating downstairs, cleaning up as the prepping was done, and washing pots and pans after the cooking was done. She soon graduated to dining hall duty. That was cleaner and cooler work with less contact with the cooks and more interaction with the diners. But, Angie has never forgotten the conscientious cooks who believe preparing food for the Saints on Zion’s Hill is their offering to the Lord. It is a talent they are investing; they really take seriously the Bible verse admonishing them to do everything as unto the Lord.

  After a groaning full lunch, Angie bids her grandparents goodbye, kissing Grammama on her cheek and Grampoppa on his shiny head. They thank her again, push from the table and head up to their room for a nap. She leaves the dining hall to seek out a cool spot to sit outdoors for a while, strolling across the grounds, nodding at some of her customers, but not stopping to chat. She appears purposeful, but really is walking aimlessly, trying to figure out whether to head up the hill to the spot she’d sat to meditate earlier or to go down and browse in the bookstore.