by Jeff Guinn
But Jimmy made a few friends, all of them part of the school Christian Youth Fellowship. They called him Jonesy, and invited him to join them for late-night donuts as they endlessly debated the best way to live righteous Christian lives. The consensus was what they termed “Christian communism,” since they believed that “from each according to ability, to each according to need” was the proper church approach. They didn’t share this conclusion outside their group. The Richmond High Christian Youth kids weren’t advocating communist government, where the state owned everything and told you what you had to do. They just wanted their churches to voluntarily adopt a philosophy that mandated compassion and equal treatment for all. But the Cold War was in full flower, and communism in any form was anathema to most Americans. The youngsters kept their beliefs to themselves.
Jimmy wasn’t remotely challenged by the school curriculum. His education in Lynn had him so academically advanced that he was allowed to skip some Richmond classes and graduate a semester ahead of all the other twelfth graders. This was a good thing, because while in school Jimmy also held down a full-time night shift job. Lynetta’s salary at Perfect Circle, the piston rings manufacturer in Richmond, couldn’t cover expenses for herself and her son. Though she would later claim to be a senior employee responsible for unionizing the Perfect Circle shop despite threats from management, she was in fact a simple assembly line worker. Her Jones in-laws had chipped in back in Lynn, but since Lynetta had abandoned Old Jim, there would be no more financial help from them. That left no choice—in Richmond, Jimmy had to go to work. He soon found a job with the city’s largest employer.
Reid Memorial Hospital opened in 1905, a gift to his community from industrialist Daniel G. Reid. The philanthropist made certain that the institution named to honor his deceased wife and son had the finest facilities possible. Patients from all over the Midwest enjoyed the best of care at Reid. Its staff was held to high standards. Reid paid well, but supervisors were sparing with praise and quick to weed out undesirables.
Seventeen-year-old Jimmy was hired as a night orderly, the lowest employment rung. It was hard work, often involving disagreeable tasks ranging from cleaning up vomit to helping move the newly deceased or handling disposal of amputated limbs. Working through the night was hard enough, but for a boy trying to handle a full high school class schedule and homework, it was exceptionally onerous. Yet Jimmy thrived.
He immediately demonstrated the ability to function on little sleep, or, some days, none at all. As soon as his final afternoon class was over, Jimmy rushed through homework and reported for duty at Reid. Once at work, he cheerfully tackled all the toughest chores that other orderlies tried to avoid. Above all, these included dealing with cantankerous patients, or else seriously ill unfortunates who literally reeked of decay and despair. Jimmy Jones won them over with warm smiles, sweet-natured jokes, and, always, empathy. Patients of every background and their families felt that this young man understood. His memory was prodigious—Jimmy remembered every sick person’s name and the names of parents and spouses and children and cousins besides. Some patients required care of especially personal nature—having diapers changed, or being given sponge baths. Jimmy made these potentially embarrassing moments almost fun, with his lively chatter and positive attitude.
Reid management noticed. Orderlies routinely received critical performance reviews. There was nothing to criticize about Jimmy Jones. He was too young to put into a supervisory position over other orderlies, but he could be and was assigned to work with doctors and nurses involved in the most critical forms of care.
By the time Jimmy graduated from Richmond High in December 1948, his choice of future career was in doubt. He’d intended to become a minister. Now he contemplated a career in medicine. Preachers guided lives, but doctors saved them. There was appeal in both. Soon after his graduation, Jimmy took a quick trip back to Lynn and discussed it with a former girlfriend, Phyllis Willmore, who later remembered that Jimmy even mentioned getting into hospital administration, being the one who told the doctors what to do.
Becoming a preacher wouldn’t necessarily require going to college, but doctors and hospital administrators needed degrees. Jimmy was ready for that. Of course, he’d have to pay his own way, tuition and living expenses and all, but combining school and work didn’t faze him. Much like his mother, Jimmy believed he was destined for, deserving of, greatness. Unlike Lynetta, it seemed that he might have the opportunity to reach the heights that he anticipated—especially after meeting a young woman who had ambitions of her own.
CHAPTER SIX
MARCELINE
Richmond was intended to be more than a drab manufacturing town. It was a point of civic pride to emphasize quality lifestyles beyond job opportunities. Even factory workers and their families had access to decent public schools, a sprawling park, a liberal arts college, downtown shops, theaters and cafés, the many health services of Reid Memorial Hospital, and, of course, a wide selection of churches, virtually all of them Protestant.
The town’s African American population, comprising perhaps 15 percent of its citizenry, had value in the finest midwestern tradition. Blacks were needed to fill low-end assembly line jobs, and to serve as maids and gardeners for Richmond’s well-to-do whites. Naturally, nice Richmond Negroes kept mostly to themselves outside the workplace. If they did encounter white folks, Richmond blacks were deferential. When white Richmond residents, speaking among themselves, used the word “nigger,” they most often considered it descriptive rather than derogatory.
Wealthy Richmond men like Daniel G. Reid were too busy with their thriving businesses to devote the time necessary to hands-on civic leadership—they did their part through philanthropy. For city government and drives for public progress like expanding the local college, Richmond looked to its upper middle class, always finding dedicated individuals glad to contribute toward the common local good. No one epitomized this trait more than Walter Baldwin.
Walter was a fine Christian man who initially tried the ministry. He was gifted musically and brought that gift to Christ’s cause, charming congregations with songs and a genuinely kind, loving manner. But spirituality had to eventually be tempered by practicality. Walter met and fell in love with a vibrant lady named Charlotte. When they married, Walter needed better-compensated employment; he ended up in management at International Harvester in Richmond.
The Baldwins settled down in an attractive two-story house—neighbors remember its front yard was larger than most others, and didn’t Walter and Charlotte keep it nicely maintained?—and over the years became proud parents of three lovely daughters—Marceline, Eloise, and Sharon. Sharon was a late-life baby, eleven years younger than Marceline and nine younger than Eloise. The Baldwins were active members of Richmond’s Trinity Methodist Church. When town Republicans needed a solid, sound candidate for city council, they turned to Walter. He served with great distinction, always interested in helping others and never attracting too much attention to himself.
Charlotte Baldwin was Walter’s perfect life partner, equally at home on formal public occasions and at down-home gatherings. She was deeply religious, and believed that the Lord sometimes sent her messages in dreams. Charlotte also had a firm sense of propriety—she expected everyone, including her family, to act right at all times. Whenever—in her opinion—someone didn’t, Charlotte would sharply correct the miscreant.
For the most part, her daughters were glad to comply. They honored and respected their parents, rarely questioning their rules. Only eldest daughter Marceline, born in 1927, ever rebelled, and then only slightly. One of Charlotte’s edicts was that curtains in the Baldwin home must be closed at all times—she didn’t want passersby looking in. Marceline sometimes pulled them open, telling her mother that there shouldn’t be anything going on that the rest of the world couldn’t see. Walter Baldwin frequently hosted political conclaves at his house. He and his friends embraced the Republican Party with nearly the same fervor that th
ey followed Christ. Marceline once shocked them by nonchalantly saying she’d like to vote a straight Democratic ticket.
Otherwise, Marceline was a paragon. Baby sister Sharon had health problems, and Marceline was devoted to her, always concerned for Sharon’s comfort even when Marceline’s own rheumatoid arthritis periodically prostrated her with backaches. Marceline worked hard in class, where she was an above average student, and after school she always wanted her friends to come over to her house because she believed it was the happiest place anywhere.
Marceline inherited her father’s musical talents. She had a sweet singing voice, and often sang solos at church on Sundays. Marceline, her sister Eloise, and church Youth Fellowship chum Janice formed a music ministry, entertaining at Reid Hospital and old folks homes. Eloise and Janice liked to “clown a little” during rehearsals. When they did, Marceline reminded them that it was time for work rather than play. It was everyone’s Christian duty to minister to those in need, she stressed. That meant always doing your absolute best, not wasting time with silly behavior. Still, Marceline’s faith was never negative. Her cousin Avelyn Chilcoate recalls, “If [Marceline] had to take a good or bad opinion of someone, she would look for the good. I guess you’d call her one of those really positive persons.”
Marceline’s piety was much admired, but in another critical area she puzzled her friends. While the other teenage girls were obsessed with boys, Marceline showed little interest. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the opportunity to have as many boyfriends as she wanted—Marceline was very attractive, with a personality to match. But hovering boys distracted from her responsibilities at school and church and her music outreach ministry. Dates would impinge on her time, which she carefully parceled out to fulfill more important obligations.
When high school graduation neared, Marceline had to make decisions about her future. Her grades were good enough to make college possible, but there was another option at home. Marceline was determined to spend her life helping others—what better way than nursing? Even as a little girl, Marceline liked visiting Reid Memorial. She’d bring flowers and little tokens to the sick people there, and was sometimes allowed to follow nurses around. A federally funded program allowed her to enter nursing school at no cost to her parents; housing was right on the Reid campus. As part of her training, Marceline was immediately in daily contact with patients, comforting them, providing services that eased their pain. She loved every moment.
By this time, though, Marceline didn’t love Richmond quite as much. Her cousin Avelyn also worked at Reid, and the young women sometimes speculated about what life might be like somewhere else, in particular someplace where it didn’t get bitterly cold in winter. Marceline’s determination to live a life of Christian service hadn’t wavered in the slightest. She still loved her family with all her heart. But it was a wide world, and she and Avelyn had never gotten to see much of it outside of Richmond. Avelyn remembers, “[Marceline] wanted a bigger adventure.”
So the cousins studied maps. Atlanta was considered, and Florida, but the two young women kept talking about Kentucky: “It just sounded interesting.” They contacted chambers of commerce in the state’s biggest cities and requested information about hospitals in them. As always, Marceline was methodical. She wanted every available fact before making a decision. When the time came to tell her father and mother, Marceline was determined to demonstrate to them that moving away was not an impetuous decision, and in no way reflected badly on them.
Around the Christmas holidays in 1948, plans were almost in place. Avelyn and Marceline had narrowed down their relocation choices (Avelyn, now in her nineties, can’t remember where in Kentucky); they were determined to go soon. Once her mind was made up, Marceline Mae Baldwin never wavered. That was why, just before Christmas, Avelyn was shocked when Marceline told her that she wouldn’t be moving to Kentucky after all.
“She said she’d met a boy and was in love with him,” Avelyn says, frowning at the memory. “She’d never said anything about him before, never a hint of it. When she told me it was Jim [Jones], I couldn’t believe it, especially since she was so much older than he was. But from that moment, it was like he was all she thought about.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JIM AND MARCELINE
One night in late 1948 when she was a senior nursing student at Reid, Marceline Baldwin prepared a corpse for pickup by the undertaker. It was a difficult task, and Marceline asked that an orderly assist her. That orderly was seventeen-year-old Jim Jones, who’d earned a considerable reputation around the hospital for perpetual high spirits. Now, washing and dressing the corpse—a young pregnant woman who’d died of trichinosis—Jim was anything but buoyant. He acted solemn and respectful as he helped the pretty nurse, and when they were done Marceline was amazed to see that Jim took a few extra minutes to comfort the dead girl’s family. Jim was, she would remember later, “visibly touched by [their] suffering.”
After that, Jim always seemed to be around whenever Marceline took work breaks. He liked to talk, and she’d always been a good listener. Jim told heartrending tales of his terrible childhood in Lynn, how he’d often gone hungry and constantly suffered at the hands of his alcoholic, physically abusive father. But instead of wearing him down, that mistreatment inspired Jim to become dedicated to raising up other unfortunates in some way that had yet to be determined. He was about to graduate early from high school, and go on to college. After that, he’d accomplish as much as unstinting effort and faith in the Lord allowed. Marceline didn’t doubt his sincerity.
For any other young couple, a three-and-a-half-year age difference might have precluded serious romance, but Jim simply overwhelmed Marceline with constant attention. She later joked that she married Jim to get rid of him. Marceline’s very proper upbringing, with every young man she encountered following conventional social customs, in no way prepared her for someone who had no interest in traditional courting. As one childhood friend recalls, “Marceline was always very smart, but that’s not the same thing as worldly.” Jim wooed her with words. Every story he told Marceline seemed to place him in a situation where he stood up for the disenfranchised when no one else would. She was especially impressed when Jim revealed he’d once been a highly touted basketball star for the Lynn Bulldogs, only to quit the team when his coach said nasty things about Negroes. Once, he told Marceline, he walked out of a barbershop with his hair cut only on one side because the barber made racist comments. Everyone was equal, Jim insisted. It was the responsibility of all truly caring people to devote their lives to helping others. Didn’t she agree?
Marceline did. It seemed natural, even God-ordained, that she should join Jim in that effort. When Jim began discussing marriage, she was agreeable, even though they’d known each other for only a few months. Jim spoke of married life as a grand adventure. They’d go wherever there were others oppressed and in need. It sounded good, and so Marceline took Jim home to meet her family.
Walter and Charlotte Baldwin were kind-hearted people. They were certainly prepared to welcome an ambitious young man trying to work his way up in the world. True, his manners were rough, but Marceline explained about his terrible upbringing. Her parents were ready to help Jim learn more genteel ways and were astonished to discover that he expected them to conform to his. Casual conversation about politics set Jim off. His core beliefs were ingrained from childhood, when he listened to constant diatribes from his mother about how the rich exploited the poor, how the powerful didn’t want to give anybody else a chance. The Baldwins said they knew from their own experience that just wasn’t true. Walter himself had done so much for all sorts of people while on the Richmond City Council. Experience, decades of appropriate community service—these were the things that gave someone the right to offer opinions. But this boy, still a teenager, insisted that he knew better than mature adults. He sounded a great deal like a socialist, and maybe a communist. But Marceline was clearly in love with him, and she was such a responsible gi
rl. This surely meant that Jim’s good qualities and potential outweighed his current immature rantings. The Baldwins would have preferred that their cherished oldest daughter choose someone more traditional, but they accepted Jim, rough edges and all, out of love for Marceline.
Marceline’s friends were pleased she had finally found someone, though they were surprised that he was so much younger and somewhat crude. Marceline confided that she thought Jim would eventually become a minister, and Janet L. Beach remembers that to most of them, this explained everything: “We thought how perfect it was, that this was the way it should be. Marceline would love being a preacher’s wife.”
With her own record of early, if failed, marital experience, Lynetta could hardly object to her son’s marriage at such a young age. She and Marceline did not immediately become close, but managed to coexist. Jim even took Marceline back to Lynn to meet his Jones relatives there, and she made a predictably good impression, almost too much of one. “My first thought was that she was angelic, just glowing, shining, a will-of-the-wisp and obviously special,” recalls Jeanne Jones Luther, who was then sixteen. “I wondered, ‘Whatever does she see in him?’ ”
Jim was a young man in a hurry. In January 1949 he resigned from Reid, moved to Bloomington, and enrolled at the University of Indiana. His courses—Elementary Composition, Introduction to Business, Introductory Psychology, Public Speaking, along with Freshman English, PE, and Remedial Methods in Study and Reading—reflected indecision about a future career. Since he was responsible for his own expenses he worked at night, and on weekends took the bus back to Richmond to see Marceline. The hectic schedule seemed to agree with Jim. His first semester grades were all As and Bs, with a low grade of B- in Elementary Composition. Then and always, Jim Jones was more adept with the spoken rather than the written word.