PhotoDude.com

Thu. Jun 06, 2002

Home Folks and the Family Tree

Home Folks and the Family Tree – I’ve lived all over the Eastern US in my life, but I was born in North Carolina, lived there my first five years, and returned for most of my junior high and high school years. Even though I haven’t been to the Raleigh area in over a dozen years (Grandmother moved to Mississippi over a decade ago to be near my parents), in many ways, even today it’s ”home.” As our trip there this week for Grandmother’s burial made clear, it’s most certainly ”where I’m from.” Once again seeing the roots of my family tree and the home folks that live around it filled my heart in unexpected ways.

Tuesday morning, we went to the L. Harold Poole Funeral Home in Knightdale, NC, for a private visitation and to finalize the arrangements. I can hardly describe the care and kindness they gave us. Of course, it is the nature of their business, but it was more. Knightdale and the surrounding area is in many ways the ”roots” of the Stott family, and the Poole Funeral Home is a long term member of that community, as is the Bethelhem Baptist Church. It is illustrated by simple geography. At one end of the road is the Funeral Home. At the other end, perhaps three miles away, is the Bethelhem Baptist Church. And the road in between takes you through the middle of downtown Knightdale. Any funeral procession takes that route, most appropriately straight through the heart of the community.

Everything was so well handled, we were left with much of the day to ”get lost” in the Raleigh area. As much as it has changed since we were all last there, it was very easy to do. In no hurry, we made what I now think of as a drive around our family tree. Dad took us to Wendell, where the Stott family farm used to be. He drove us up the street, past the house that he came home to as a newborn. Past it is now a nice city park, but it was once the home of my great grandparents, the family farm. The main house, now long gone, sat on a rise where there is now a glorious tree. It’s beauty struck me as we drove up, backlit by the setting sun, and as Dad explained that was near where the house used to be, I insisted we stop so I could photograph it as I first saw it. If it was possible for me to have a literal family tree, this is it.

We then drove through downtown Raleigh, amazed at both the changes, and a town gone so hockey nuts (in Raleigh? in June?) they’d dressed up Andrew Jackson, Zebulon Vance, and Sir Walter Raleigh as a Hurricanes (or rather, their statues at the State Capitol), in honor of their appearance in the Stanley Cup finals (also, see ”Aunt Bea and Opie meet Hockeytown”).

After a whole lot of ”is this where you turn?” and ”ah, ah … yeah, yeah, this is it,” we found our way to Banbury Road, the location of the first house my parents bought (for an amount of money that today wouldn’t buy you a new car), and the house that Brett, LeeAnn and I came home to as newborns. Of course, it’s changed a lot since we moved away in 1964, and our nosiness to view these changes soon drew the attention of the owner. Oops. But once we explained why we were so curious, we had a very nice conversation, discovering they’d lived there 20 years. As she stood there with her teenage son, I saw another family tree had taken roots in the same soil.

We drove through the neighborhood where we lived during my high school years, on Keswick Drive, and it is thankfully very much the same, right down to my old basketball goal that Dad put up for me at the end of our driveway. But when we visited the place my Grandparent’s used to live on Poole Road, it was totally unrecognizable. Their property and two next door, perhaps 100 acres total, had been redeveloped as cookie cutter tract houses maybe 8 years or so ago. But my Dad was able to find one pecan tree between back yards, that used to be in my Grandparents back yard. Another home gone, but another tree remaining.

That night we had a visitation at the funeral home, and I frankly wasn’t sure what to expect. But it certainly wasn’t what actually happened. Of course, many people came to pay their respects to Cora Lee, connected to her in many different ways. It was a blur of faces that I haven’t seen, well, in more years than any of us in attendance cared to think about. And as much as I thank every one of them for being there for Cora Lee, there was one ringing note for me throughout that night.

In addition to relatives, in attendance were several couples who in various ways ”grew up” with my parents, before and after their marriage, going back, well, more years than they care to think about, but between you and me, it’s over 50 in some cases (as evidence, check the hostesses names in this 1958 baby shower announcement, a month before my birth). The Michiners, the Perry’s, the Compton’s, the Jayes’, along with Dora Bryant and others who know who they are (even if I don’t), who came from communities near and far (as far as Richmond, Va.) to pay their respects to Grandmother.

But mainly, they came to be there for my Dad and Mom.

At one point a distinguished well mannered gentleman came in, clearly not wanting to intrude on family, but waiting to speak to my Dad (and later, me). Dad at first didn’t connect who he was, for good reason. Milton Rountree grew up in the same community as my Dad (he told me a story about going fishing with Dad and Granddaddy on the Neuse River, catching a mess of eels), and later worked with him at Westinghouse. Dad left Westinghouse 40 years ago. Not having seen him since, Milton read Grandmother’s obituary in the News and Observer, and came to pay his respects, after all that time.

The strength of friendship of that generation, especially in light of today’s transient society in which we sometimes hardly even know our neighbors, was a wonderful thing to see, as I said, a ringing bell for me throughout that night. And I honor them for it, for being there for my family in the realest way you can.

Gatherings like that point out so many generational differences. My Grandmother was almost the last of that generation of Stott’s (other than Flora Belle Stott, the widow of Eddie’s brother Doane, now in her 90’s, with a walker … and there for the visitation). And it was a big generation. Between the two of them, my Grandmother and Granddaddy had about 16 brothers and sisters, all born in the decades on either side of the turn of the century. By contrast, Mom and Dad, both born in the late 1920’s just before the Depression, had no siblings. They were the only children.

And my Dad and I represent a generational breaking point as well: farm life. I may have ”helped” (as much as a young child can help) with picking and preparing various vegetables from my grandparent’s garden, but I hardly had a farm upbringing. My Dad did, from milking cows to driving a mule and cart down a dirt road that now has 4 lanes and a dozen stoplights. I think growing up in that environment gives one a grounding and sense of values that was once common, but now stands out as the exception rather than the rule.

A prime example: the Bethelhem Baptist Church burned down in the 70’s, and the congregation began collecting funds to rebuild. My Granddaddy did his part by selling crops from his garden, strawberries, tomatoes, string beans, and the like. Not at all uncommon, but the way he did it was indicatively unique. He set up at table at the side of Poole Road, a fairly busy route, about 30 yards from their house. It had a nice selection of fruit and vegetables, a price list, and a cigar box for the money. Granddaddy, then approaching 80, didn’t stay out there in the sun. It was on the honor system. He figured if people really needed food, and didn’t pay, well that was OK. But everyone paid, and the money from that cigar box went towards rebuilding the church. It spoke volumes not only about Granddaddy, but about the everyday people of that area who stopped at his stand.

They were truly ”of the earth” in a way we no longer really understand, because we never experienced it. And not only within the microcosm of farm life, but in the commitments those generations made. Those friends of my parents who showed up collectively represented probably 200 years of marriage, and my parents represent 52 more. And commitment to work? You often went to work for a company for as long as the company existed. My Dad, in the course of his post Air Force career of 40 years, basically worked for three companies. He took care of them well, and they in turn took care of him well. Today, you are hardly guaranteed your next paycheck, no matter how good a job you do.

The generation of my parents and grandparents have roots we no longer even recognize. We’re lucky if even a single tree remains. I find it sad, especially as I know that I represent that generational break.

Several times during the night, I had conversations with people about how good it was to see them, even if it was a shame it took such circumstances to get together, and how we shouldn’t go so long before seeing each other again. But the reality is, it is exactly such circumstances that bring such a rare rallying of family and friends. For Cora Lee, and for my Dad, they came from near and far, at the time it means the most. There should be no guilt for the many years that pass between visits. When it counts, they are there.

They’re home folks.

They exist in rural communities (and formerly rural communities) all over this country, not just the South. Of course, my personal bias is to the folks from North Carolina, but I’ve just had several days of strong reinforcement, on many levels. For example, the day of her burial, we were running early, so Dad drove down the road to where my Great Aunt Lib used to live, and pulled into the end of the driveway.

There was an old van parked at roadside, and a guy came walking over, in his 30’s, in work clothes and sunglasses. I thought maybe he was the current house owner, wondering what in the heck we were doing in his driveway, and I guess Dad did, too, as he started to explain. But the guy started talking about how he’d just run out of gas. I thought, oh, geez, here we are literally in the middle of Nowhere, North Carolina, and I was gonna get the same con I’ve heard a dozen times in Atlanta: ”mister, I just ran out of gas, and I’m supposed to pick up my brother at the airport, can you help me out with ten bucks?” even though their ”gasless car” is nowhere to be seen. My Urban Wall went up.

But I quickly realized, hey, he is in the middle of nowhere, not exactly a ripe spot for panhandling. And there was his van. His only hope had been the owners of Aunt Lib’s house, until we pulled up. As Dad told him about his Aunt Lib who’d owned the house, the man explained he was a Martin, one of the five or so ”founding families” in the Knightdale area. Dad said he’d love to take him to a service station, but it was time for us to go to his mother’s funeral, and the man’s reaction was so pure. He immediately raised his hands and stepped backward, saying, ”oh, no, sir, I’m so sorry, you go do what you need to, and my condolences for your mother.” He looked at the house with the full acre front yard, chuckled and said, ”with that much grass, they’re bound to have a little gas I can buy,” and sent us on our way.

He was home folks. A total stranger, but reacting with the same kindness of family even though it was he who was stranded in the middle of nowhere.

At the graveside service, Rev. Boone gave a fine eulogy, as we knew he would. As he did at Granddaddy’s funeral. What we didn’t know was what would follow at the Fellowship Hall. Eddie and Cora Lee had been charter members and leaders of the Keen Agers club, the church’s senior citizens group. The current members had prepared a Southern Feast for us and those who’d come to the service, with home made fried chicken, pot roast, butter beans, biscuits, and much much more. It was down home cookin’ of the finest variety, what we in the South sometimes call ”comfort food,” at the time it’s most needed. And Rev. Boone, bless his heart, having read my tribute to Cora Lee, and the story of the chess pie, he made sure there was some for dessert.

There’s nothing like home folks. In a couple of short days, they restored so much faith in me, not necessarily religious faith, but faith in people. I’ve been trying hard to patch that up since it was in many ways shattered on Sept. 11, and I thought I’d come a long way.

Until I spent some precious time with home folks. They helped me heal in places I didn’t know I was broken.