Yellow Topaz: from Atlanta and 15 Other Guides to the South

Home , A Perfect Place, Barry Dean (songwriter), Benjamin Harvey Hill, Henry Grady Hotel, James Oglethorpe, Johnny Rucker

Like the birthstone in the title Eleanor has always been a precious gem to her famliy and her friends and now will be a jewel to all those who read this riveting memoir about her life. – Carol Thalimer, author of explorer's Guide: Georgia, Quick escapes Yellow Topaz: from atlanta and 15 other guides to the South. Step back when you read Eleanor a Historical Memoir Babcock's words, for each phrase is like the artist's stroke with a broad brush... It is such a joy to read words that can Eleanor Hope set your mind to whirling. – Candice Stellmach, author Crisler Babcock I wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed reading Chapter 17. I almost felt like I was part of Zada's class. I love the way you write in the present tense and your style... makes for very interesting reading. – Sandra Kankainen, Friend

Yellow Topaz A HISTORICAL MEMOIR Text edited by Morna Gerrard and Stephen Zietz. Production art by Christian Steinmetz. ELEANOR CRISLER BABCOCK Yellow Topaz A HISTORICAL MEMOIR

2011 For Joseph Julius Crisler (1867–After 1942), Son of Thomas Jackson Crisler and Amanda Ruth Manning Crisler, Milton County, Georgia, and President of the Crisler Clan in Georgia Contents Foreword Preface Part I: YELLOW TOPAZ Chapter 1 Character Is Put to the Test The family needs help. Atlanta, “the city with a heart,” introduces Mrs. Brock, a foster mother Chapter 2 Fresh Water for Her Bouquet A momentary appreciation and reward accepted by the aged self Part II: MATCHMAKING Chapter 3 Roses, Hershey Kisses, and Funny Papers Eleanor’s boyfriends, etiquette, and personal observations Chapter 4 First Letters from Bride and Groom Writing lines on paper is revealing of character. If bride and groom can read between the lines, questions might emerge between near strangers Chapter 5 Who Are We Anyway? Questions, questions, getting acquainted Chapter 6 Sex and Money Sex makes a baby, and money becomes a player on the stage of two lives Part III: HEIRS Chapter 7 Birth and Afterbirth Complications We hold our little prince for the first time Chapter 8 Do Colors Make a Difference? Colors identify the seasons. What about in-between time, in-between brothers Chapter 9 The Many Colors of Thread Why not tie origins together in a name for the third and last born Part IV: PLACES AND PEOPLE Chapter 10 Places, People, and Quiet Strength Special places and persons are visited and revisited Chapter 11 Happiness Is Not Accidental. It is a methodical world. Roots and causes matter Mothers, fathers, and in-laws are important Part V: DISRUPTION Chapter 12 Change Causes Pain Change is a given. Change can be difficult Chapter 13 Three Generations Meet for Tea Echoes connect the present with the past and enable a story of change to be told The story is about temporary darkness of mental illness Chapter 14 The Story of the Walls and Crayons The real world of little girls can change from independence to dependence and disarray Walls and Crayons, with a departed spirit, give childhood another chance Part VI: WORDS AND DEEDS Chapter 15 A Small Gift, a Sounding Board Written words become a vocal reflection of the writer, an echo, and in the hearing, a personal therapist Chapter 16 Personal Lives on Common Grounds It is a bird’s-eye view for the Colonel and a musician when they fly from Georgia to Idaho. East and West integrate, and sons, a nation apart, experience healing Chapter 17 Paintings are Like People A brush stroke is participation in the “magnetism of an unseen influence” Chapter 18 Out of Ten Duties, One Duty is Selected A barefoot with yellow ribbon tied around the big toe started walking Eleven hundred caring citizens make history Part VII: FRIENDS AND WIDE OPEN SPACES Chapter 19 Until Another Season Is there life after death? The daffodil holds the answer Chapter 20 Best Friends for Life Two girls grow up together in Cumming, Georgia. They meet for the last time at death’s door, or was it just a dream Chapter 21 Weeds and Roses in Bouquet The connotation usually placed on weeds takes on new dimension Part VIII: LOCAL PAPERS AND RECORDED KINSHIP Chapter 22 A Major Decision Identification please Chapter 23 Unexpected Warriors from Prior Generations A brother and two sisters on a trip revisit their childhood home places Our party is crashed and our hearts stolen Chapter 24 Integrated with Family and History Crabapple, Alpharetta, and Roswell, Georgia are historical. The Crisler and Rucker Re- union is place and time to find missing pieces to an important ancestral puzzle Chapter 25 Trout, Hushpuppies, and Cheese Grits As surely as rain falls, adults and especially children need home-cooked food Carmel Cake is at a premium. Savor the essence of a Crisler Chapter 26 The Economy of the Rock Can one stand on another back to face a distant destiny Part IX: POLITICS Chapter 27 President for a Time We see ourselves as we are, and as other people of the world see us Chapter 28 Cobb County is a Tough Row to Hoe. Military service with call for duty in Vietnam is devastating for a gay friend Part X: THE FUN SIDE Chapter 29 Living History in Story Form Listener’s link past to the present. It’s a joy telling and hearing about it Chapter 30 Then, Now, and Later Life is a piece of cake and a camping weekend Heavenly advice is given to a comedian Part XI: HISTORY Chapter 31 Off the Cumming Square A jail house, a cotton gin, bee hives, hot biscuits and butter Enoch Smith and Mary Brown Chapter 32 History of a Good Family, Second Only to the Bible One will look backward to ancestors before looking forward to posterity Part XII: TRUE ESSENCE BEQUEATHED Chapter 33 The Men in My Life “To find one’s path, and walk in it, is needful” Chapter 34 Yellow Topaz Polished Large and gold encased, its real value represents sought worth Afterword Bibliography Article References In Memory A Family Record Foreword If you have never been knee-deep in the City of Atlanta or if you have lived the life of a long-time native, you are in for a treat. Eleanor Crisler Babcock’s writing has fascinated me for many years, as I watched her craft and chisel stories into their best forms. Yellow Topaz, from cut to polish, is a Jewell of a historical memoir, a compelling journey through life’s raw realities and charming fantasies. It is the experience, not only of one woman, not only of one family, but of humanity in a distinctive time and place. It is also a bequest for those still to come into life. Yellow Topaz is the story of character, love, people and places, of life’s disruptions, friends, Georgia history, politics, and inheritance. It moves through time and sometimes rapidly through the “city with a heart.” So, you will want to strap yourself in and hold on tight. Memories of a childhood foster home and adolescent adventures take you into another time. Musings of early romances and then love move into the uncertainties and certainties of marriage, children, and finance. Eleanor envisions and wheedles the family’s history in the most “imagineering” manner, with stories of vigorous life and quiet endurance. Yet, she does not ignore troublesome instability or the shadows of mental illness; she draws from the past and from departed spirits for strength and understanding. Eleanor’s writing is a cathartic vehicle, and her voice helps the reader to comprehend the influence of words and deeds of individual people who move in and out of life. Friends grow up together, and death brings her to question life after death. She strolls through the past with ease, excitement, and awe. Even the politics of the country and the county are served up as delectably as a piece of cake. A bit of locale history is as revitalizing as hot biscuits and butter. As a creative writing teacher, I have seen people attempt to take on the genre of historical memoir only to give up in frustration of the entanglement. Eleanor refused to give up. She persevered through critiques and revisions until the work became as polished as the gem that Eleanor is. I am thrilled that the memoir is now available for all to see and feel and relive. James Baldwin said that writing is heightened life. Eleanor brought that concept to reality as she laid out the details of the history of her life, her family, her people, her region, and her country. Yellow Topaz is a most precious legacy. —SARAH ANNE SHOPE EDUCATOR AND WRITER Teacher of creative writing who holds a master degree in writing and doctor- ate in education, and literary credits include short story, essay, and poetry. Preface

On a wet November evening during the Iraq-Kuwait-United States war, Eleemosynary is playing at Theater in the Square in Marietta, Georgia. A friend, Judy Ogden, needs a substitute to usher for her Reservist husband who is in Kuwait dealing with death statistics. I am told the seating in the theater is small, so I agree to usher. This fateful evening, three characters—a grandmother, her daughter, and her granddaughter, named Echo—tackle complex relationships in an honest way without being judgmental.

Judy’s need for an usher and the play itself causes me, a mid-life mother and grandmother, to consider writing a memoir, bequeathing my true essence to three grown sons, leaving them stories of the constancy of a good family.

With the wish that “you will find strength for each day,” my mother, Carolyn Ophelia Crisler gave me the book, Daily Strength for Daily Needs, compiled by Mary W. Tileston. It nur- tures and nudges when I feel inadequate and every time I need to make decision. One selection in particular makes me discontented with my procrastination:

What have I learnt where’er I’ve been, From all I’ve heard, from all I’ve seen? What know I more that’s worth the knowing? What have I done that’s worth the doing? What have I sought that I should shun? What duties have I left undone? Isaac Watts, from the original of Pythagoras

I ask myself if we Crislers are neglecting our ancestors, past and present, and our descendants, present and future. Our history and the goodness that we know is a priceless possession; an appreciative posterity.

We are inextricably linked to our forefathers and mothers, our children, and our grandchildren. We are the connection between past and future.

I will think audibly about kinfolk, write what I hear, and recognize myself in the lives of past, present and future generations. Perhaps my sons and their sons and daughters will understand themselves more fully and cherish their own significant contributions.

This memoir will have its roots in the soil of gratitude: gratitude for birth into the Brown- Smith and Evans-Crisler families, for the ups and downs of living in a changing universe, for every creature whose life enables the miracle of thanksgiving.

In the distance I hear a faint sound, then louder, louder, louder.

A cacophony of Canada geese honking and flying, command my attention as the flock follows the leader in the apex of the formation; a metaphorical visitation reminds me of courageous kinfolk and friends gone before, empowering followers to discover a present and future worthy of the past.

Encouraged and influenced, credits are given to Sarah Anne Shope , Cynthia Mortus, Re- becca Srok Babcock, Carol Thalimer and many friends, with technical assistance by Jonathan Michael Babcock. I thank each one with all of my heart.

I am humbled that God would trust me to write this book.

All content represents my own personal view point and interpretation of events. I ask understanding and forgiveness for any part that might be contrary or hurtful to a reader.

Part I

YELLOW TOPAZ

Character Is Put to the Test

Fresh Water for Her Bouquet

Chapter 1 Character Is Put to the Test The image of Georgia’s pre-Civil War Western and Atlantic Railroad line is one of the life-blood to and growth of a city named Terminus and its people. The image of the rail line represents a literal ending and a turn-around for the trains and for the city—an ending of trade and transportation, and a beginning as a banking and financial center. In 1843, Terminus is known as Marthasville; in 1847, it becomes Atlanta. In the late 1930s and early 1940s, I fancy the hustle and bustle near Atlanta’s Five Points, walking on the viaduct over the rail lines and shopping in the Peachtree Arcade building between Peachtree and Broad Streets. It is Atlanta’s first enclosed shopping mall, and Mother’s cousin has a health food shop here. A young man plays the piano, hoping to sell sheet music to passers-by. Some popular favorites of mine are Hoagy Carmichael’s “Star Dust”; Hudson, DeLange, and Mills′ “Moonglow”; and Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn’s “I’ve Heard That Song Before,” from the Republic Picture Youth on Parade. The Atlanta Five Points Star of 1946 never shined brighter. It is a time when individuals are valued human beings, not statistics on a page. From Five Points I can see the Henry W. Grady monument, and connect this giant of a man to our Grady Memorial Hospital.

“It has to be done,” Mother decides, “for the children’s sake.” Georgia law requires a six-month separation from a spouse prior to divorce, so all of us—except older brother Thomas— leave Daddy in Roswell and lose all hope for life together with him. Atlanta agencies quietly beam their networking energies: the Legal Aid Society, a compassionate judge, the John A. Mage′ Church Homes for young women from rural areas who come to Atlanta to work, the Welfare Department, the Atlanta Child Care Home, and foster parents. Mother’s subsequent job at Ponce de Leon Church Home for Girls—kitchen work and later, house mother, dietitian, and seamstress—includes salary, room and board. Hillside Cottages near Virginia Avenue is the first stop for her children, Jimmy, Don, Sara, and me. Soon brother Thomas comes to Atlanta and eventually joins the Navy. Sammy, a toddler and too young for the cottages, had been placed in The Atlanta Child’s Home on Hightower Road when we all left Daddy in Roswell. I am too old for this place. The switching of roles from big sister, substitute mom and sometime-dad most of my life, to dependent kid is disorienting and uncomfortable. I’m miserable, a misfit who wants to be somewhere else. The kind woman employee at Hillside Cottages clasps my hand and leads me to the eating area. The cottage-lady seats me at a table. The food looks good. Kids all around are going at it. I look for Jimmy and the others. Wish I could eat. I look for Don and Sara. Just can’t eat. We need someone strong. Daddy is in Roswell, hurting. Mother is somewhere in Atlanta, hurting. I am here, hurting, too. Just turning 15, this woman-child of Paul and Ophie becomes a sojourner—separated, without the flower of family and home life. Adjustment to group life is essential, but it eludes me: Open showers, no privacy, naked, and with the smaller undeveloped girl bodies! Upsetting! “Eleanor, tomorrow you are moving,” I am told. Suddenly, it’s as if a petal has been plucked from a daisy and tossed up to float in a benevo- lent, invisible breeze, destination unknown.

Visions of happier childhood days rise up from the past: two small girls, Carolyn McKelvey and I, meet almost daily under a tall persimmon tree with oblong leaves to eat soft palatable fruit. Inside each seed we discover miniature shapes resembling forks and knives. The swampy wood- land across Sylvan Road, a haven for delicate wild flowers and ferns, ceases to be enchanting when older brother Thomas and younger brother Jimmy talk of taking me snipe hunting there. I’m free to explore yards of green and silvery-white moss with imaginary fairies and fluttering butterfly friends. Look! I’m learning to dog paddle in the current behind the Roswell Mill, a tributary to the great whirl-pooling Chattahoochee River.

“This is Mrs. Brock,” the welfare lady from her office on Juniper Street says, “and you may choose to keep and wear any piece of clothing in this brown paper bag.” One glance and I know Mrs. Brock is different from Mother. Mother’s face is thin and narrow. Mrs. Brock’s face is round and full. Mother’s younger body is firm and tall, while Mrs. Brock’s body resembles a soft rectangular box with a fair amount of exposed cleavage up top. There is a calming confidence about her stance, and a reassuring welcome on her yes-face. Mother approves and is grateful. Good-byes are said, and the reality of separation from the only life and loved ones known to me becomes devastatingly difficult. Only Mother’s voice over the telephone can cause the tormenting, invisible, and itching rash to disappear and make sleep possible once again. Mr. Brock is a railroad engineer, and Richard, as he is called, is as special as trains are special to Atlanta. He and Mrs. Brock, Annie to him, dearly love their only adopted daughter Theresa, her husband Walter Wallace, and their grandchildren, Amma Jean, Richard, Louise, Alvin, and Lynn. Mr. and Mrs. Brock’s home is modern with all the conveniences, has a side screened porch and—an unusual thing for me—a grassy yard. A few blocks from the house, down South Gordon Road, is the main thoroughfare into Atlanta from Austell. At the intersection of South Gordon Road and Highway 78 (Bankhead Highway), is the Brock’s church, Davis Chapel Baptist; across the street and fronting Highway 78 is the filling station-store-home combination that the Brocks buy before Mr. Brock dies. Toward Atlanta and across the railroad tracks in Mableton are several stores and the post office. I attend Mableton High School, until it burns, and school is moved to drab army barracks. My bed is narrow but adequate and is in the same room with two other foster girls who happen to be sisters. The older girl becomes engaged to Alvin, a milkman. On his 4:00 AM route in Atlanta on Peachtree Street, he is eye-witness to the historic Weincoff Hotel fire. The following morning, -ev eryone hears about the nation’s deadliest hotel fire, about the horror and death of people jumping from high windows. The sisters leave, and more and more I become Mrs. Brock’s—claimed-by-her—other daughter. She takes continuous pride in all I do. Self-esteem grows. She insists that I get my turn

4 at the piano to play those impossible, fast songs at the regularly scheduled church “singings,” and she objects to Alvin’s mean pinching ways. Riding with Mrs. Brock driving makes me uneasy if, during the trip, her beanie-type hat slides to one side. At her 50th wedding anniversary celebration in one of Madison, Georgia’s finest man- sions, my privilege and task is to put powder, rouge, and lipstick on Mrs. Brock and her sister, Mrs. Jackson . . . like I had any possible inkling of how to do it! Even with my nearly failed endeavors, she encourages. I volunteer to run in the May Day relay race and to compete in the talent contest; almost back-to-back events. I choose “Humor- esque” to play on the piano. It is a simple piece but memorization, which is required, is difficult. Every day for one week a music teacher, who lives across the street from the school, coaches me. “Now Eleanor, how you walk out on the stage, how you sit down to the piano, and how you exit the stage is just as important as how you play your piece,” she says. Entering . . . there is no audience, just a row of judges. Sitting . . . calm and confident. The first part goes well . . . with feeling. Memory fails and fully two-thirds of the music becomes a total blank. Exiting, how else . . . with style and grace. The judges award third place for “expression.” Our relay team comes in last. Mrs. Brock assures that there will also be successes. At the June 1, 1949 Class Night exercises in the Mableton Baptist Church, I play Leubach’s “Fifth Nocturne” completely and beautifully, with sheet music. Colonel Thompson of Thompson, Boland, and Lee Shoe Store (on Peachtree Street across from Davison’s Department Store) is told that I need a Saturday job. No questions asked, the Colonel walks to where I am seated and says, “Come in next Saturday.” Until high school graduation, my assignment is to write tickets for the sales persons. I receive payments, deliver change, and bag children’s shoes. In addition, I work for Rose in the Birthday Club. Mrs. Thompson buys hundreds of unique children’s toys for all ages, and as long as a child continues to wear Thompson, Boland, and Lee shoes, he or she receives birthday presents. Hundreds of toys are wrapped each day for mailing. Thanks to Mrs. Brock, the welfare lady learns I am valedictorian and arranges an appointment for an interview with her friend Jewell Greene, Personnel Director for Allstate Insurance Company. There is standing room only on the Greyhound bus from Austell to Atlanta. Plenty of time has been allowed for shopping at Rich’s Department Store bargain basement for a prom dress before keeping the appointment. I pass on the off-the-shoulder dress and choose the conservative one. The windowless basement area provides no hint of the rain pouring down outside; huge drops! I have no extra time and no umbrella. Wearing a yellow cotton dress, and carrying the prom dress in an oversized box, I start running. The trolley stop is blocks away, and Allstate Insurance Company, at Eighth and Peachtree Streets, is miles away. “And which dress did you pick?” Miss Greene asks about the contents of my box. I’m soaked and nervous. “Frankly, with the weather like it is, I really didn’t expect to see you today,” she tells me. “You passed the typing test. When can you come to work?”

Mother has a new position in the dry cleaning business and $200 in savings to buy furniture. With her salary and my Claims Clerical salary, we are able to bring Jimmy, Sara, Don and

5 Sammy home to a small cement block house on Pine Street in Brookhaven. Thomas is still in the Navy, and we learn that Daddy may be at Grandmother Mama Doe’s house. An ending becomes a beginning.

Davis Chapel Baptist Church, Austell, Georgia July 14, 1949

Dear Eleanor, Gifts are nice and very beautiful, but are unable to express the words that come from the heart of those that have been affiliated with you in the church and community for the past few years. As your pastor I have known the desires of your heart and am grateful to the Lord that he has heard your prayers and provided the way for you. No greater faith has ever been seen in the life of any person that has been seen in your life, as you worked hard to graduate from school with the highest honors, but back of it all was the dream that is just coming true, the dream of a home with mother and the children together again. Many of us have failed on much smaller tasks than this, but I thank God for the words spoken by Christ, “My Grace is sufficient, but where is thy Faith.” Not only have we seen God keep His promise to us but have seen the faith kept. As you go into the new walk of life my prayer for you and your family is that you will always keep the faith, remembering that God will never forsake you, but will supply every need. I take this opportunity to express to you on behalf of the Church our appreciation for your faithfulness as pianist, and the many other things done by you for the glory of God. Your place will ever be missed in this church, but may you find your place among the Christian people of another church, adding to them the blessings that we shall miss. May God’s blessings be yours in every walk of life. Your Pastor, Rev. C. G. Johnston

6 Richard and Annie Brock Foster Parents, 1948-1949

Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary, Madison, Georgia

Eleanor is privileged Mrs. Brock, to apply Annie, loved by all. Make-up to Mrs. Brock.

Chapter 2 Fresh Water for Her Bouquet Born in 1884, she was christened Anna Eleanor Roosevelt, but her family called her Eleanor. In 1905, she married Franklin D. Roosevelt, a distant cousin, who became President of the United States in 1932. Volumes, commentaries, and reviews have been written about Eleanor who endured personal hardships in early life with an alcoholic father, and became orphaned at ten. An independent woman, she worked with young people, fought for equal rights for minorities, and was elected chairman of the United Nations Human Rights Commission. Among the mothers who gave birth to 2,569,000 babies in 1931, many saw Eleanor Roo- sevelt as a heroine. On a Sunday and in labor with her second child, Mother was inspired by her nurse, Hope, at Grady Hospital and named me Eleanor Hope. Today, I’m ordering roses. They arrive in a long white imaginary box, with layers of multicolored tissue paper inside. The roses are for the one who needs them most—me, namesake of Eleanor Roosevelt. One rose in the bouquet is for being born Eleanor Hope under the sign of Scorpio. It has been said that Scorpio’s children do everything thoroughly. Water is Scorpio’s element, and the best location for success is near water. Its color is deep red. Its birthstone is yellow topaz. How lucky, in its element, a rose can be. Never mind that an international headline in January preceding my November 8th birthday reveals a worldwide, deepening economic depression. It’s true. This baby was born during the Great Depression, into a family of remarkable genes. I acknowledge a multi-faceted, rich ancestral legacy, and it, like the roses, is a gift of the moment. Another gift is understanding that happiness depends on many wills, remarkable genes notwithstanding. In the 1950s, most young adult lives are full of extra-curricular activities and challenges: sports, parties, group trips, part-time jobs, and planning for college or marriage. Nineteen years old and newly settled in the little cement-block house on Pine Street in Brookhaven, my priorities are adjusting to new surroundings and circumstances. With siblings Jimmy, Sara, Don and Sammy, I am back with Mother after several years’ separation, and succeeding in my first job with Allstate Insurance Company. It is a new ball game, so to speak. An overwhelming sense of responsibility and insecurity envelops me. My stomach churns just thinking about it, and I wonder if this is natural. I can’t tell Mother; she has enough to worry about. Our house is sparsely furnished with the $200 she managed to save while working in At- lanta, and welfare money keeps us going. Poverty is hurtful. At least the days of embarrassing free lunch tickets are past. Mother has to work at a dry cleaning plant on Peachtree Road. I have to work. Rain or shine, we walk the same distance, she to the plant and I to catch the Oglethorpe trolley to 805 Peachtree Street, downtown Atlanta. Uncle Abe Crisler is a food broker, and shows up with boxes of groceries just when we need them. Brookhaven United Methodist Church is just a stone’s throw away, and Mother eventually becomes organist there. I gravitate to the Baptist church and its Youth Fellowship Program, and there I get to know Jesse and Lucy who play serious sports. Lucy has a friend, David G., and David has a friend, Troy. The four of us scrunch together and double-date in David’s truck. Lucy marries David G., moves to Norfolk, Virginia, and later settles in a Kaolin mine area of Georgia where her new friend is also an Eleanor. Lucy and the other Eleanor search for Indian relics and find baskets-full of arrowheads. On a trip to Sandersville, Georgia, I am amazed at the volume stored in a shelter that houses them. Lucy tells me about finding an Indian burial grave: two sets of bones—one sacrificial—are donated to Emory University in Atlanta. A sense of instability continues to exist. The thought of coping without Mother causes fear to wad into a ball inside my chest . . . something could happen to her. Possibly, this is just a growing pain I’ve heard about, a step in the maturing process. Of course, there are achievements, blessings, music in my heart, and words of encouragement, but it seems that the rose box—with its bottom, sides, and a top—is not enough; it needs to be a warm, protective area, somewhere just for me. Youth Fellowship leaders, Mr. and Mrs. Shelnut, urge me to enter the church Speaker’s Tournament. “You must memorize your message and speak to the congregation in the order in which your name is drawn,” we are told. When the speech is written, it is obvious the Baptist denomination is not only inside the box with me but comprises the bottom, sides and top also. Its people undergird and support, its doctrine is part of the contents.

Tournament Speech, 1950 In my opinion, never before in the history of mankind has there been such a need for positive thinkers: men, women, and young people who, through the power- packed principles of Christianity, can drive defeatism and negativism from their minds. Millions of children are born in the United States each year and each child’s life is affected by the conditions and influences which exist in the home. If life is hard, it tends to instill in the individual a sense of insecurity. A broken home leads to unhappiness and in most cases, places heavy financial problems upon the young- ster. Truly, environment is significant. Children are content to accept life as it is, not seeing circumstances capable of being changed, dependent upon families and friends—sometimes, strangers. As a youth every situation is of the most serious nature; nothing is trivial. If we never had an inferiority complex, we develop one, and living is a struggle. A healthy sign: we begin to think, wonder, and doubt. This is the crucial moment. Many, like me, realize their failure to exist without Faith in a higher power and begin to seek spiritual guidance. If our experience is genuine and our aims sincere we are heir to the fullest life can bring. Do the best we can then leave the matter in the hands of God. We gain insight and become aware of our responsibilities. Being educated, well informed, and exercising our rights become important.

10 Positive and negative thoughts cannot exist simultaneously in one individual’s mind. Recognize that a human being can have the power to enable her to live a life of usefulness and service. Shame is not in possessing various complexes, but in not finding an answer for them. Think positively.

What happened before in the school May Day talent contest, happens again. My memory fails… and only half way through the speech! Tears flow. Something to say, and I can’t say it. I goof. Divine Providence seems to be whispering to the Soul in the box. “A Soul,” it says, “is like a bouquet of roses; many lives and many petals. One Soul can have her story of trouble, deliverance, conflict, courage, and faith. Themes and mythologies run through the Bible and in families that bind and box in the Spirit: perfectionism, lack of realism, self-sacrifice, belief about ourselves. “Young Soul, Pink Rose, your color will change. Some petals must fall. Life is a process of transformation based on just being—and trying to be better. “Power and beauty are within.” Roses, long stem . . . velvety, moderately red . . . no . . . they are deeply pink. Fresh water is drawn for the bouquet.

Part II

MATCHMAKING

Roses, Hershey Kisses, and Funny Papers

First Letters from Bride and Groom

Who Are We Anyway?

Sex and Money

Chapter 3 Roses, Hershey Kisses, and Funny Papers Ray drives me to Chastain Park for weekend tennis. F. Moise comes from Norfolk for the weekend. A Navy man, brilliantly educated at a Cath- olic school in New Orleans, he is polished, and knowledgeable about wines. We just don’t click. “You accepted the necklace and the opera records from Moise, Eleanor. You tell him. I refuse to speak for you,” Mother says. He gets the sad message of rejection. Peter is tall and thin, comes from a wonderful family and is a good tennis player. “You’re everything that’s wonderful . . . .” His Sweetheart Valentine message is simple and beautiful, and later he tells me he is going to become a preacher. “You will be a really good preacher’s wife,” he says. One thing for sure I know, being headstrong and independent, a leader, and not a follower, I would not make a good preacher’s wife. The physical attraction is just not here. Instead, there is an uncomfortable feeling of sadness for my friend. This is all between myself and me, of course. So there are boyfriends. There is also a job and a mother who still needs help. Allstate In- surance Company is becoming more and more a substitute family and a needed proving ground. The company magazine, AIM (1953), features Women and Work:

She was 17, and fresh out of Mableton High. And she was eager to learn, eager to help. That was Eleanor Crisler in June of 1949, at the start of her work-a-day Allstate world. It is Eleanor today: the same boundless energy, the same happy happiness. Naturally, there have been changes in her status. In ′49, she started out in a claim clerical way by applying her energies to the typing of drafts. Ten months later, she was a coverage clerk. By the time the fourth quarter of 1952 had rolled around, Atlanta’s administrative staff had polished final plans for the establishing of a “Western Division.” To this branch-within-a-branch was assigned an acting claim clerical supervisor . . . the Miss from Mableton High. Later, in April of this year, the Atlanta Division developed a need for an Application File Supervisor. Crisler, off her performance in Western Claim Clerical, got the job. Eleanor Crisler has tasted responsibility in her Allstate career; she likes it and wants more of it. That’s why she spends several evenings a week studying for a Bachelor of Arts Degree at Georgia State University.

Walter F. Berdal, Allstate Claim Department employee and Professor of Law at Georgia State Uni- versity, often encourages and gives sound advice. One morning, he notices my red, swollen eyes and inquires about them. With time payments, I had purchased a painted mahogany dining room suite and a tone- on-tone gray rug for our sparsely furnished rented house on Briarwood Road. “I cried all night,” I say. The truthful answer is embarrassing. “Why did you cry all night?” Mr. Berdal asks. The whole story comes out: Last night Mother was playing the piano and I was in bed listening to the music. She stopped playing. “Sammy, Sammy! Look. Look,” she shouted to my youngest brother. I jumped out of bed to see iodine spilled across one end of the tone-on-tone gray living room rug, the rug still owed for, at $7 a month. Mr. Berdal is a tall and loving man with graying hair and wide-rimmed glasses. His face begins to soften as he questions me in a fatherly manner. “Why, Eleanor, don’t you know that nothing in this world that is material is worth crying all night over?” It was wise counsel and an instance of goodness that meant more than the giver or the receiver might have thought. Before Mr. Berdal dies with cancer in Tennessee, he requests a visit from “one of my all time favorite people.”

Memorable Allstate events help to shape a destiny: Lunches with close friends Annalisa, Patsy, Carolyn, and Janet in the Paradise Room of Henry Grady Hotel; participation at Company anniversary parties and in beauty contests; course completion in Management Development with four male employees. Mother still manages the dry cleaning business, sister Sara gets engaged, and for me, there are fewer nervous stomachs at breakfast. Unfortunately, pursuing the Bachelor of Arts degree has to be deferred when I become anemic and the rug is picked up for cleaning, then lost. So there are minor setbacks. We are all surviving—miracle of miracles. Brother Thomas is in the Navy. Jim, Don, and Sammy are in school. Vitalis bottles abound in the bathroom, and Mother gets free dry cleaning. Daddy, somewhere in Atlanta, has trouble just existing, so cannot pay court-required support. We have Mother’s salary and my salary. Swanson brings out the first TV dinners for 69¢, but our meals are always home cooked. The average cost of a new car is $1,478 and far beyond reach. In fact, having one never crosses our minds. Short-styled hair replaces the ponytail. Three Coins in the Fountain is the 1954 Romance Oscar Winner. Among the top ten hits are Jo Stafford singing “Make Love to Me!” and Doris Day singing “Secret Love.” Joe DiMaggio weds Marilyn Monroe.

Call it accident or chance; cupid comes to town. Vincent Velosinor arrives in Georgia from California, seeking a two-year degree. He gets part-time work at the dry cleaning plant with Mother, and enrolls at Southern Technical Institute in Chamblee. Vincent, already engaged, fears this 22 year old—going on 50— is going to be an “old maid,” and brings two guys from Southern Technical two-year college for the blind dates on Hal- loween night. “Eleanor, this is George Traber and Bob,” he says, secretly expecting my instant attraction to George, a Catholic, like himself. Sara, my sister, is totally disinterested and is not present.

16 George is a tall blond with a mouth full of perfect white teeth, an adventurer, and friend to Bob who is medium height and thin with dark hair. Bob bounds over to the piano, plays a tune, and then rushes into the kitchen for a drink of water. Oh, no! Don’t go into the kitchen, I’ll be embarrassed. Even my cleaning during the day can’t camouflage the kitchen’s flaws. Bob’s youthful freshness, spontaneity, and unpredictability fills the room like an unfamiliar Paris perfume invading my space. I’m spellbound. This pattern of his behavior repeats itself throughout the evening. Two guys being introduced makes for confusion—Sara not being present—so I choose a lap to sit on in the compact car. We’re a group, it seems. Everyone gathers on Peachtree Street for the Halloween celebration. Horns are blowing. Bob is in back of me. Now Bob is in front. I’m miserable. One hopeless romantic remembers the prophecy of her inner voice, “Some petals must fall,” and one pink rose draws deeply from its watery element. The metamorphosis begins. There are no post-Halloween night contacts from Bob until the following year. Brother Jimmy and Elaine Martin are taking notice of each other. A ride with Mrs. Martin and Elaine to the Naval Air Station and the grounds of Southern Technical seems to be providential. There he is . . . standing there by his motorcycle near the college entrance gate. From the back seat of the Martin’s car, I recognize Bob Babcock and wave. Later, as we exit the grounds, Bob waves to me. I wave back. The telephone rings. Naturally, “thorough” me tidies up the place—reeling in new-love bliss—and dons the high neck, long sleeve, flower-print green dress Mother found at the Brookhaven Nearly New Shop. With heart beating wildly in my 112-pound fully developed body, I open the solid wood front door.

On an August evening in 1954, we do it our way: light on conversations and heavy on personal observations. Bob drives down Briarwood Road onto Buford Highway toward Piedmont Road. Wait a minute. What is happening? Managing a calm shifting in the seat while experiencing inner panic and unease, the answer seems clear; he’s turning into Piedmont Park! This is not the way to the Fox Theater. He is going to park and try to smooch. The fret and worry soon subside. Driving through the park proves to be a short cut to his and George’s apartment. As swift as an arrow, leaving me in his automobile and unaware of his intentions, my princely stranger disappears into his apartment, changes into a white long sleeve dress shirt, rushes back with untied tie around his neck, and reeks of cologne. Old fashioned it may be. Awkward and dizzying, it is worthy of approbation but cheerful acceptance, this spontaneous gesture. We frequent Piedmont Park pool and lake. I dog paddle from post to post, and Bob swims behind to ensure my safety until we reach our private raft, lie in the Divine sun, and look at each other. We have a three-month engagement. My family monetary responsibilities can now be left with brother Jimmy.

17 The Babcock family Cadillac is parked. Bob’s dad, Bill, in suit and tie, and his mom, Eliza- beth, smartly dressed and wearing a hat, come to call on my family. Strict etiquette is the general rule of the times, especially with Bob’s many expected out- of-town relatives. Mother can’t help much with the wedding; money is scarce. Aunt Alice will come from Florida to help with the reception, but I must handle all other details. It is to be a small wedding—yeah, right! Betty, Bob’s only sibling, is in France feeling disappointed. She can’t be present. Bob wants an early date. The order of emerald green taffeta dresses for Sara and the bridesmaids is overdue, and Bob’s wedding band is too large. Our course is set. Relationships, good and bad, can be found on a blind date. In the long run, what matters is the recognition that we are two individuals with undiscovered scars and specific contributions to make to each other. I previously ordered myself roses. It is clear today on November 13th, 1954, at Brookhaven Baptist Church—when Bob’s uncle, Dr. Edward D. Staples, pronounces Robert William Babcock and Eleanor Hope Crisler, husband and wife—at least one rose in the bouquet is rich red. Hershey Kisses arrive and are placed in a silver bowl to tempt and honor a partner and companion. No bowl of Kisses need stand alone, not when the Comics are delivered every day of the week. So for Bob—my zany-brainy, Pennsylvania-born Mr. Fix-it, self-described nonconformist, and kid-in-a-man’s-physique husband—a lifetime endowment of the Funny Papers is accepted.

18 Chapter 4 First Letters from Bride and Groom

Little Five Points Atlanta, Georgia November 17, 1954

Dear Betty and Bill, By the time you receive this letter Bob and I will have been married well over a week and we love each other more and more each day. Forgive me for not writing to you before the wedding, but I had so many things to do in such a short time that I neglected some very important things. A mutual friend introduced us to each other on Halloween Night, 1953. Even though we were interested in each other from the beginning, various things kept us from dating more than once. It wasn’t until the following summer that we started going steady and decided to get married. Our wedding was semiformal. I wore a white ballerina-length wedding dress and a fingertip veil. A friend of mine made my blue garter and I carried a handkerchief that has been in the family for over 50 years. My three attendants, my sister and two girlfriends wore emerald green dresses and carried yellow carnations. Their headdresses were also made of yellow carnations. Your Uncle Edward came down to perform the ceremony and your dad was the best man. He teased all along that we gave him that job so we wouldn’t have to let him sing! Jim, my brother, gave me away. I just wish that you could have been here. Bob’s Aunt Gladys and Martha came and, of course, Dr. Staples′ wife and mother. They are all such wonderful people and Betty, your mother and dad are just tops. They have both been so sweet and wonderful to us. We received your wire and I’ll be putting it in my bride’s book. Our apartment is in Little Five Points just two blocks from Clifton. We still must buy a few things but other than that, we have gotten everything we just had to have as wedding and shower gifts. Betty, I’m looking forward to meeting you and Bill. Mrs. Babcock and Bob have told me quite a lot about you. Write me soon, and next time I’ll try to write more. Love, Eleanor Company “C” 9340 TSU Atlanta General Depot Atlanta, Georgia 20 Nov. 54

Hi Betty and Bill: A lot has happened since I last wrote you folks, getting married being just part of the events. About two months ago, I became permanent at the Atlanta Gen- eral Depot. I attended a Machinist course here for about three months and at the end of that time came into the Company as cadre. My MOS is 1114, a machinist, so I’m working in an office as a clerk typist and will also soon have a clerk typist MOS. Just like the Army. This Eleanor gal is a real woman; she makes more money than I ever have, owns a dining room set with a glass-fronted china chest, has a television set, and I don’t know what all. She gave all these to her mother when she moved out since it would make the house pretty empty. She is smart as anything and built like a brick house. Her height is five feet, two and one-half with naturally curly black hair. She can go swimming and the minute her hair dries it’s as wavy as ever. The camera is wonderful, as you probably know. I’ve never had a camera with so many adjustments. My first roll of film came out perfectly. I just couldn’t mess up the pictures if I tried. I took pictures into the sun, in the house at night by adjusting the shutter speed and iris. You can vary the shutter speed, iris opening and distance so you can get just about any combination you desire. It’s really swell. These recent mistakes are because a man just asked a question. The apartment is nice and it’s just like being married; she has dinner just about ready when I get there, and I’ve started eating breakfast again. Eleanor took the week off after the wedding. We have a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a hallway with two large closets, a large room we use as a bedroom and living room with a nook which is a dormer window we use as a library. A small room goes off the bedroom and we have a dresser and chest-of-drawers in it and use it as a dressing room. I have a 1948 Buick Special that is pretty nice; good paint job and good tires. Eleanor is learning to drive; she is pretty good already. All she needs is a little confidence. I’m cutting this thing off because you can probably tell that I’m just about talked out. It’s hard to type as you think and a lot of men just came in so I can’t concentrate. Love and thanks for everything, Bob

20 Company “C” 9340 TSU Atlanta General Depot Atlanta, Georgia 26 Nov. 54

Well George: This married life is great, and I have no regrets about anything, nor would I change anything I have done so far. Just the simple fact that there is someone near who cares for you and actually gives a darn what happens to you, makes the whole thing worthwhile. There is, of course, the other part to marriage, ah yes. The first night I got a place in a motel. It’s a wonder I got away from there without losing my shirt. The bed sheets were full of holes and covered with blood. That’s enough of the gory details. I rented an apartment about a mile east of Little Five Points for just $45 per month and it is fully furnished. The bus stops right outside the front door so it is very convenient for Eleanor. She can cook very well and since she is not going to start back to work for about another week, I’ve had a feast waiting for me every night. As you know, Eleanor is built pretty well just by looking, but you should see her in those shear night gowns she wears. I usually go to bed first because I’m sleepy since I get up so early. She’s got 36-inch bust and hips and a 24-inch waist so you can just imagine what happens when she turns out the light and heads for the bed. Oh Mamma. I could tell it was the real thing with me as well as with Eleanor just by the way she acted around me and when I asked her to marry me, I was sure. In case the thought in this letter seems to wander, it’s because it’s late at night and I am pulling C.Q. until 0.800 in the morning. Really missed you at the wedding—there just seemed to be something missing without you. Dad was my best man and he handled it pretty well, but like I said, it wasn’t the same as if you had been there. We got your gift the day of the wedding. It was wonderful and I understood the meaning of the beans right away. It reminded me of our big trip to Florida. Bob

A year has passed since our marriage. It is the beginning of autumn when billions and tril- lions of leaves are changing colors, and their reflection upon the sky is turning its blue to gray. Cold winds gust, and a panoply of swirling leaves fall to cover the ground. The trees’ state of dormancy begins, not only to remind us of the quality associated with such things as harmony of form, but also to allow a conspicuous view and personal mental perception of a life laid bare, a life altered from season to season, a proximity to other trees, and other lives. Writing lines on paper reveals a great deal about character. If bride and groom could read between lines, questions might emerge between near strangers.

1954, Robert, Eleanor Babcock, Amma Jean Wallace Chandler in background, Aunt Gladys Brewster looks on.

Robert is Soldier of the Week Eleanor at North Fulton Park Barbara Currence, Amma Jean Wallace Chandler, Sara Crisler Cobb, Jimmy Crisler, Eleanor Crisler Babcock, Dr. Edward D. Staples, Robert Babcock, William Mitchell Babcock and Groomsmen

Eleanor in Management Training, Allstate Insurance Company Chapter 5 Who Are We Anyway?

Strangers marry strangers. It seems a cruel hoax: an offspring is generally more like the less favored parent. If that isn’t cause for pause and introspection, psychological research claims that—even as early as one year of age—it has already been determined the type of person you will be attracted to. Predestined . . . I might not have a say in the matter, the freedom to steer my own ship. And can it be true that women and men marry someone like their mother? A newly-married life novel is being written as Eleanor and Bob get acquainted. I must comprehend who Daddy is, who Mother is, who I am, and who Bob’s father is, who Bob’s mother is, who Bob is. I want to know what this bride—who exhibits similarity to her father, is considered to be a daughter of ageless mothers, and who finds herself attracted and joined to Bob Babcock—will learn from the likes of a person who is “like my mother.” Unexpressed magnetism for more of my own mother may have attached me to a lifetime self-help live manual, one which over the years will test and nurture my soulful personality. I am complicated and shaped by pain and pleasure, success and failure; perhaps an omni- bus in which all my ancestors are still riding. Although I can’t understand just now its ramifica- tions for the future, a certain amount of self-knowledge is lacking and an unknown amount of self-acceptance is being sought. My family is broken. Bob’s family is complete: a father, a mother, a sister, and a dog. This does not go unnoticed and indeed pricks a deep—not-to-be-admitted—inner sense of inferiority. Maybe, just maybe, through attachment and love and extended family relationships, my soul can carefully grow. Bob seems so perfect, so altogether. Binding legal union is destined to render obvious answers. Self-revelation will net some true identities and value.

The limbs that move, the eyes that see, These are not entirely me . . . Dead men and women helped to shape The mold which I do not escape, The words I speak, my written line, These are not uniquely mine. Excerpt from poem by Richard Rolle, English writer (1295–1349)

Chapter 6 Sex and Money We have the 1948 Buick and are renting Mr. and Mrs. Carroll’s furnished upstairs apartment in Little Five Points on the outskirts of Atlanta. Mr. and Mrs. Carroll are in their late eighties and seem to like us very much. They provided a private entrance by opening the back part of the attic and adding stairs. Sex is good. Not even Coca-Cola tastes good after the Army medics administer one-half-cup-size shots for my anemia. But the hemoglobin count is rising and energy is back. Good thing. Allstate Insur- ance Company foresees more responsibility in my future, and Bob’s soldier uniforms are a pain to iron. Bob is more handsome than ever in the Official U. S. Army Photograph as Soldier of the Week. Sex is very good. It just seems the expected, if not natural, custom for Bob to manage the money. He is good with figures and can type the 1040 Income Tax Return while on duty in Conley, Georgia. Most of my salary as a single went to Mother who took care of the bills. Pocket money was held back each week for me . . . not much, though. My income for 1954 is $3,305.31, and Bob’s is $823.68, for a total of $4,123.99, minus $247.54 income tax. Four $600 exemptions for 10 months of the year until our marriage, Novem- ber 13, 1954—Bob, Me, and my brothers, Donald and Samuel Crisler—come in real handy. The itemization:

Automobile $250.00 Suit 70.00 Pants 11.00 Shoes 12.00 Truck 100.00 Two Tires 25.00 Gas Stove 15.00 Paints 8.00 v Accordion 75.00 $624.00 Food per week X 52 weeks $12.00 Total $1,202.00

Bob washes his socks in the bath tub . . . while taking a bath . . . in the same bath water. Shocking but innovative, I admit. “All right, so it was a fryer and not a roasting hen. We will eat it anyway. It’s just a little hard, but it tastes good,” Bob encourages. “Mr. Carroll, help me, Mr. and Mrs. Babcock are coming for supper Friday night,” I say. “You can have a ham,” he suggests, “I’ll get it and cook it for you. It will be ready when you get home from work.” Bob’s mom and dad never suspect that Mr. Carroll cooked the ham. Aunt Ethlyne Staples from Nashville visits just at Army uniform ironing time. “Oh, look,” she marvels, “cuffs, fronts, and collar, last! . . . and her cakes are from the base up!” Well, partly true. Community Chest, the Red Feather Organization, and The Red Cross each received a ten dollar donation last year. Wesley Chapel Methodist Church and Brookhaven Baptist Church received substantial offerings, considering our individual circumstances. It takes weeks to find the nerve to ask Bob if we can tithe. The question sounds conde- scending and apologetic. It is what I do. I mean, it is what I did. Bob’s answer is an unbelieving chuckle, and the subject does not come up again. I forgot. The wedding flower bill remains unpaid and is, for Bob, an unavoidable detail to remind me of at later times. During one of our steaming sexual encounters, a meeting of the minds occurs. “Let’s not have kids for at least a year,” Bob says. “O.K., you are using protection.” “No,” he says, “you are.” I’m not prepared. Mother told me that no virtuous woman knows anything. Four months later, Robert William Babcock, Jr. is conceived, and I am designing maternity clothes. Packed away for good is my two-piece light blue going-away honeymoon suit, size eight. No more princess style dresses for me, and no more second income. Allstate Insurance Company has a rule: no working after four months pregnancy. The farewell card has many pages to accommodate wishes from my nine women employee friends, some of whom are old enough to be my mother:

“You’ve been so good to me. I’m really going to miss “that shoulder.” I know you’ll be just as good “Mothering” Sr. and Jr. as you have me, Love Nita” “I have enjoyed having you as a supervisor very much, Best of luck. Evelyn Bryant” “We’ll miss you. Thanks for your interest in giving me the learning I will need. J. Young” “You’ve been like a mother to us, best wishes, and may all your troubles be “little” ones. Ozzie” “I enjoyed working with you. You have really been help to me. Love, Miria” “We’ll miss you, best of Luck. Joan McClure, Katherine, Betty, Violet”

It is time to find quarters in Blair Village near the Post, to say “Goodbye” to the kind and generous Mr. and Mrs. Carroll. God led us to them, I know. We move, buy a wringer washing machine, and, unfortunately, have a few diehard roaches among our boxed wedding gifts. Bob’s sister, Betty, is also expecting a baby. Wife and sister-in-law proudly have our pregnant selves photographed.

28 Part III

HEIRS

Birth and Afterbirth Complications

Do Colors Make a Difference?

The Many Colors of Thread

Chapter 7 Birth and Afterbirth Complications Birthing class—while ahead of its time in some ways—does not include fathers-to-be. In reality, the class is my first introduction to Anatomy 101. Breasts are spoken of as “breasts,” and “anus” is a discovered word. No embarrassment, just dignified speech. Nutrition and exercise are taught and expected, and labor is a hand-held experience. Our first-born, weighing six pounds, 11 ounces arrives on January 2, 1956, at 11:31 A.M, at the Fort McPherson Army Hospital. No instructions come with the baby. Baby’s Own Story Year by Year records dark blue eyes, light brown hair, blonde brows, fair complexion, and musician’s hands, with nice long fingers. These army people expect my feet to be on the floor posthaste. It is like no other sensation, this sudden surge of mother’s milk. I could certainly use a bra. Bob’s mother can help. “Mrs. Babcock, this is Eleanor.” (I am using the telephone just beyond my white, cloth- curtained Post-hospital cubicle.) “I need some nursing bras, please buy me some.” “Sure, Honey,” she says, “what size do I need to get?” “Thirty-two D,” I answer. “Thirty-two B? Thirty-two B? Thirty-two B-e-e-e-e-e . . .?” “No, thirty-two D . . . A, B, C, D,” I emphasize. The Babcock women, according to Bob, are somewhat less endowed, so a D-size cup is larger than life. From Post hospital to Bob’s parents’ house on Wesley Chapel Road in Decatur, I go to recover from unexplainable afterbirth complications. A nerve between the vagina and the anus had been cut during the birth process, causing what seems to be a severe case of hemorrhoids. I can’t move, and the sheets feel like a patch of briars. In addition, a mild case of postpartum depression has me in its grip. “You just have to pull yourself up by your boot straps,” Bob’s mother says. Major Brown—who delivered, cut the umbilical cord, spanked a beet-red butt, and then placed a bawling Robert William Babcock, Jr. on my stomach—adjusted gold-rim glasses, as if to listen better after describing to me the “postpartum blues.” “Major Brown, I don’t understand why this is such a big deal. I helped to raise my brothers and sister. I have known responsibility all my life. What is the problem?” “Eleanor,” he says, “this is a totally different type of responsibility. Your baby is your own flesh and blood, bone of your bone.” Regressing to my world of childhood paper baby dolls, I am able to understand the immense gap between playing with dolls and being the source or origin of a living, breathing, moving baby, one to watch over, nourish, and to protect. My aching arms cradle this baby; minute portions of my flesh; blood and bone; the dust of a newborn earthly star; the resemblance of a rose, his mother. In the fable written by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, a little prince is said to have existed because “he was charming, that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep!” To tiny Bobby, I want to say, “I will graze with you on life’s green pasture, but you are you, and I am me: Sheep and Sheep.” One card, with many expressions of love, arrives for this first grandson from his Grandpa and Grandma Babcock. Bobby, your word for Grandma Elizabeth sounds like Bonnie, so Bonnie it is for the rest of her life; Bonnie, for grandma; Bonnie, for mother-in-law. It’s an easier name for me to use, it fits her sunny and loving personality. In her home when you toddle toward Grandpa’s fallen glove on the living room floor, and—without the slightest hesitation—place your hand in the glove, thumb to thumb and fingers to fingers, everyone in the room is astonished at your intelligence. Photograph albums and videos will catch your curiosity, happiness, and tireless play, but are unable to capture the trauma of being a firstborn practice-object for teaching mom and dad how to parent. I-love-you messages and illustrated art will prove your capacity for imagination, dry wit—like your dad’s—and your depth of understanding. T. S. Eliot defined poetry as “not the assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more fully real to us.”

Jesus is so pure and white; he helps all mankind go right, And if you see his angels, don’t give ‘em fright. They’re Jesus’ angels, they help us go right. —Bobby Babcock

Robert William Babcock, Jr. is our “charming” and “laughing” young sheep -- Sheep and Rose.

32 Chapter 8 Do Colors Make a Difference? November, the month of my birth, is an in-between month, an undistinguished month, and a time for stillness and waiting for Advent; a coming or an arrival, a time of expectation and of reflection. The color for November is green. Almost one-third of a column is used in The American Heritage College Dictionary (1993) to define green. One of the colors of the solar spectrum, it ap - pears between blue and yellow and is said to be one of the most common colors in nature. “Green is absolutely the most difficult color with which to paint,” art instructor, Zada Jack- son, tells our class. “And don’t ever try to use Thalo green in a painting!” Green can describe plants, a supporter of an environmental political movement, something not aged, and someone—like myself—lacking experience and somewhat gullible. November 1956 is as all Novembers: deciduous trees exhibit dabs and splotches of the golds, bronzes, red reds, wine reds, oranges, and yellows of fall. The life-giving part of the tree is the leaf. Long before a tree’s leaves begin to fall, the tree starts a new year’s crop of leaves. In December, evergreens dominate the landscape. Our in-between child is conceived in December, during the time of Advent. It is that which lies between the seen and unseen—the miracle of growth—that defies description. This next baby will rush headlong into a life of seasons, each of which can be fraught with both dormancy and growth, hurt and healing. The evergreen bud of eternity is growing in my womb and is destined to become a palatable flavor, sandwiched between two brothers.

Bob is finished with computer training in- New York, and works as a service representa tive for Remington-Rand, at Fort Gordon Army Base in Augusta. My Allstate Insurance Company profit-sharing plan has provided the down-payment for purchase of our first home, on Martha Lane in nearby Martinez. The small house is new and away from the main thoroughfares, a perfect place for children. The front yard is a good size and has a water-well pump on one side. The back yard is adequate, with trees for stringing a clothes line. “Eleanor, be sure that the house is not downhill from the road,” Mother cautioned. We hear but do not listen. The day we move in, the hardwood floor in the living room is buckled up, blocking the front entrance, and the white clay of middle-eastern Georgia—like a non-porous bowl—holds a lake of water under the low-to-the-ground house. There is a back-and-forth drainage from this area to the septic lines close to the house. It is a long hard lesson to learn about clay and about a builder who knows the land has been judged unsuitable for building, yet during a dry spell, builds anyway. The Veterans Administration steps in. Under threat of losing his building permit, the builder repairs the floor, installs front-yard drainage ditches and pipes, and has the septic tank and lines moved away from the house. Yes, we are learning, and our family is growing. Neighbors are becoming good friends and supporters in the absence of our own families: Marguerite, Delmer, Alan and Eric Cowart, and Marguerite’s mother—God’s gift to us all— Mrs. Adams; young professional educators, Bob and Mary, little Robby, and Barry Dean Kaiser; and Richard and Sandra Ransom with two newly adopted baby sisters. Another neighbor’s daughter has epileptic seizures. We all have our respective roles in a life plan and, as best we can, are inter- acting by example with dignity, fundamental values, and shared sense of priorities. In the future, Bob and I will look back upon this existence as a Miracle Play: a drama portraying events in the lives of ordinary potential saints and martyrs; of colors and greenery; leaf factories. We are making it on one salary, with an inherited budget management plan that, according to Bob, was his father’s: anything left over from the grocery money was his mother’s. Money is scarce, it’s true, but “necessities versus necessities” becomes an everyday squeeze-play. The small middle bedroom for Bobby’s play and quiet times has a minimum of toys, a rocking chair, and a three-foot-high homemade plywood castle door. The Better Homes and Gar- dens cookbook is a constant companion; I seem to be losing bits and pieces of myself to the increasing demands of marriage and pregnancy. As I am learning to plan balanced meals, design and sew mix-and-match maternity clothes, teach in summer Bible school, and participate in the Women’s Missionary Society, I recognize the absence of a distinct personal life and the reliance on secondhand information and hand-me-down religion.

Mrs. Penn has children, and she seems to be relaxed and knowledgeable about colds, croup, and home remedies. She is the first to be consulted when 11-month-old Bobby gets sick. “It is not a good thing that you have been exposed to a certain kind of measles. It can really be bad for your baby,” Mrs. Penn says. Well, there is no rash, and I don’t feel bad, so the baby in my womb must be all right, I wrongly rationalize. No need to tell the doctor about it. Across the street, Mrs. Adams is an old, wise, and tranquil being. We sit together for hours, philosophizing about life and watching Bobby and her grandson, Alan Cowart, play. During the fourth month of pregnancy, I transplant a climbing rose bush from the dry and hard clay. That evening, at nine o’clock, the pain begins, jeans are unbuttoned, then unzipped. It helps to lean forward. “What did you have for supper?” the doctor asks. “Spaghetti and lemonade,” I answer. “You have diarrhea,” he said. “I’ll call in some paregoric for you.” Without diarrhea symptoms, his diagnosis is accepted. The small bottle of paregoric is taken over a period of several hour intervals. “Bob, Bob. Wake up. Wake up. It hurts to lie in bed,” I moan, “it hurts not to. Wake up.” It is two o’clock AM. There is no relief. “Doctor,” I say on the phone. The pain is relentless. “I can’t stand up straight. I can’t sit down. I can’t lie down. That medicine isn’t working!” Bob is off to the all-night pharmacy again for capsules. I’m terrified. It is appendicitis. I know it must be. Hurry back, Bob. Please hurry back. I’m afraid. At eight o’clock AM, I call the doctor. “So sorry to wake you, I can’t wait any longer,” I say, “nothing is helping.” “Get to the emergency room immediately!” he says. “I’ll be there.” The pediatrician and the surgeon agree. “It’s appendicitis.”

34 “Are you allergic to anything?” the nurse asks hardly waiting for the needle to pierce my arm. “Your blood pressure has doubled during your ride from the emergency room to this room.” No time for preoperative preparation, events are happening fast, too fast. Augusta is a medical college town with no shortage of doctors, many of whom practice in this Catholic hospital. Too sedated to wave to Bob as they roll me away, but awake enough to ask silent questions: What about my baby? What if there are complications? Will they save the baby or me? “The danger was not during the operation,” the doctor tells me. “These several days since the operation require very special care.” After several days lying very still, two nurses forcefully turn me from back to side. “Ouch! That hurts.” It feels as if the stitches are broken and the incision must be opened. Neither is the case. Mother-to-be, with precious four-month old cargo inside, leaves the hospital intact. Time will reveal any repercussions to one or both of us.

Daddy’s emphysema has him imprisoned in an upstairs apartment on Ponce de Leon Av- enue in Atlanta. He has quit drinking whiskey. “I hope you are taking care of yourself,” Daddy writes in one of six or eight letters before he dies. Uncle Abe and Daddy’s beloved son, Thomas, are with him. The letters reveal the reality of a caring inner soul and his effort to show his love.

“Having this baby will just feel like having a good bowel movement,” my young obstetri- cian says! How can he possibly know? I wonder. “Don’t worry,” he continues, assuring me that when the time comes, instructions will be on my chart, “If you ask for pain relief, you will receive it.” Early on September 16, 1957, the first contractions begin. Excitement abounds at the pros- pect that the baby will arrive on his grandmother’s and his uncle’s birthday; Bonnie and Samuel Lamar Crisler. “I’m going to keep you in the hospital for observation,” my doctor says. “This may be a false alarm because you are not dilating.” He requests a shot to stop the contractions, and fully eight uneventful hours pass. “Nurse, nurse, I just had a very intense contraction!” “Are you sure, Honey?” she asks. “Yes. Yes! There’s another one.” The closeness of the contractions has gotten her undivided attention, for sure. “Nurse, please bring something for pain. It’s on my chart; the doctor said it would be.” “How many children do you have, Honey?” She is asking such silly questions; stalling, she is definitely acting strange, hurrying in and out of my room. “Nurse, my water just broke!” “OK, Honey. I’m rolling you to the labor room right now.” On the way, she pauses outside the nurse’s station. Other nurses are frantically attempting to contact my doctor, or any doctor. They are all out for dinner or have left for the day. This baby is coming, ready or not.

35 The very large person in the delivery room seems surprised and unprepared. She has no chart. No doctor is available; just a screaming ninny with an onset of violent automatic contractions. The elevator door opens. Bob and doctor step into stereophonic sound that is unmistakably mine . . . then silence. Just before the doctor’s entrance, the nurse mercifully administers the contents of a huge hypodermic needle. During this second natural birth, our son rushes headlong into his life of seasons as I had anticipated—earlier during Advent, 1956—that he would. Hours and hours and hours later—does anyone really know how much later—I can see the big round clock high up on the wall, but the hands and numbers are blurry. The bed has high sides. The nurse keeps asking someone, “When is she going to come around?” I’m hearing, trying to focus on the clock, trying to move, but can’t. Trying, trying. Back in the hospital room, feeling the sun’s rays across my cheek and holding a newborn baby, I see my doctor come in. I wonder what he will say and what I will say. It is as if we were meeting for the first time. His greeting is pleasant. He smiles, but there are no relevant words, no questions, no reasons, no apology, no acknowledgment of our ordeal—my baby’s or mine. Perhaps his silence is in awe of our survival and the smile, his offer of thanksgiving.

A 25 year old has received the first discernible instruction in the process of listening even when there aren’t spoken words to hear. Advent has brought with it the knowledge of how difficult it is to listen. To William Mitchell Babcock, Bob’s father, not singing at his son’s wedding was a minor concern, but our choice of “Wesley” as a first name and not “William,” is a serious disappointment. It shows in his face. “Wesley Mitchell Babcock is a beautiful name,” Bonnie tells him. “And Mitchell is a family name.” Dad Babcock reminded his wife that Wesley is an awful big name to live up to. Clearly he was hopeful that the first name would be William, after him. Our wishes of a September 16th birthday for Wesley Mitchell are granted. His courage in life will live up to his famous name. The colors of Advent are back again. We are now four plus one: Bob, Me, toddler Bobby, baby Wesley, and Mother—Mother-in-Law—Grandmother Bonnie (Elizabeth) Babcock. The time of stillness when expectation somehow turns into the unexpected has come full circle on Martha Lane. Proud mother and contented baby come home from the hospital, and Bonnie drives from Stone Mountain to help out for a week or so. The Asian flu bug—at epidemic stage in Georgia— bites Bob, and this infectious invasion seems to turn us all into protective creatures: Bonnie, constantly changing aprons when she holds the baby; Bobby, not being allowed in the bedroom with his Daddy or through the castle-door gate to Mom who is nursing Wesley. It is no wonder that Bobby begins to feel like an extra during this pathetic drama. This wave of circumstance is tossing our emotions back and forth while—just when we need individual special attention—reason seems to vanish. When nursing, Wesley hears not a word, hardly a sound from the source of his meals. I am stroking him, piercing his presence with my eyes, making heart-to-heart contact, but all in guilty silence. Somehow his brother Bobby—I am thinking—whose space and world have been invaded and occupied by someone other than himself, needs me and needs not to hear my words to the newcomer.

36 I couldn’t have known about the importance of an in-between time and of the miracle of Advent without the coming of Wesley into our lives; could not have possibly known that this baby, of primary hue, would bring surprises, mysteries, and changes to me and Bob long before our awareness of their occurrence. Both the branch and its evergreen bud must come to reject the illusion of a problem-free life. Color us Thalo green.

Chapter 9 The Many Colors of Thread Augusta lies on Georgia’s eastern boundary, about 125 miles from the mouth of the Savannah River. James Oglethorpe founded the Georgia Colony and established Augusta in 1735. The Geor- gia legislature made Augusta capital of the state from 1786-95. Bob, little Bobby, and I locate to Martinez, a suburb of Augusta, subsequent to Bob’s computer training in Ilion, New York. Then Wesley, our second son, is born. Experiences of our family in this small eastern Georgia town provide a gamut of memories. Oscar Wilde would have called it “the diary that we all carry around with us.” It is an adventure for Bob and a next-door neighbor, a new father of two adopted daughters, to boat the muddy 125 miles from Augusta to the mouth of the Savannah River in one day. Not anticipated is hiking for gasoline or—once having reached Savannah—experiencing ocean liners cruising alongside their boat, giants in comparison. As a family we camp, water ski, and swim at Lake Hartwell, northwest of Augusta. Grow- ing as we are, money is naturally a topic of discussion. Bob’s mother visits us and asks, “Do you mean to say you do not have one penny in your pocketbook . . . you have no money for a haircut?” Incredulous about this information, raised eyebrows and lowered blue-green eyes is answer enough. Somehow telling my husband’s mother that her son has no budget is just not something I can do. There is weekly grocery money, no denying that. Who worries about hair when one of our pastimes is watching golf on television? Dwight David Eisenhower is the President of the United States—in part because of my vote—and he and Mamie come to town often. President Eisenhower plays golf at Augusta Nation- al Golf Course, Mamie buys cloth in the little store across the Savannah River in North Augusta, South Carolina. It is in Martinez that I become concerned that a movie star is getting married so many times and being featured on the cover of a popular magazine. So, I write a letter to The Augusta Herald, Augusta Chronicle, the first newspaper that interests me. While visiting with Louis C. Harris, a well-known pollster, he suggests that I work on the syntax of the letter. I later learn that Mr. Harris’ sister is a president of the National Organization for Women.

In 1961, we have one of the coldest Octobers ever in Augusta. In hopes of helping her to overcome severe depression, I invite a neighbor to go with me to the Richmond County Fair. Her husband was recently killed in an automobile accident while returning from their home to an army base. As we walk together and look at the display booths, the chasm between us seems to grow. The silence of her numbness is paralyzing. Suddenly, I see two pitifully neglected, barefoot, and cold little boys eyeing the hot dog stand. Impulsively, I ask to borrow a quarter from the friend, order one hot dog, immediately break it in two parts, and give one to each boy. “You must ‘av. know’d we wus hungry,” one says. “You must be one of them Sunday school ladies.” “Yes”—feeling unworthy—“I’m one of them Sunday school ladies,” I answer. Without warning, in an instant too fast to calculate, we are all transformed. There is a Pres- ence in the lonely place of my soul, and the emptiness within is filled and set afire with a new kind of love and warmth. The neighbor comes alive; without speaking, she now has a way to share herself with me. The shock that I give the hot dog away stimulates her. The little boys walk away fed. What a miracle: I ask of her, she gives to me, we give to them, and they give back to us.

Up until this time, our family has no pet. Bob’s mother’s friend decides to give us a very large, older Basset Hound. She ships the dog to us by train from Mississippi. “His name is Troubles,” she says, “and he is and always has been a house dog.” Well, not for long. We try, but it is a dilemma of dog-mass proportions. “Oh, no, he is pulling the second-hand red Formica-with-chrome table all over the kitchen,” I exclaim. “Bob, you clean it up. He has gone poop all over the floor. I have had it!” Too bad, Troubles moves outside, gets pneumonia, costs a bundle to get himself well, lies in the sun on his back at times, is loved for his gentle way with kids, and is mercifully buried by a neighbor when he wanders across a busy street and is struck by a car

Not enough can be said about the need to journey back home to Atlanta from Martinez; about the anticipation and preparation before going; about the moments of power drawn for use after returning to Martha Lane. Bob and I draw inspiration and wisdom from our parents. Now that our second baby boy, Wesley, is crawling, we are truly grateful for grandparents. Growing up, I had three nutritious square meals a day, a daily routine, and a regular early sleep pattern—a life pattern later prescribed by the well-known and beloved Atlanta pediatrician Dr. Leila Denmark. Bobby and Wesley have the same.

Wesley falls and bumps his front baby tooth. It will be black for years. Bobby tries to lift Janice, the hefty little adopted girl from next door, up onto the well pump cover. She is twice his size and it lands him in the Catholic hospital. They are like nothing he has ever seen before, those Catholic sisters dressed in their black and white habits. After being tied down with a sheet, he receives a shot. The crying and screaming stops, and the double-hernia operation is performed. Sloshing baby-poop diapers in the commode, washing them in a wringer washing machine—transferring each one by hand from one cold rinse-water tub to another, and back through the wringer—is no picnic. And need I mention the washing machine is outside the house in a small, unheated utility room? Rain or shine, warm or cold, diapers get washed, dried, and folded. Oh, yes, there is that little girl across and down a way who, when she sees me at the clothesline, yells, “Hey, Eleama-nu-u-u-u-u-u-r-e.” We have good neighbors. We borrow. We visit. We help each other. When Mary Kaiser’s Barry Dean gets sick, I’m the only one who can hold him and put him down for a nap. I drive the stick-shift Volkswagen and have enough confidence in myself to drive kids to Bible school in the Cowart’s car. “Your fingernails are so thin,” the tall neighbor on Martha Lane says. “File them gently in only one direction across the ends every day and they will grow and become stronger.” I desperately want beautiful nails, but it cannot be. Biting my fingernails is probably a symptom of sup-

40 pressed, unrecognized anger. Perhaps a way of coping, or, maybe I’m in the process of giving birth to myself.

We move back home. Remington-Rand will soon become Sperry-Rand, and Bob will be servicing accounts in Atlanta. The white clay under our house is bone dry, and the house sells to the first couple to view it. Martha Lane in Martinez is history. Conceived in late December and expecting to enter our world in September, 1962, the baby boy—or girl—has a new address: 4226 Lamar Street, Decatur. “It will be another boy,” everyone is telling me, “statistics back it up.” A second male usually follows the first one, and even more so, a third male will follow the second. Lesson learned about drainage. The lot on Lamar Street is elevated; the house is “prewar” red brick, soundly built. The carport is enclosed and can become a den or family room, allowing the earth-tone pine-paneled family room to become a new baby’s bedroom. Next to the mailbox a shoulder-high, three-foot wide rosebush is laden with flowers. The backyard—enclosed by a chain-link fence, with double gate across the driveway—is just what we need for a future toddler. That clinches the deal. We are within close driving distance to Bob’s dad and mom. Visiting them frequently, we enjoy Bonnie’s oven-fried chicken and garden-fresh corn-on-the-cob. Dad Babcock, a star basketball player in college, developed, at 27 years of age, a severe chronic form of diabetes, caused by insufficient production of insulin. In his mid-fifties he is a tall, handsome, and smartly dressed traveling salesman for the Talon Zipper Company. Poor circulation causes a sore to form on the bottom of his big toe. A leg amputation seems inevitable. Dad enters Emory University Hospital to become one—if not the first—to receive a wick implantation in his toe, allowing the sore to heal from the inside to the outside.

In 1962, Dad Babcock proudly resumes his work, drives to Tennessee, and retires for the evening. The message is bad news: “Dad died in his sleep last night of a heart attack.” We have a memorial service, and Dad’s body is donated to the Emory School of Medicine. An unforgettable, magical scene in which out-of-town relatives sit circled around me and my bulging belly, to conjure up anything that might cause labor and birth before their departure from Georgia. “Name her Minnie Marie,” Aunt Gladys says. All entreaties fail. Statistics prove to be correct; it is another boy. September 3, 1962, at 11:13 PM, Dr. Catherine Foster delivers David Crisler Babcock, a seven pound, 12 ounce earthling. Thomas Carlyle saw nature as “a living garment of God.” Little David and brothers, Robert and Wesley, become integral panels of Bob’s and my coat of many colors, with threads of uniquely Babcock and Crisler origins. As mother and father don the exquisite new cloth, it almost feels too big and heavy for me to wear. Wake up, girl! I tell myself, you haven’t exactly been in a coma these last six and a half years! Think about how far you’ve come.

Part IV

PLACES AND PEOPLE

Places, People, and Quiet Strength

Happiness Is Not Accidental

Chapter 10 Places, People, and Quiet Strength The four sons and two daughters of Thomas Paul and Carolyn Ophelia Crisler belong to a single- parent family stuck together with survival glue, attentively fastened to each other, yet the soups of our struggles to adapt to circumstances boil at different and varying degrees. Not one of us intentionally misses the Christmas meal, gift giving, and performances of our young children at my Mother’s Logan Circle home in Brookhaven. Located within a two-mile circumference that includes our previous Pine Street and Briarwood homes, the small bungalow— brother Jimmy cosigns the mortgage—has gray shingled siding. It is nestled among mature maple, pine, and dogwood trees, laden with dormant cascading wisteria vines. The grateful inhabitant known as “Ophie” is our pillar of quiet strength; her home, our intimate place. Memorable times at Logan Circle include acknowledgments of relations’ heartaches, friends’ deaths, and absent soldier brothers: Jimmy, in Germany and Don, in a Service isolation ward with staphylococcus infection. Playing steal-the-bacon during off-duty paratrooper training, Don had broken his clavicle.

The Easter gathering and big egg-hunt at Mother’s is a time for kids and grown-ups to dress up in their new dresses or suits. New heels, hose, hats, and gloves symbolizing newness of life has been a family tradition. All eyes and video cameras are on Ophie’s grandchildren. The older ones, Billy, Joel, Bobby, Wesley, and Sandi—in a somewhat embarrassed way—sing separately or in a group. Billy plays an instrument. Sandi sings the longest songs. Deborah holds out for years, but finally sings while turning her body from left to right in an effort to reduce stress. Toddlers David, Jimbo, (Jimmy’s red-haired Jimmy, Jr.) and eventually, little John, sing, twirl, and fall on the floor with fun and grace. Kim chooses to sit by Ophie on the piano stool to help her grandmother play the notes. Babies Carol and Amy are passed around to admiring aunts and uncles.

Fortunately, Bob and I have in the family Dr. Staples (“Uncle Edward,” to us) and Aunt Ethlyne, Dad Babcock’s sister, who live in the Belle Meade section of Nashville, Tennessee. Un- cle Edward heads the United Methodist Church Family Life Department. He and Ethlyne travel, teach, write, and publish family-related literature. The Staples home exposes our sons Bobby, Wesley, and David to etiquette and fine art collected from many countries. Maps on the den wall signal plans for future travel. There may be news of a former live-in foreign exchange student, a trip to a horse race, a game of cards around a low, carved circular Oriental coffee table bought in the Far East. There might be an exhausted mother—myself—sleeping on the plush round white and royal-blue Oriental rug, while others watch the Staples’ slides of European castles, the Nile River, Mexican poverty squalor, and some African friends. Forever remembered are the Thanksgiving turkeys, biscuits—especially the biscuits—and the creamed onions prepared in Nashville by longtime family helper and friend, Mary. Visits to Nashville compare with another endearing place: Staples’ Camp on Moore Lake in Lutterworth Township, Norland, Ontario, Canada. Dr. Arthur Staples and Phoebe Staples were the father and mother of the Rev. Dr. Edward D. Staples and Ruth Staples Hamilton. Ruth’s daughter, Penny Yunuba, of Jamaica Plains, Mas- sachusetts, compiled a historical account of early tourist arrivals from Canada and those relatives, friends, and invited guests who subsequently came from America. A great debt of gratitude is owed to Dr. Arthur Staples’s granddaughter for her contribution to posterity and the following excerpt:

Moore Lake was possibly so named for a trapper who lived near Moore Falls in the days before the loggers came. It is said that he was drowned there. From 1890–1893, the first tourists, the Readings, arrived in the summer from- To ronto and camped. The Readings brought the Wallises, who were first to build a cottage. Through the Wallises, the first Americans came. A friend of the Wallises, Windlow Russell (“Windy”) was originally a Canadian, but lived in Kane, Pennsyl- vania, a small town of about 6,000. Windlow Russell, Dr. Arthur Staples′ brother- in-law, started the tradition of spending almost a month at the camp, and brought Dr. Thomas Kane, who bought lakefront property at the price of 50¢ an acre. At Dr. Kane’s invitation, groups of up to 40 people came by train, by wagon, and by rented boats to Coboconk, south of Norland, portaging as needed. A rutted road with tracks both north and south led to and from Moore Lake. Imagine this mix of stylishly-dressed professionals: women with blouses and long skirts, and matching hats hanging on a tree limb, men in full dress suits. They were at Moore Lake every year except 1914 when the uncertainty of war loomed. The group included a banker, a dentist, a doctor (with a religious wife), a glass blower, a college professor, a clothing store proprietor, a Methodist minister, and the original “Windy” known to be both an executive director of the Kane, Pennsylvania YMCA and an executive of Kane Water Company. All meals were eaten together in the Kane house, built in 1910. Dishes were washed in the lake and drinking water was brought from the spring at the head of the lake. Ice was gotten from the Martin family who got it from the lake in the winter and stored it in the icehouse to be used by the summer visitors to Kane cottage on Moore Lake.

Arthur and Phoebe purchased their own lot, built a gazebo at the lake’s edge and the initial structure of a many-times-added-on-to summer cottage, Staples Camp (Uncle Edward says he was seven years old when he first went to “camp” in 1910). Since the elder Staples’ deaths, their children, grandchildren, and great-grand-children carry on the tradition, to the joy and benefit of countless relatives, in-laws, and friends. Bob, seven-month-old Bobby, and I first go to Staples Camp in 1956. We leave our tempo - rary, Ilion, New York apartment, Bob’s computer training location, pulling a secondhand boat and trailer. Canada’s two-lane roads north of Toronto, continuous lakes, rolling farmlands, cedars and birch trees, roadside family vegetable stands, fresh air, blue sky, and jutting glacier-formed pink and gray rocks, unmarred by commercial advertisement signs, become interlocked with our very existence.

46 Love has its way that weekend through generosity and quiet strength. Aunt Ethlyne packs a lunch for us and tends Bobby while Bob and I portage our boat over Moore Lake Falls and make our way through lakes and connecting river up to Minden, Ontario. “Pack it well,” I say. “We are traveling by boat.” The pale lavender and gold Royal Albert tea cup and saucer, a souvenir, becomes the first of a special collection. Sadly, Aunt Ethlyne, becomes very ill and dies in 1970.

On a subsequent trip north, we visit the Vincent family in Cleveland, Ohio, and the Brew- ster family in Buffalo, New York. The Brewster home is two-story, and Aunt Gladys occupies the upstairs, her daughter Martha, downstairs. “I collect cups and saucers,” I say to Martha Bulman. “Come with me downstairs,” Martha beckons, and I follow to her dining room where a magnificent glass breakfront encases dozens of beautiful cups and saucers. “You may have any one that you choose,” she says. How could I have bragged about my one cup and saucer being a collection? This is a true collection. Every set is beautiful. Undoubtedly each one is precious to Martha. No, no, I can’t do this. What if I pick her favorite one? She can’t mean it. No. I can’t do it. This is unfamiliar territory, receiving such a totally unselfish offer seems almost to petrify, paralyze, stun. “Go ahead,” she says, “pick one.” From first glance, the solid gold and royal blue cup in a gold-trimmed royal-blue saucer draws my attention, but how can I dare to take that one? “That blue one . . . I really like it.” Martha opens the cabinet, takes out the cup and saucer, and hands them to me. As surely as the cup is passed to me, the Holy Spirit descends upon my acceptance of Martha’s gift. It appears that baptism can be an anytime or an everyday occurrence. Amazingly, a visit with an aunt and a cousin on Woodward Avenue in Buffalo, New York, becomes for me a holy experience filled with quiet strength and generosity.

Another time, I am entranced when I make my way down to the dock. Moore Lake is a large horizontal mirror bathed in the morning’s first-born sunshine. Across the half-mile span, delicate sparkles ripple from a north-easterly direction. A ribbon of trees sees itself as a green reflection on the lake. The single loon draws a graceful thin wake on its way to Gull River. Now and then, the silence is broken by a surfacing fish. On the lake, the sun creates a field of sparkling diamond shapes, the likes of which I have never noticed before, like a massive floating star. This life, this moment is a gift of God’s love.

Early photograph taken in front of the Staples Camp Cottage

Sara Geiger, Robert Babcock David, Rebecca, Robert and Edward Geiger Edward Staples, Margaret Geiger, Eleanor Babcock Fishing on Canada’s Back Lake Robert Babcock, Sr., Second from Left, with sons, David, Robert, Jr. and Wesley

Historic United Church of Norland, Ontario Canada Wesley Babcock, Edward Geiger, David Geiger, Robert Babcock, Sr. Sara Geiger, Peggy Geiger, David C. Babcock, Robert Babcock, Jr., (A Church Member) Eleanor Babcock, Rebecca and Jonathan Babcock, Elizabeth (Bonnie), Edward D. Staples Top: Staples Cottage: Margaret Geiger, Robert Babcock, Sr. Below: Eleanor Babcock, Robert Babcock, Sr., and Donald Staples Top: Catherine Johnson Babcock and Robert Babcock, Sr. Playing Solitaire Bottom: Robert Babcock, Jr., Catherine, and Samuel Babcock, Moore Lake Chapter 11 Happiness Is Not Accidental

And now we are five “artists and poets of our own lives.” Bob is 29, I am 30. Bobby is six, Wesley is four and a half, and David is a toddler. These are early years of marriage and formative years for the children. This life of five in 1962 are seen and experienced, but this wife and mother cannot describe what Bob and sons observe and absorb of me, or how each may be the better or the worse for having done so. A Florida minister once spoke of happiness as not being accidental; its effects are traceable to cause. Happiness is inner stability. I think of Mother as “inner stability” personified. My first childhood memory in the summer of 1936 implanted within me a nugget of her silent courage and wisdom. The scene remains vivid :

I sit up in bed. Outside and inside is as black as coal. Five-year-old-blue-green eyes begin to dilate. Even the moon is hiding behind a dense grove of surrounding trees. But for them, one push might send our small, very old creaky house tumbling down the high hill to disintegrate on the road to Adamsville. A shuffling sound causes miniature ear drums and heart to pulse in unison. In a dimly lit corner of the bedroom, I see the back side of Mother. She is carrying new baby brother, Jimmy, in one arm (only his head is showing), and the two of them move with the lamp to every open window. Their shadows move on the unfinished wooden wall as they go The windows are closed. I am still afraid. It is dark again. But Mother is here.

Steadily sheltering her growing brood like a mother hen, and lacking suitable clothes, shoes, and time to attend church, Mother finds a way to equip any one of her chicks who is inclined to go. A large Bible storybook is within easy reach during childhood. Its sturdy hardback cover, a deep purple-blue, contains stories and full-pages of brilliantly colored pictures. My youthful glances accept the stories unquestionably. On a special occasion (perhaps middle school graduation), Mother gives me a red-letter edition of the Holy Bible, King James Version, complete with family register, synopsis, combined concordance-dictionary, “Bible Helps,” and “Table for Daily Bible Reading.” It is thick and heavy. Later, out of curiosity, I plan to question her about the intentions that prompted her elaborate selection. Mother undoubtedly believes it is time for the inclusion of spiritual meat into my diet. Or does she foresee what the future might bring? I memorize in exact order the names of the 66 books of the Holy Bible, and over time, verses file themselves into the folds of my brain, taken to heart as seed faith: “God is love” (1 John 4.16), “Ye are the light of the world” (Mt. 5.14), “Let your light so shine… The Lord God is my strength, and he will make my feet like hinds’ feet [elk, red deer, Europe, Asia], and he will make me walk upon mine high places” (Ex.15.2), “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want . . . Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . . for thy rod and thy staff they comfort me . . .” (Ps. 23). Since our family’s move from Augusta, my need is for a more modern translation. King James is put away; J. B. Phillips’ The New Testament in Modern English takes its place. I just need to deal with present concerns. Bobby is fortunate enough to have attended kindergarten; Wesley isn’t. With only one automobile, transport is difficult. Besides, there just isn’t money for his tu- ition. Bob needs the car for his company’s scattered servicing needs, and, having recently encoun- tered moving and childbirth expenses, we are in a bind.

After Dad Babcock dies, we frequently bask in Bob’s Mother’s hospitality and unselfish love. The sun always seems to be shining on her kitchen windowsill full of single- and double-petal blue, purple, and pink African violets. Dad’s horse sculptures, always free of dust, stand on the mantle as a reminder of his passion for horses and horse shows. As a young lad, Bob found them “mostly boring.” The antique dining table and matching buffet gleam with weekly hand-applied and buffed paste wax, a ritual befitting their longevity and past travels from continent to continent. “Bonnie,” Bobby asks his grandmother, “what are you going to do with that pan of grease?” Bonnie allows Wesley to open the screened porch door then hurries toward her worm bed. She removes the cover, pours in the grease, and stirs the dirt around to expose large healthy specimens. “Just waiting,” she tells Bobby, “to be used as bait for fishing off the dock down at the lake.” Bonnie’s quirky cultivated worm bed and weekend afternoons spent with his grandmother and dad on the narrow dock hook Bobby for life. His uncle, my brother Jimmy, is a natural-born fish-ladder, a fisherman who enables and inspires beginners to swim upstream. Jimmy’s first poles are dried tree limbs; his bait, worms; and his feet, bare. Unable to experience Bobby’s and Bonnie’s mysterious excitement when they see a bob- bing cork pulled underwater, meaning a fish is nibbling the worm, I feel a numbness and quiet separation over my presence, like an eerie calm before a storm. I feel unattached, unresponsive, and indifferent—just a glob in a chair on the dock. My soul feels the pull away from an attitude that life and relationships are simple. Deep down in the complexity that is me, issues of logic are losing ground to a need for distance, to become better acquainted with the naturals, flats, and sharps of myself. On the fishing dock, I need to be alert. Wesley has little interest in fishing, and toddler -Da vid can fall into the lake at any minute. Maternal instinct still provides powerful motivation and baby-tending patterns of behavior. Just look at Bob. He is one of them, meshed into their very seconds of time and space, engaged, interlocked, in total harmony with their every delight. And what a coincidence, I am thinking, in the mid-1940s, in Atlanta, Bob and his sister Betty lived with their parents in Virginia-Highland and attended S. M. Inman School with the kids from Hillside Cottages. Bob, born with asthma and other allergies, was walked to school each morning by his mother. “My eyelids were stuck together,” he tells me. He is still allergic to cats, and at times appears to become allergic to me. Check out those sexy trombone-player lips! I exclaim to myself.

54 First, Bob received piano lessons using sister Betty’s first book, Teaching Little Fingers to Play, and then a few accordion lessons—finally, trombone lessons. He is a smooth roller-skater and, compared with me, an excellent swimmer.

Georgia’s Stone Mountain stands tall and solid as a backdrop to the 18-acre Kenilworth Estates Lake and swimming area across from the fishing dock. It is a huge, rounded mass of light- gray granite, about 16 miles east of Atlanta—the largest in North America. At its highest point, 1,686 feet above sea level, it rises over 800 feet above the surrounding terrain. Bob and I once lay side-by-side on a large flat rock at its base. Today, the mountain provides a contrast to our human fragility. We are making a full day of it. The fishing on the dock is over, and the white sandy beach across the lake feels so warm. The water’s edge is shallow. No belly-busting dives by Bob; he is like a fish.How does he stay afloat with Bobby, Wesley, and, at times, David climbing on- and-off- and-on-again his back? I wonder. Look at me, look at me! The stomach is flat again. I’m a knockout in this pale-blue and white knit bathing suit, with open back, high-collared front, accented in the middle by a foot-long vertical row of tiny white buttons. “Look y’all look,” I am yelling. My dive is a disaster due to my preoccupation with self and handicapped from the start by ineffective technique.

Part V

DISRUPTION

Change Causes Pain

Three Generations Meet for Tea

The Story of the Walls and Crayons

Chapter 12 Change Causes Pain Change is constant. It is said that we are automatically changing ourselves, and if we stop, we will not be alive. Change can consist of enduring the agonies of unlearning and possibly revert- ing to childish ways of thinking and questioning everything. Change is difficult. As surely as “Hope” is my middle name, “Change” is Hope’s sister and constant companion: changes in sibling status, home places, schools, friends, mentors, physical looks, mental development, interests, work, play, heroes, heroines, political parties, foods, causes, and anything yet to come. Is it our nature to participate in events to discover our individuality, deepest dimensions, and, even, personal darkness? How can I “psychologize” my behavior? What happened to me a few months ago catches me off-guard. In one radical fell-swoop, a significant change occurs, and, unlike the perennial Eurasian day-lily blossom that speeds from bud to faded glory in a day, it is doubtful that such present turmoil can produce glory, and certainly not in such a short duration. At this time I cannot feel or imagine, only trust that by not-doing, nature and time will bring healing and an end to this suspension-in-mid-air kind of existence. There must be something to be gleaned from this wilderness journey, but what it might be is a mystery. Did a combination of stresses and denial of anger bring on the sudden, automatic actions that weekend? It is as if wind-shear appeared suddenly, sucked me into its vortex, rotating, flashing mis- shapen and constantly changing patterns of reality before my eyes. I am out of whack. Friends, family, and work are severely tested. In spite of mental inertia, love’s heart is cracking with pain and concern for Bob and our three sons. It makes sense to discuss this mother-of-all-changes with Great Aunt Angie and Mother.

Chapter 13 Three Generations Meet for Tea It is a divine occasion. The three teacups and saucers on the Crisler-Babcock banquet table are for two distinguished guests and me. Memory accompanies the Spirit of my deceased Great-Aunt Angeline Catista Crisler Webb to a point at the table where the beams of sunshine catch the softness of her velvet skin, sparkling eyes, and thinning gray hair. Her’s is the seat of honor and her cup, the pure deep-blue one with a refined gold bottom center. My mother’s silent entry into the scene adds simplicity matched only by the Royal Grafton, bone china Oriental teacup in front of her. On both the cup and the saucer of white bone-canvas with gold trim is a painting of one bird perched on a large, old knotted limb and another bird on a connecting small limb. The two birds are watching a third as it hovers in flight over a clump of little white and blue five-petal blossoms, among gray and black spent fruits and three bright red apples, or cherries. As if in living coalition with the ancient limbs and fruit, the birds’ grayed breasts, black head-caps, and long, red tail feathers become complementary extensions. One noticeable aspect: all wings on the three birds are yellow. Mother exemplifies the luster characteristic of a high quality pearl, a person whose bright sun may rise with music over an Oriental horizon, or with less color and quietly at an impromptu tea party. “Do either of you mind if I sit here so that our configuration becomes a triangle?” I ask. “No, of course not,” Aunt Angie says. “Since you have asked us here to listen to your story, it certainly is an appropriate arrangement. Does our seating assignment suggest the presence or existence of a fact, a condition, or a quality?” “Well . . . I must say that in a way, it does. Do you remember when Judy Chicago’s art, The Dinner Party, was shown in the Egyptian Ballroom and the Grand Salon of the Fox Theatre on Peachtree Street in Atlanta?”1 “Vaguely,” Mother says. Aunt Angie’s lips close together and turn inward—just what all Crisler people do at one time or another when they are thinking, “No, can’t say that I do.” “A triangular table is used to ‘acquaint women with their history and raise their own sense of self-value,”’ I say. “The use of sculptured and painted plates on needlework celebrates ‘nation- alities, experiences, and contributions of women in western civilization.’ “So . . . in honor of Judy Chicago, I guess we will sit together today as a triangle, to symbolize our achievements and represent the circumstances we have overcome in order to realize our personal aspirations. Look, the lavender-colored cup and saucer with the light chocolate-brown leaves and grape clusters—first in my collection—is in front of me. “I’m so glad you are both here; connection is what is needed. We are linked in an eye-ball- to-eye-ball contact with steadfastness, constancy of character, and historic mutuality.”

1 Judy Chicago, was born Judy Cohen in 1939, in Chicago, and “her new surname represents self-independence.” The Dinner Table plates represent women given little credit, and according to Judy, “a sort of re-interpretation of the Last Supper, from the point of view of those who have done the cooking throughout history.” I was fortunate enough to see one of the country’s best-known feminist artists′ work-of-art, needlework, inspiration, and research. Approximately 1,000 attendees a week was a disappointing turnout, especially since the exhibition cost $250,000 to be shipped to Atlanta. Aunt Angie’s eyes become translucent as if viewing distinct images from her past, before I was born. “Mother, we rarely speak intimately . . . .” “Eleanor,” she replies, “I just didn’t know how to help you during that time.” “. . . And that’s OK, Mother, you were always there. Example is everything.” “Listen!” Aunt Angie says. She seems to shuffle a bit. Her posture takes on a shoulders-up, shoulders-back position. The top, back part of her head is pulled higher by an imaginary string. “Can you hear the echoes of our strengths; the echoes of long-gone experiences of love? Can you hear the echoes of surface wounds? Can you hear the echoes of lingering signs of mental damage or physical injury? Believe me, I have heard them all of my life and so will you, isn’t that right, Ophie?” Mother begins to brush the tablecloth with her right-hand fingers in a manner that would remove leftover crumbs, her affirmative answer given. “Good, capable, and conscientious women like you, Eleanor, seem to be more likely to have the keenest hearing and seem to be most negatively affected . . . often as not, the echoes are silent, hidden scars,” Aunt Angie says. Her words are a prelude of encouragement and an ointment for my now healing wounds. Silent, hidden scars . . . perhaps. The strength and vitality of earlier years slowly begin to diminish. At 32 years, I have just started to live uncomfortably in my skin. “Aunt Angie and Mother, it has been a six-year process. I had to go deep inside myself to probe eternity, to find needed nourishment and revelation, so to speak, and to do it in a childish way. The tea in my half-filled cup-of-life became cold. The cup yearned for the warm, half-milk and half-coffee that Daddy always fixed for his children to ease their eyes open in the early darkness of dawn. Chores had to be done, you know.”

In her book, Women, Anger & Depression, Lois P. Frankel, Ph.D., writes that similarly to women’s experience in the world, “Teenagers and elderly are either ready to function more independently or have in the past functioned independently. Both groups, however, experience their power and control as being impeded by others. This creates anger, which, when unexpressed or suppressed, contributes to an underlying sense of depression.”

“You know, the time had passed to expect me to recognize personally some common symptoms of depression: changes in appetite, weight loss or gain, tears, sleep disturbances, general fatigue, feelings of guilt or worthlessness, indecisiveness. That task had to fall upon others. “That weekend in 1963, I just crawled into my anguish and pulled a blanket over my head.”

My story is about a sudden interruption of alleged continuity, of how symptomatic behavior illustrates, in a narcissistic way, that the characteristics I insisted I had were exactly the ones I lacked. I was a big question mark at the end of many self-absorbed questions asked over and over: How am I doing as a wife, as a mother and as a person? Am I doing okay?

The chasm is bridged, but the ground still shakes slightly underfoot. Self-love is not an easily acquired attribute, and when the journey to possess it requires brief description (not one of my stronger suits) and imaginative interpretation, the spaces defined by relevant walls and specific colors can be most effective.

62 “Rather than try to verbalize my experience, walls and crayons will fill in the spaces and add the needed colors for me. We shall assume that walls can speak and that crayons have the capability of emotions.” Great Aunt Angeline, speaking for herself and for Mother, says, “Yes, we can do that.”

IT’S A TEA PARTY

Eleanor’s mother, Ophelia Smith Crisler in Wedding Picture, 1926

Young Eleanor and her mother, Ophelia, await arrival of Eleanor’s Aunt Angie Catista Webb’s Spirit

Chapter 14 The Story of the Walls and Crayons The Walls at Home Speak, and Crayons Emote It is early spring, 1963. Walls here at 4226 Lamar Street are dressed in natural mahogany, orange pine, and pastel colors. Even though this Saturday morning’s stirrings begin as usual, something may be amiss. Two crayons begin to ease themselves out of the Crayola box to consort with Walls: black, a color having zero saturation or hue, a color value of maximum darkness; and red, whose hue resembles that of blood, one of the light primaries and psychological primary hues. Together, Walls and Crayons begin to sound out chords and depict a composition on a five lined (e-g-b-d-f, every- good-boy-does-fine) vertical, rather than horizontal, musical staff, recounting blunted happiness interspersed with illuminatingly four spaces (f-a-c-e, of trials and change). “Bobby and Wesley are next door on the sliding board. Wesley does not need another black front tooth. My goodness! A mother needs an antenna just to keep them in tow,” Lamar Street Walls say, and Crayon characters agree. “That David baby is totally dependent, at best, a full-time job. Eleanor cooks breakfast each morning. Wouldn’t you think that by now, a glass of juice and a bowl of cold cereal would be enough for Bob? After all, didn’t he say he ate that when he was single?” “Ah, shucks,” Lamar Walls continue, “he is a great guy . . . a good dad . . . and a darn good employee.” Black and Red crayons exchange a positive marked glance. “Can’t she see what’s coming? A new mother’s loss of sleep while nursing and tending a baby, coupled with overexertion—though well intentioned—can cause physical health to go into a nose-dive.” Wall’s tone amplifies. Black and Red position to color. “Why can’t Eleanor figure that out? We know she is always drawn to the out-of-doors, to yard work, and to amateur landscaping, but golly-ding, did she have to single handedly dig up those overgrown shrubs along the front of this house in order to plant smaller ones? She did that within months after giving birth. It would have been a mammoth undertaking even for a strong, healthy, and rested 31 year old. Where in the world is her common sense?” Mahogany Walls begin to take particular notice. “Eleanor left in the car—grocery shopping, I thought—with a certain uncharacteristic air about her. She wore that yellow cotton dress that I haven’t seen her in since the day she had her picture taken next to the rose bush in the front yard. Too much time has passed. The kids are hungry and cranky. Bob is handling it. Even if he is worried, we know he will never show it, much less admit it. Sometimes, that’s the way of a passive-aggressive.” Black and Red decide to move toward a four-by-three card. Black draws five vertical lines approximately one inch apart. The first of the four created spaces is ready for emotion. In concert together, Black and Red become integrated colors on the top half of the first space, causing a deeper shade than the lightly colored black bottom where some natural yellow exists. Lifeblood and darkness coexist for a time at 4226 Lamar Street, Decatur, Georgia. The Walls at Belvedere Plaza Speak

“We, the Belvedere Plaza Shopping Center Walls, were among the first to locate outside central city Atlanta. Today in this DeKalb County suburb, all of nature is giving signs of new life. A fragrant smell of newly mowed grass and the approaching observance and celebration of Easter seem to create in shoppers an adolescent passion. It is a condition that reflects on our neutral walls. We are trendy and happy, but the largest surfaces are always muted so as not to distract from the elegant floral arrangements and the wares for sale . . . Oh, yes, especially the wares. “We Plaza Walls are young walls with 1960s feminine backgrounds; that is, we physically developed early and grew tall in a spurt. Little girls had nicknames, climbed trees and played pitch baseball . . . we? We just changed colors often. Around the time when girls’ tomboy-ways and childhood escapades disappeared, the color of our walls became beige or white. On this very day, all department store walls and some women resemble what has been described as a ‘set of disen- gaged gears so that power cannot be transmitted.’”

Rich’s Department Store Walls Speak Before Belk Galant opened its doors this morning, cosmetic counters were readied for the stampede to come—another movie star promoting her new perfume—and, of course all the man- nequins here in Rich’s Department Store were dressed in new clothes. It is now mid-afternoon, and both Rich’s Medium Wide Wall and Wide Wall are doing their jobs near the up-escalator on the mezzanine. “How many cotton-picking times is that lady going to ride up that escalator?” Wide Wall says. “She has so many packages and bags, I can’t tell if she has bought something else new, or if she is just riding for the fun of it!” Rich’s Medium Wide Wall is situated next to the down-escalator, and the woman in the yellow dress keeps popping around the corner, stepping onto the descending escalator and looking all around.

68 “If she is not singing, her raised cheek muscles give the impression that she is,” Medium Wide Wall transmits some thoughts to Wide Wall. “These fluorescent lights provide you and me with great sensitivity to the variations of actions and appearances in this throng of determined and focused shoppers. Some women are inwardly just children who were reared in a home with an alcoholic parent and were forced to become adults before their childhood was finished. Outwardly, unless I miss my guess, this shopper’s rash behavior is satisfying an inner need.” “In her mind, she may be reliving one of her solitary walks beside the terraces of wild strawberries to the sweetgum tree to chew a mouthful of its oozing gum. Then, as past generations have done, strip a live branch of its cadmium layer and bite the tip until it becomes a fine tooth - brush.” Medium Wide Wall holds its breath. Exiting a down-escalator can be tricky and dangerous with or without all those packages. “Thank God, she made it!”

Salon Wall “Finally, the crowd is thinning out. Street lights are beginning to turn on. Many stores and shops close at six o’clock, but our beauty salon remains open until nine. I am covered in mirrors and shelves with hair sprays, coloring dyes, nail polish, and the like. By this time of the day, customer conversations begin to taper off. “Sweet relief, no more talkative women . . . just a quiet young thing loaded down with stuff. She has a few freckles on her nose, high cheek bones, and a rather large space between her front teeth. My, my, there is an invisible breath, a distinctive but intangible quality that seems to surround that long, dark, natural curly hair. I observe as the young woman in the yellow dress greets the hairdresser, follows to her station, sits in the black leather swivel chair, and faces my mirror. I know how patrons feel about their hair. To trust your hair care to a stranger is to be vulnerable. But, you know, a new style of haircut can make of your vulnerability a type of preparation for your special role in life.” Salon Wall delights to be present at such a time, and continues: “Being wise and knowledgeable, I recognize the child of this adult woman’s soul can be vulnerable and yet divinely powerful. In fact, there is a need for many adults to find a time and a place for wandering, dislocation, and helplessness.” Red Crayon has witnessed the entire Saturday shopping spree at Belvedere Plaza and views it as a prick to Eleanor’s vital signs. As disturbing as her actions may be, they represent an initial step in the right direction. The path may become long and narrow for this girl known as Sister by her siblings and relatives. Satisfied, Red Crayon draws a thin vertical line in the second of four created spaces on the four-by-three card and watches as gravity causes one drop—representing lifeblood—to form at the bottom end. Slightly less yellow remains.

69 * * * * * Aunt Angie knows the story must continue, but a pause in the walls’ conversations provides an appropriate opportunity to speak. In the silence of a moment, a small, one-legged, brownish and grayish New World sparrow perches outside on the windowsill of the dining room where Aunt An- gie, Mother and I sit at the Crisler-Babcock banquet table. Our eyes at once focus on the pulsing of the finch’s heart, beating in sync with our own. “Life’s springtime magnetism can push and pull. Life’s water can have its undertow. Deep places will be revealed and blessed beyond measure for she who dares to be silent for a while and to trust.” After she speaks, Mother and I see Angeline Crisler Webb take on a pensive look of wish- ful yearning because the separation from her beloved husband, Uncle Will Webb, may take longer than expected. She bows her head so that a single tear drops on the Crisler-Babcock banquet table just inside the triangular seating arrangement. Ophie drinks more tea and reminds us of a Northern Paiute Indian Proverb: “God had given a people a cup of clay, and from it they drank their life.” Then, she acknowledges Daddy’s mother, Mama Doe, who is part Cherokee Indian. “Eleanor, my daughter, we are all children of mud. The molding of our family’s red earth has been painful and destructive, but redeemable.” The raising of the tea cup and her seldom spoken words produces an image of two hands holding the cup: Mother’s hand and Daddy’s hand together for the first time since their divorce. When the Oriental cup is returned to its saucer, there are echoing sounds from her piano and from Daddy’s hammer and saw. “Eleanor, look!” Mother says. “The yellow wings on the three birds pictured inside the Oriental cup are showing.” Aunt Angie’s eyes strike me to attention. “Eleanor Hope, your great grandfather, Thomas Jackson Crisler was my father. His adoring eyes bathed sons William and Isham, and daughters Betty, Ida, Anna, Flora and me in sunshine. Everything was different after the Civil War. As soldiers fighting in the war, Daddy was permanently injured and three of his seven brothers were killed. Daddy . . . but, this is the time for your story.” “Eleanor, does the trauma of your childlike-regression mainly rest on Bob’s shoulders? I am feeling apprehensive about him. Help me to know your husband, Bob, before the walls speak again,” my aunt requests.

70 It is automatic. My head cocks to one side in a thinking position, left hand forefinger touches left cheek, and opposable thumb finds its place under the jawbone. Now the forefinger can easily place itself across the mouth to thwart uncertain descriptions. “A Crisler can know a Crisler. Can a Crisler know a Babcock after only eight years of marriage?” I ask. I must think. This is a serious matter. Aunt Angie is right to ask. “In the game of pinochle,” I say, “marriage is the combination of the king and queen in the same suit. That is about all I can attest to so far. Bob and I are a kind of royalty in a family setting, I guess. As King, Bob’s hero is Roger Dangerfield and his heroine is Mary McLeod Bethune. He considers himself a “fixer and a game player,” solitaire cards, that is. Bob rarely, if ever, volunteers intimate information. His favorite ice cream flavors are butterscotch and maple; his color, tan; his food, rhubarb pie; his tree, wild cherry; his flower, violet; and his bird, ‘plump’. We all laugh when Bob’s dry wit attacks as quick as a cautious wink intended to avoid notice. Was I resentful that a grown man is bent on watching cartoons as a pastime? Somewhat, but I came to understand it relieves the stress for technical thinkers in the computer line of work.” “And did you watch cartoons with Bob?” Aunt Angie asks. “No. With one eye in the kitchen and one eye scanning the back yard where Bobby and Wesley were playing, I was kneading the dough, rolling it, adding the mixture of cinnamon and sugar, forming the dough into a hidden treasure chest of taste. I was watching the loaves rise in their imprisoned, narrow pans, all the time proceeding to the exhilarating moment when perfect hot bread was removed from the oven.” “The yeast does its work and I do mine. The Queen becomes part of the bread and serves her King in the only way she knows how: as sweet, warm slices of cinnamon bread to go with the King’s cartoons.” “Recognize it for what it is, big sister that you are: a power-play.” I wonder what could have prompted such cutting words from Angeline. I know she is one of five sisters. Is she the youngest? Could this still be an unresolved problem of hers? She surely isn’t the oldest, or she would understand how an older sister can be hurt with such insinuations. Until now, when my eyes are averted from Aunt Angie, I hadn’t noticed Mother’s hair style and clothing when she first sat at the banquet table. A very early photograph-type picture appears in my consciousness:

Mother is sitting on the McGee’s front porch steps in West End with baby Sara on her lap, Jimmy is on the bottom step, and Thomas and I, sitting to each side of her. Thomas is squinting from the sun. I have a bow in my bobbed hair with straight-across bangs and a smile under a Crisler pug nose. Mother’s tall body has never looked so thin to me before. The sepia tone shrouds the true colors of her mid-calf length, flowered dress. Unseen arms cuddle Sara. The part in the straight hair is to the left side of her Smith family nose—a sign of individuality and strength—and the dark hair is stretched to the back of her head where it is in a rolled bun. Complete exposure of the forehead, the uncolored neck and partial showing of the clavicle accentuates her leanness. One startled glance reveals identical closed positions of the mouth on both Mother and Thomas. Then, as now, big sister Eleanor is leaning close to her mother’s body.

71 “Not a ‘power-play,’ Angie, just an independent opportunity,” Mother says. As suddenly as she speaks, her thirties image vanishes, and her sixties modern self with a short, beauty parlor permanent wave under the oversized black tam secured with an aggie marble-size pearl hat pin, reappears . . . with glasses. Mother never asked the same questions as I? Or did she?

* * * * * The Walls at Home Resume Speaking “From what I gather in listening to Bob’s account to his mother, Bonnie—who came immediately when Bob called her—Bob intends to drive himself and Eleanor to Grady Hospital’s emergency room. I, Lamar Street Mahogany Wall, am in the add-on den room where the telephone is located, and I can see and hear everything. Bonnie, present, brings a needed calmness to the situation, for the children, of course. Bob is as cool as a cucumber. “It is a bit perplexing, this scene,” Mahogany Wall confides. “At the same time that Eleanor is acting erratically, she exhibits a personal knowledge about what she is doing. She knows what she is doing but can’t control her actions.” Black and Red Crayons have the advantage here. Mahogany Wall can only speak, we can feel and understand. We are sure that Eleanor knows what she is doing, and what Bob is telling Bonnie, now that he and Eleanor have returned from Grady Hospital, confirms our interpretation. “There were two beds in the hospital room,” Bob is saying. “The doctor and I just watched in shock and confusion. When Eleanor saw the two twin size beds, she immediately jumped on one with her feet, then up and down in a happy and vocal way. Like kids do on beds and on a sofa, too. And all the time, she was watching our faces. When we shook our heads, it triggered more vigorous responses from her.” Bonnie has fed and put the children to bed. It is getting late and Bob’s disturbing words to Bonnie seem to take a while to sink in. “Eleanor seems to be herself again,” Bonnie says. “I’ll stay here tonight. Tomorrow, you and Eleanor can see the referred psychiatrist.” Whoa! Red Crayon feels the uneasiness and sees the instant look of fear on Eleanor’s face and knowing the stigma associated with a need for a psychiatrist, determines that Eleanor’s vision of psychiatry contains an element of fear and shame. It is our nature, as Black and Red Crayon, to experience untold numbers of emotionally ill people walking the streets, maybe more than are in the hospitals. Generally, those in counseling or in a hospital are intelligent enough to recognize an illness and seek treatment, or have loving families who do. As Black Crayon, I contradict the notion that mental illness is shameful and find myself absolutely opaque about ignorance and small-mindedness in our society. Knowing that the Eleanor girl is fortunate to have Bob, Red Crayon exhibits a hue that brightens when hearing from me that all items she purchased at Belvedere Plaza have been returned by Bob.

72 This little family needs help: someone to lay the passel of unchartered troubles on. Black Crayon blackens space, and Red Crayon colors with understood emotional detail. The next two weeks spent at Peachtree Hospital apparently provide some needed physical rest and sensitive observation for Eleanor and a respite for Bob; a time for damage control. I’m talking about that shrink, pardon Me, that referred psychiatrist, What’s-his-name, that missed a golden opportunity, at the end of those two weeks, to just be a compassionate human being when Eleanor and Bob exited the elevator, walked into his small, impersonal office, and sat in the two chairs positioned in front of his desk. I’m finished with red.

“I wasn’t there, of course,” Lamar Street Mahogany Walls says, “but from conversations afterward between Bob, his mother, and Eleanor, I can read between the lines. The mid-40 year old, dark haired male simply said nothing, not even a how-do-you-do. He looked at Eleanor. She shrank to a smaller size and looked back at him. In her words, ‘He blew cigar smoke in my face. I could have responded . . . out of fear and courtesy, I didn’t.’ According to Bob, Eleanor just sat in a numbed way.” “Am I misjudging this psychiatrist?” Lamar Walls continues. “Was he actually checking for emotional unresponsiveness and indifference—maybe, maybe not?”

The diagnosis is a trip to Milledgeville. Early 1960s Milledgeville is a Georgia town 30 miles northeast of Macon. Established in 1803, it was named for John Milledge, a Revolutionary War hero, and served as the capital of the state from 1807–1868. Milledgeville is the home of the Woman’s College of Georgia and Georgia Military College. Milledgeville is also the common name for the mental hospital, a name that conjures up the most despairing images of the day, no shades of gray, and no questions about it. Nobody ever says “I’m going to Milledgeville” without explaining themselves, not mistaking the city for Milled- geville State Hospital. Regardless of Red Crayon’s optimistic assessment of Eleanor’s impending testing of faith, Black Crayon readies itself for the third space on the four-by-three card.

73 The Babcock kids are spending some happy times with their grandmother, Bonnie. She wears her middle age well. Two kids and a baby are quite a handful during the day. Bob takes over at night. “Today is a gloomy, rainy Saturday. Eleanor’s suitcase is packed and sits next to me, Lamar Street Mahogany Wall, at the den door. After their last telephone messages to Eleanor’s mother, Bob’s mother, and to Bobby and Wesley, Bob lifts the suitcase and the couple heads for Milled- geville.”

* * * * * The Walls at Milledgeville State Hospital Speak We are many rooms of walls: administration—off-limits to patients—admissions; sitting rooms with a television set; several halls; kitchen-dining room with a tray line; electrical shock room; large bedroom with many cots made with white sheets and pillowcases; small isolation room with a small, high viewing window; group therapy room; and one high-fenced yard for sunshine and exercise. Our walls are good-an′-hard with the windows barred and most doors locked. Any set of walls witness humanity’s indignities . . . women are in rooms with just women, men are in rooms with just men . . . some apparently don’t notice the humiliation, some do. Some look out the windows, others don’t” It is heart-wrenching when a new person like Eleanor enters a sitting room for the first time. Black Crayon is nearby, experiencing pathos. Red Crayon is affected. Truly, this is not her world; it is personally hard to accept. For one thing, all the doctors she has seen so far are Cubans and their ability to speak English is lacking. She sees doctors and nurses doing their professional jobs in a world that seems at the moment, lost to her. Mail cannot be sent or received from her family for two weeks, and then all mail is read by the doctors first. It was in Eleanor’s first weeks at Milledgeville, before sitting room privileges, that my most specialized ability to monitor her was required. So much of my red color was used for the Milled- geville third space on the index card that I need to be sharpened. Hall Walls and Bedroom Walls saw everything. They agree to tell about it while I rest for a while. “Hospital Hall Wall, as I am known, has empty beds lined from one end to the other awaiting new temporary occupants. The lights stay on all night. I know why, but the poor patients do not. From one end, the attendants watch the newcomers. That newest young woman has not slept for many nights partly because of the lights. She is quiet, moves now and then, looks up at the lights but doesn’t complain. Quite often the attendants have a non-caring attitude, mostly concerned with their personal business than with the patients. By now, they should have reported that she can be assigned to the bedroom. At least they might help to explain to this unfortunate person why the lights are on. Maybe tomorrow will be the day.” “Just as I hoped, Mrs. Babcock is being moved from my Hall Wall view this morning. The doctors will generally be more interested and responsive, according to Bedroom Walls.” “Yes, that is true what Hall Walls says. We, Hospital Bedroom Walls, observe the nurses and doctors here. The doctors come and go, the nurses stay busy making rounds at night with their flashlight, handing out medications during the day, and scheduling regular activities such as church and movies.”

74 “There is a set time to go to bed and a set time to get up. Every morning, without exception, the patient is required to make her bed and mop the floor under and all around it. The new patient, Mrs. Babcock, still isn’t sleeping at night but hides the fact by pretending when the flashlight beams on her face. In fact, she has done nothing but toss-and-turn since the nurse walked through several hours ago. I am concerned. Could it be her medications, or is she frightened?” Bedroom Walls can only watch. “She is getting out of bed! Oh, no, the nurse is caught off guard. That’s not good. Mrs. Babcock is asking if she can please have something to help her sleep. ‘Come with me,’ I hear the startled and angry nurse say, ‘go in there.’”

Isolation Room Wall Speaks “My Isolation Room Wall surfaces are covered with anguish-vented scratches. Is this one going to rant and rave and use the short straight and curved wire-like objects lying in the middle of the white bed sheets on the bed, as many of the others have done? We are not sure what the purpose of providing those are unless it is to allow the patient to vent and tire herself out.” “Unlike the others that come here, the thin, tired occupant acts relieved to find privacy as she sits on the side of the bed, crosses the small straight wire-like object over the middle of the small curved one, as if to interpret the biblical ‘rod and staff’ to be at cross purposes within her life, rather than be a ‘comfort’ as they were for Biblical David in his 23rd Psalm. She lies on the bed and goes instantly to sleep.” A continued positive sign, letters are being written and received.

* * * * *

August 6, 1963, Thursday

Dear Mother, With no rain lately to cool things off, the heat is really being felt. I’m so glad that your work place is air conditioned. Well, Saturday turned out to be a wonderful day just as I expected that it would. Sara and Elaine had prepared such good food and the water was perfect. After the hamburgers had been cooked and we were ready to eat, Sammy said, “I wish Ma was here to fix my hamburger for me.” Of course he was kidding, we all got a big laugh and Marsha, his girlfriend, took the hint and fixed him one. The boys had a good time—David was the cutest thing—he got a little pink on his shoulders. Hope he didn’t get too much. Elaine got blistered on her legs and arms. I have been given permission to go home for the weekend so I have written Bob to come after he gets off from work Friday. Just in case he might not get the letter, call him and tell him I’ll be expecting him Friday sometime after seven. I’m real excited. I go this morning to practice with the Music Therapy group. It will be pre- senting Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta, Patience. It’s fun to practice with them even though I don’t expect to be here when it is presented. Tell Sara and Elaine how I appreciated the day Saturday. Write again soon. All my love, Eleanor

75 August 17, 1963, Sunday

Dearest Mother, I received your letter with Aunt Alice’s letter enclosed and was so glad to hear from you. Don’t write anymore for I’m confident that this time next week I’ll be home. If not, then shortly thereafter. My group thinks I’m ready, Dr. Kuglar is inclined to agree, and most important of all, I feel that I am ready. Bob wrote to me what a hard time he has had since last Sunday. He left here, gave out of gas between Sinclair and Eatonton, changed a nasty diaper and was gotten by the State Patrol for having a headlight out (which he didn’t realize, of course.) Then he had diarrhea Monday and Tuesday. I met Herman Peppers (who works for Almar in Washington, Ga.) in the lobby here Saturday afternoon. He said that Bob had worked there since Wednesday and left there late Fri. night. This accounts for his not coming yesterday. Poor thing! Thank goodness he has another week of vacation, which he plans to take the last week of August. I hope to be able to be with him and see that he completely relaxes. Mrs. Adams from Augusta wrote to me again. I’ll write Aunt Alice today or tomorrow. I’m sorry to hear that Thomas has been sick. I hope that he and family can become closer to us in the future, I mean, with Bob and me, and the boys. Bobby and Wesley are always talking about cousins, Billy and Joel. Give my love to Sara and family, and Jim and family, and Don, and Sam. Group therapy has proved the rewards of communication one with another. Although yours and my love and appreciation for each other is mutual and we both know it, I feel inclined to somehow tell you now what it means to me to have you as my mother. As long as I can remember, you have given me your total unselfish love and devotion, patient understanding, rock of wisdom, and example from which to follow and pattern my life. Through your prayers and those of friends and by some miracle of the grace of God, I have gained a richer and fuller understanding of life and a new courage for living it. I have experienced a new ability to love beyond myself. Thank you so sincerely for the purity and sunshine that you represent not only to me, but to countless others. I love you with all my heart. Don’t work too hard and I’ll see you real soon! Love, Eleanor

No date I was so glad to hear from you, Eleanor—that you are going home today. That’s always good news! Wish we could drop in and say hello. Wish you could have been with us in Canada this summer. It was a wonderful summer and a busy one. We’ve been home just a week today. Would have stayed up there longer but it got too cold. The only warm spot was to sit right in front of the fire. We hope you will be feeling enough better so you can be with us for Thanksgiving. Mary still makes mighty good biscuits! Edward and Bonnie

76 “And so you questioned God . . . or were you making a statement that one and only night in the Milledgeville State Hospital isolation room when you crossed the miniature wire-like rod over the staff?” Aunt Angie asks. She sees the three doctor-monitored letters bearing happy news from Milledgeville, and the cold weather report from Camp in Canada and places them on the table. “As I remember, it was just an action. Questioning God or venting? I just know, as quick as a wink, I was asleep.” “So, whichever it was, you were helped by it. You got much needed rest and somehow, didn’t you recognize something of your wonderful self in the days that followed?” To me, her question seems a caring gesture, a gentle nudging to dive into deeper waters. “You’re right, there was that feeling of ‘everything’s coming up roses,’ . . . like in the song, you know.” Mother places the empty teapot on the table near the three letters. She takes Angeline’s deep- blue-with-gold-center cup, gives me her own Oriental cup, and gives Angeline my lavender cup. Intuitive, Angeline understands why Mother swaps the empty tea cups. Her thin, knobby jointed fingers cradle the lavender cup and saucer to her breast. Aged ancestral eyes pierce the brown grape leaves in the cup as she shares privately the metaphoric forecast present in them; she realizes my Fall and Winter dormant-type condition would persist far beyond the normal ′63 seasons. “Eleanor,” Angeline says, “we all remember how the psalmist described himself as a ‘peli- can of the wilderness: like an owl of the desert, and as a sparrow alone upon the house top.’ Psalms 102: 6–7 (KJV) There is such a thing as the ministry of aloneness. For some, it is temporary; for some, it is life-long. In God’s plan, days when you were alone had a purpose and were just as important as these days.” Angeline, like Mother who gave to me her cup with the three pairs of yellow bird wings, knows roses have earth and water, but birds have nests and the wind. Savoring her moments with Angeline’s rich, royal blue and gold cup and saucer, Mother says, “Eleanor, even in times of aloneness we, like the birds, have the breath-of-God-wind to lift up.” Angeline’s and Mother’s faces begin to shine like the glow of a summer’s first lightening bug. Walls and Crayons are no longer needed. I have three pairs of yellow wings and I can personally tell the end of the story. Thoughts are now of a visit in the past with a young woman in Martinez, Georgia. She was a teacher, and good tennis player. I had visited her and had shared some of my feelings. Weeks later, she penned the following and mailed it to me:

77 What is lonely? Set apart – still and Unbelieving Heart that once was Safe and secure Adrift and numbly Clinging To dreams that waiver And depart Laughter stilled – joy – unspent To sleep and stir No more —unsigned

It was unexpected, and the extent of this expressed loneliness and emotional pain just did not register with me. How could I know this communication—during her “difficult family time”— and given to me would, at a later time and place, describe my own despair? In Women, Anger & Depression, Lois P. Frankel, Ph.D., writes about Strategies for Self Empowerment, concerning the challenges of taking charge of one’s life. It is “one of the loneliest things a woman ever does. She is other-oriented.” When I first come home from Milledgeville there is a yearning for such action, but knowing how to start eludes me . . . and what is so bad about being other-oriented, I wonder. Any progress made during the months in the State Hospital hits smack-ca-dab into relationships with family. It turns out that even small positive behavior changes destined to change the status quo are not only threatening to me, but are to Bob and the boys as well. “Ophie, your daughter inherited much of your 20-year martyrdom. You rarely gave her father, Thomas Paul, tit-for-tat. Nor did you seem to factor in your own needs. Would you have thought yourself selfish to put yourself first?” “Again, it’s water over the dam now, Angie,” Mother answers. “It’s a new day. Enlighten- ment and opportunities exist. There is such a thing as interdependence. Eleanor removed herself only temporarily from the system.” “And so, Eleanor, you find that nothing is the same at home?” Aunt Angie already knows, but asks anyway. “Yes. A previously unknown lady in a wheel chair is tending the children. Bob, under intense stress, has adjusted to added responsibilities and his usual silent responses are more deafen- ing and frustrating. I can only question, ‘where is my place in this world turned upside down?’” “Mother, you once told of how you didn’t worry about my brothers Thomas, Jimmy, Don, and Sammy. You knew—somehow—they would make it.” Aunt Angie touches the ivory profile of a woman on her onyx broach and looks at Mother. “You loved Paul and sacrificed unceasingly, but when you finally took responsibility for yourself, you fostered growth and hope for everyone. Much later, even for Thomas Paul.” “No regrets, Mother. How you and I learned to deal, and to lay it down involved complicated lessons only learned in the living of them. It’s a fact—according to one therapist—that emotional or mental illness is not so much a disease as it is a symptom of society as a whole and of conditions and circumstances in one’s smaller home environment.”

78 “You both know that after some unstable days at home, I checked myself back into Milled- geville State Hospital, desperately trying to understand my dilemma, determined to find the truth and to face it. Obviously, when returning home, there was regression.” In the group therapy sessions, the psychiatrists mostly listen to patients who seem to have answers for everyone but themselves. After some weeks, our doctor, breaking with his usual pattern, asks in a direct and unbelieving tone of voice, “Don’t you know, Eleanor, that 90% of the women who come here are having marital problems?” I can feel my face flush. “Why are you here?” The doctor asks. “I’m here because I went to the Mall, had my hair cut and bought a lot of things.” “Why do you think that you did that?” He continues to probe. “I only know when I was growing up at home, we were poor, and I understood it as circumstantial.” The doctor’s questions and my spontaneous answer, for the first time, provide a profound first courage: “When I go home, I am going to stand up for myself,” I say. The details about years of adjustments between two adults and three children in the process of change and the testing of love needs only be acknowledged at this time. I lay them on the table with our commitment to each other intact. “We can kick the pricks just so long before they destroy us. A hard lesson to learn, but learn it we must,” Aunt Angeline says and places the lavender cup on the banquet table beside the teapot and personal letters. Mother follows suit with the royal blue and gold cup, continuing to distinguish her quiet self by allowing Angeline to have the last words. I add the Oriental cup. Yellow Crayon exits the Crayola box, colors the fourth space and smiles.

The tea party ended, my hands clasp each other. It feels so good to hug Aunt Angeline, a Crisler Spirit, and to visit with Mother again. In time and with help from Yellow Wings, my reflection seen in a pool or in the window of others is one of comparison only with itself. Walking or running, the pace is mine. A mysterious hope persists.

79 My middle years as wife and mother begin in the year of Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s death. She was an American diplomat, writer, First Lady of the United States, and delegate to the United Nations. These words of Anna Eleanor Roosevelt will be remembered over and over: “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent,” and “There is no such thing as being a bystander.” In this very dining room, I silently persevere and learn to feel, to visualize, and to accept that life and strength come from within and that in each condition of sunshine or rain, there is growth. Roses change colors and blackness modulates when the light of perspective turns on.

The Mental Health Bell is the symbol of national mental health movement. It was cast in 1953 from melted down shackles and chains that had been used to restrain people in psychiatric hospitals. It rings now as a symbol of hope that the chains of prejudice and discrimination that still bind people with mental illness will one day be broken. The bell is kept at the headquarters of the National Mental Health Association in Virginia. —National Mental Health Association of Georgia 100 Edgewood Avenue, Suite 502 Atlanta, Georgia 30303

80 Part VI

WORDS AND DEEDS

A Small Gift, a Sounding Board

Personal Lives on Common Grounds

Paintings are Like People

Out of Ten Duties, One Duty Is Selected

Chapter 15 A Small Gift, a Sounding Board “If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are gone, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing.”

—Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790)

“Here, Mom,” young Bobby says, “a present.” I don’t realize the pocket-sized address book will become a sounding board, a medium, a returning voice. Every word written in it is a vocal reflection of its writer, an echo and in the hea-r ing, a personal therapist. It becomes a daily ritual; my early morning devotional time. The little book is filled. Next… composition books with concerns and petitions—wordy. Outside, breaks in rapidly moving dark clouds reveal bright blue sky and introduce God’s empathetic mood swings . . . or unseen brisk wind lights the fire of my own “burning bush” in the backyard when red-, orange-, and gold-colored leafed branches of the genus Spiraea—of the rose family—wave in brilliant fall sunlight. I’m beginning to get it: ears and eyes are inseparable and must work in concert. The pen is in my hand, and the eyes are focused on blank paper. As surely as fingers form letters in cursive style on paper, the ink of God’s love indelibly forms the words “Thank you” in my mind, heart, and soul. A miracle! Few words; a new me breathing in and breathing out, and just saying, thank you, God. More than 35 years later, this 69-year-old soul—living partly in time and partly in eternity—joyfully accepts the privilege of reflection and seizes the opportunity to write about things worth doing . . . like a son giving his mom a small address book. This cool pre-dawn November is a time when making lists of wants and wishes will be in full gear. Christmas is just around the corner. For parents the question is always, what shall we give the children? There is always the possibility they will not get what they really want. Every Christmas Eve at midnight, imperfect parents, Bob and I, carefully place toys around the decorated tree, each son having a chosen space for discovering his own long-awaited un- wrapped treasures. Fruit, nuts, candy canes, and smaller prizes are put in top-folded-down brown paper bags—a holdover tradition from Depression days. Year after year as parents, our yearnings and hopes are that through this tangible act of our giving, Christmastide—from Christmas day to the first day of Epiphany, January 6th—will trans- late into real gifts received, gifts that cannot be bought. Each year’s preceding 11 months reveal how troubles in the household can tend to everyone’s edification. It is time to claim epiphany. We give sons Bobby, Wesley and David scrapbooks containing their photographs, pieces of artwork, and certificates of accomplishments. The gifts are given in recognition of deedsand words . . . worth doing and “writing about.”

Chapter 16 Personal Lives on Common Grounds Glancing back, it becomes evident that the late ‘60s and early ‘70s are years in which growth, creativity, spiritual mission, community service, and political involvement begin to sprout in the Babcock family garden among vigorously growing weeds that prove to be traumatic for 13-year- old Wesley, yet a prelude to a second recognizable miracle. Wesley is 13, and his arm is broken at the elbow in a J. J. Daniel Middle School wrestling class. Upon removal of the cast, an arm predicted to be too weak to lift a book for many months becomes destined to immediately support, with crutches, his entire body. On the street down from our home, a young motorcycle driver—without license, helmet, or shoes, and on restrictions by his father—strikes Wesley. It happens the first day the boys decide our back yard is too small for baseball. They go to a neighbor’s front yard where Wesley overruns the second base mailbox. The emergency vehicle ride to the hospital with Wesley scares the living daylights out of me. Ironically, the young motorcycle driver isn’t even reprimanded or given a ticket! “He has suffered a concussion, and has a severed growth area at the knee in his leg,” Dr. Payne frankly says as I hold Wesley’s hand in the emergency room. “He will have an extreme bow leg or be knock-kneed, and nothing can be done about it until he stops growing,” I am told. Stunned, I watch Dr. Paul Payne, Dr. Bill McLean, and a male nurse pull together to straighten the leg. After the application of a heavy cast extending to his waist, Wesley is given a room in Ken- nestone Hospital in Marietta. He is located across from the nurses’ station to receive monitoring and special care. What am I to do? Financial sacrifices have been made. The ticket is bought. I can’t leave Wesley. Having sufficiently recovered from the concussion, Wesley remembers my scheduled departure on Thursday for Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho with an Air Force Colonel from Pensacola, Florida. The Colonel is to be the coordinator of this United Methodist Church Lay Witness Mission to a church whose members are under stress from their strategic readiness assignment against any first strike from Russia. Members need individual encouragement and the church, revival of spirit. I am to play the piano and lead the singing. However, I know from other missions, people who go on the mission have some special contribution to make just by being there. “Mom, I want you to go,” Wesley says. “Please go.” “You may be assured Wesley’s stay in the hospital will last through your weekend absence, and we will take good care of him,” the nurse says. “Do go.” The flight from Georgia by way of Chicago to Idaho provides a birds-eye view from east to west of lush green forests and mountains in our own and neighboring states; sparse trees amid vast acreage of farmland in middle America, Idaho’s blowing tumbleweed, low, rocky snow- topped mountains, and potato-growing land almost devoid of trees. The churchyard has one prized small tree of which its congregation is proud and to which they give gallons and gallons of water each week. No words can describe the invisible workings of the Holy Spirit during these weekends. We who go to give receive in kind. The Colonel inches us through each phase: the Friday night get-acquainted dinner, the Saturday groups. We begin to integrate into each other’s personal life as we stand on common grounds. Friday and Saturday, the music is my assignment. Sunday, I am asked to accompany others to a Youth Class expecting to do little more than just listen. When asked to speak, first thoughts are of Wesley. “Well, my son, Wesley, is your age,” I say. “I left him in the hospital in pretty bad shape.” Hearing the details of the accident and the prognosis, one in the class of approximately 20, suggests everyone form a circle and hold hands. She prays a short, simple prayer: “May Wesley— back in Marietta—be healed and his leg be totally straight. Amen.” Following the worship service on Sunday after the weekend meetings, Lay Witnesses have lunch with the church team members who work with the Colonel. A man, whose mother is in a mental hospital, finds comfort in his ability to talk about it with someone, myself, who has experienced mental illness and has spoken of it in a positive way during the weekend. He thanks me for his new found hope. So, one might ask, what about Wesley’s leg? Upon my return Sunday evening, Wesley is already home from the hospital. Months later when his cast is permanently removed, the leg is “totally straight” and only approximately one- sixteenth of an inch shorter. “Are we not all like weeds and roses in a watered garden?”

86 Chapter 17 Paintings are Like People As assigned by Zada, the art teacher, I purchase oil, turpentine, the three primary colors and yellow ochre. “No small brushes, she says, only several wide ones ranging from one-half to one and one-half-inches. Don’t get hung up on detail.” “Prepare your canvas by using a mixture of oil, turpentine, and thin amounts of yellow ochre,” Zada continues. “This preparation will link the colors with the canvas and with each other—the ochre acting as a blending agent—and will tie all colors together. The purpose of this eight-week course will be to see how colors relate to each other, observe different brush techniques, and to achieve a harmonious arrangement of colors.” I’m excited to be here, but filled with anxieties. Some of the students are already painting still life and landscapes . . . I am as green as a baby gourd. Besides, it’s risky to choose and imple- ment a stroke that may or may not equal genius.

ABSTRACTION (I)

“Now pick a color,” Zada says. “Cover the entire canvas with that color.” Shoot! Now why did I use orange! Orange is the only color I have been told not to wear; it’s not right for my complexion. Zada demonstrates brush techniques, how to hold them for different results, how to dry brushes, how to clean and maintain them. “Now experiment with the brushes,” she says. “Observe when you use the primary colors, what happens when one color overlaps another, and try mixing colors. Most important, use the same color at least five times as you constantly rotate your canvas. Perhaps when the area is totally covered, you may be able to distinguish a familiar form; a shape or structure of an object, the essence of something—if not, that’s okay.” It turns out to be a 24 x 36 inch canvas abstract. The orange contributed but became diminished. Complemented by many colors, the amethyst purples and lavenders are prominent, project- ing themselves in small, middle-size, and large areas. It’s me, without narrative content or pictorial representation. It hangs over my piano in the living room for years, fine tuning color with tone, representing a class that captured a soul on canvas. Somewhere in a municipal building in Marietta it—I—hangs as a donation. Robert Shaw says, “Art is an attitude more than an aptitude.” My first of three significant paintings was divinely inspired and divinely brushed . . . this struggling artist’s only contribution: leave stacked the days′ dishes to become totally immersed in the unfamiliar. A fourth is born from love.

MISTY MORNING (II)

Very early in the morning of March 25, 1970, the rain ceases and a heavy mist hangs over the silent outside world. Eastertide meditations draw parallels between serenity and friendship with the Ponder couple. A little chickadee perched on a wet barren dogwood limb tucks its head under its wing and sleeps through sketching. The same hour on April 1, heavy rain again falls and subsides, recreating mist and a periodic drop of water from the sketched limb. In seven nonstop hours, Misty Morning is painted, later named, To Katherine Ann, and becomes the property of Neal and Joyce Ponder, St. Paul United Methodist Church first pastoral couple, and their new-born daughter.

PERSPECTIVE (III)

Zada, the art teacher, teaches a lesson on perspective in the last class of the eight-week series. “Choose three subjects of varying sizes and shapes from three different locations,” she instructs. Of course, she had taught how to place a point on a horizon and how to figure height- ac cording to an object’s placement on a canvas. Even so, this would be quite a challenge. I choose a winding path in a North Georgia town park across from Piedmont College, a field of flowers, and the figure of a small girl, right leg forward, leaping in mid air over the flowers. The paint is still wet when the following letter is delivered to my mailbox:

11-09-71

Dear Eleanor, I have a project I’d like to ask your help on . . . my friend, Nan Elrod, has a niece who has an inoperable terminal cancer. Kay won’t be 16 until the end of this week, and it was discovered a year ago. She’s had all the treatment Emory can give and at present is in Houston for treatment. Kay has a roommate, Cherry, with the same kind of cancer, and both girls share a common feeling: they don’t want to live, because they see nothing to live for. I don’t know how long these girls will be in Houston, but I think it would be good to pray for them and send them mail—at least. With Thanksgiving coming up a special treat would be nice. Their address is:

Cherry Burnett and Kay Ethridge c/o M. D. Anderson Hospital, Houston, Texas 77000 Oh, yes, just note that Nan Elrod gave you their address. That way, they may feel a little closeness to those who respond. Well, thanks for listening—and I’ll see you Sunday. Love, Jacque Sometime later:

To the prayer group, Cherry went home a couple of weeks ago. Kay is still in the hospital with a fungus infection in her throat and bladder caused by the overload of drugs at Emory. But the doctors say this is nothing serious and it seems all the tumors are shrinking, even one that has had no cobalt. I think the facts testify to the success of “silent people” like you having links with groups like this. It means watching private miracles achieved. Thank you, Nan Elrod

88 No matter the quality, one’s unique stroke belongs to the hand that makes it and cannot be precisely duplicated. It follows that a finished canvas is an extenuation of the person whose hand held the brush. To give it away is to feel some loss of self unless the gain outweighs the loss, unless it is to be “something special and nice” for a cancer patient. My friend, Jacque, delivers the framed “perspective” picture to Nan and to Kay’s parents.

Houston, Texas December 7, 1971

Dear Eleanor, None of us out here have forgotten you. I’ve just been alternating between running like crazy and falling into bed. Today Kay became an out-patient. We’re relaxing a little bit, but only a little emotionally. Tommy, Kay’s dad, said he couldn’t carry the painting on the plane. He fell in love with it the minute he saw it and didn’t want to part with it and knew Kay would always want to keep it. He said, like everyone who’s seen it, that it just does something to you to look at it. It’s really strange, but the girl looks like Kay did when she was little, and also her younger sister. Now how’s that for a coincidence! One of the things Kay is looking forward to is to see that painting, and I guess it was meant that it remain in Georgia. It gives her something to fight to get well for and that’s what she needs. They are redoing her room a bit. She is excited about that I think of you often and will always be grateful. Love, Nan

Houston, Texas December 7, 1971

Dear Eleanor, I really do appreciate the beautiful painting you gave me even though I was unable to see it because daddy could not bring it on the plane. I know it is beautiful. Daddy, Nan, and many others told me it was. The warmth it gave them. I can’t wait to get home to see it in my room. Love always, Kay

It is a brush stroke of goodness to glimpse one’s own participation in J. Wallace Hamilton’s “magnetism of an unseen influence”—not only to see it in paintings, but to recognize it in others and in myself.

ALL WELCOME AT THE FEEDER (IV)

It is after the art lessons that in a sudden passion I must capture the beauty of our back yard again, in dormant season. It is to be a perfect picture. Although a good beginning is made, this goal

89 of perfection causes problems. The more I work, the more uptight and ineffective are the results. I just can’t stay with the canvas. Spring comes and goes. In the fall there is an attempt to pull it out and some progress of a sort is made. “Throw it away or put it under the bed,” a respected artist friend says. The advice sparks stubbornness in me to work harder, to find a way at least to accept the painting myself. The Albert Turnell family moves into the Methodist Church parsonage. Only love can finish a living picture, and when a name is given to it—All Welcome at the Feeder—the final touch is just a matter of time. Albert and Judy are the cardinal pair on the feeder. There is a bird for each child: wren, chickadee, sparrow, and the woodpecker, added after adopted daughter Susie comes, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be her bird. “Al and Judy,” my attached note says, “paintings are like people, and this painting has a history very much like my own . . . an awful lot of basic flaws, but accepted. I certainly don’t want to be thrown away or put under the bed. Neither will I ever do that to a living painting.”

90 Chapter 18 Out of Ten Duties, One Duty Is Selected It seems only yesterday when scientists and responsible media were reemphasizing established and impending ecological imbalances, waking us up to ecology, defining it as the study of the detri - mental effects of modern civilization on the environment. Cobb County takes some of its water from Lake Allatoona, a reservoir with 31 public camp areas, 48 Boy and Girl Scout troops, civic, church, and yacht clubs, over 650 private homes, and wildlife management of 22,000 acres. Understand how much the 11,860-acre lake and its 270-mile shoreline means to us. For years we have boated, fished and water-skied here. Our treasure chest is full of arrowheads, flint dart heads, a musket ball possibly dating back to the 1700s, an Indian tomahawk and grinding stones, a skull shaped rock, and driftwood. In December, 1970, the Babcock family visits the Little River area of Lake Allatoona after it has been partially drained by the Corps of Engineers in preparation for spring and summer flood control. “Look, Bob,” I say. “Isn’t this awful? Just think that the kids swim here in the summer!” We are heartsick seeing trash all around a lovely campsite. There are cans and broken bottles in the mud where the water has receded. “Mom, you know we’ve seen people drop old tires and appliances out there in the deep water,” 15-year-old Bobby says. As I wish something can be done about the pollution, Big Shanty Garden Club is planning a Forum at Kennesaw Junior College. I attend the April 5th question-and-answer meeting of local city-county groups and federal government representatives. “Would it be possible for the Corps of Engineers, who manage Lake Allatoona Reservoir, to work with city officials and the public on a family cleanup day?” I ask. Each panel member is enthusiastic. “Yes.” One by one, the members direct me to “follow through with this marvelous idea. Please do it.” Agonizing soul-searching follows. On Sunday, my St. Paul United Methodist Church pastor, Reverend Neal Ponder, Jr., speaks of a truism: an event is not necessarily a bad thing that happens, but a good thing that doesn’t. I conclude that what I am wishing for the lake is within my own self to accomplish. Community leaders are too busy for another assignment. Heck, as a committee of one, decisions concerning a date and procedure are mine alone and can be decided expeditiously. Con- sulting with U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Reservoir Manager, David Grabensteder, a one-day cleanup is scheduled in January when Christmas holiday activities are over, and on the last day before water begins to fill the reservoir again. Individuals in the church class get interested and involved as time permits. Candidate Jimmy Carter is asked in my letter, “If elected governor of Georgia, will you declare a cleanup day?” Governor Jimmy Carter recognizes that shorelines and receded water areas, recreation areas, and roadsides in the state “are in great need of being cleaned up,” and proclaims our Saturday, January 16, 1971 date, as Waterway and Land Clean up Day in Georgia. He further requests “future practices of conservation and protection of our natural beauty.” Bob and I are present for one of Governor Carter’s first official duties. The Gold Seal of Georgia is affixed to the Proclamation document, and it is signed. “I represent the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta’s leased property on the lake.” Rev. James Clarke of Marietta is the first to respond. “We’ll be there.” Dr. Sturgis of Kennesaw College—later Kennesaw State University—checks out my “unique and fresh approach” and requests ten additional Participation-Instruction-Commitment sheets. Commitment sheets and letters are received—similar to this one from Vern O. Harper, Di- rector Program Services, YMCA of Metropolitan Atlanta, Inc.:

January 11, 1971

Dear Mrs. Babcock: Enclosed are two (2) declarations of intent for our Father and Son, Indian Guides and Y-Trailblazers to join the organized cleanup for Lake Allatoona on Sat- urday, 16 January. You are “to be highly commended for this timely and effective way of dem- onstrating your convictions and teaching all citizens—especially the young—what responsible behavior means in relationship to our environment. We are pleased to join you in this and any other such project.”

WSB Radio, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Marietta Daily Journal, and Neighbor Newspapers are among 16 media participants. People are just waiting for an opportunity to get involved, to have a tangible way to help. I am overwhelmed by responses. Laurels go out to the magnificent U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which receives new trucks, and to the following:

Sears, Roebuck and Company and Union Carbide Corporation, donation of bags The Red Cross, two medical vans Church Classes, $20 for postage Husband Bob, placing of signs Louise Rogers, telephoning Jewell Kay, Babcock house-cleaning Mrs. Jack Redwine, secretarial and mimeograph work Garden Clubs, the League of Women Voters, Boy and Girl Scout Troops, Families, groups, and individuals from all over Georgia, response and commitment to help at assigned areas

A young volunteer just can’t understand how people could dirty up a place where they go for fun. In frigid weather, 50 volunteer groups, 1,100 people make history by collecting 120 tons of litter and debris for removal to the Corps landfill.

92 January 1971

Dear Mrs. Babcock: The outstanding success of Lake Allatoona Cleanup project you originated has earned for you the sincere thanks and warm congratulations of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. I am told that the debris collected and disposed of greatly ex- ceeds the amount anticipated and that the lake area is much improved. I sincerely hope that the outstanding example you have set will be followed in areas beset by similar problems. Harry A. Griffith, Colonel, Corps of Engineers Mobile District

Suggestions are soon made to have a yearly event with statewide participation. On February 5, 1971, Commander Shepherd and the Apollo 14 spaceship safely come to

rest on the highlands of the moon. Rain, precious H2O, is falling on Mother Earth. I am still reeling from the amazing community effort. I wanted Allatoona Lake to be cleaned up; I hoped civic action would catch on in other areas . . . why not go for a ripple effect . . . why not nationwide? World-wide attention! I had no idea that would happen. Since they are rarely given to women, I was not expecting to receive a Certificate of Appreciation for Patriotic Civilian Service from F. J. Clarke, Lieutenant General, USA Chief of Engineers, Department of the Army, and the WSB Radio 750 Award. The April, 1972, The Interpreter, published by the United Methodist Church with world distribution runs its lead Story of the Month, “Eleanor Babcock Cleans Up” by Betty Thom. Two years after The Interpreter article appeared, Reverend Neal Ponder receives his usual forwarded-sermon mailings. The sermon topic at Riverside Church in New York City is about “what one person can do.” In 1978, six years after The Interpreter article, I receive a letter from Margaret Howell:

Dear Eleanor, It has been four years this month since we moved from Marietta and left our friends at St. Paul United Methodist Church . . .you can imagine our pleasure and surprise when your name and your work cleaning the debris at Allatoona was used as an example in the sermon at First Presbyterian Church, Charlotte, North Carolina, here yesterday morning. Earl and I were invited out for brunch at noon and did not go to our church, but turned on the TV and were listening to the service. I do not know the title of Dr. Hugh’s sermon, but it was about change and those people who were not afraid to make changes. At some point in his talk he mentioned Lake Allatoona, and that one day a woman was at the lake when the water level was down and that she saw all the trash on the shore. He went on to say, “Eleanor Babcock was one of those people who were not afraid to change.” Isn’t it a small world!

93 Both in New York and in North Carolina the Cleanup is cited, and 15 years later, on Sep- tember 13, 1986, I am introduced as the ground-breaker at the first annualThe Great Lake Allatoona Cleanup. What a day! I can’t believe it. First Lady of Georgia, Mrs. Elizabeth Harris, is on the program. Others include George “Buddy” Darden, U.S. 7th District Congressman of Georgia; Ms. Barbara Mason, Georgia Coordinator, Keep America Beautiful; Colonel C. Hilton Dunn, Mobile District En- gineer, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers; David Grabensteder, Resource Manager Allatoona Lake, U.S. Corps of Engineers; Patsy Haynes, Allatoona Lake Association; Mrs. George Wray, Atlanta Coca Cola Bottling Company; 8th Regimental Band, Georgia Volunteers Confederate States of America. Unlike the original $20 effort in 1971, Mr. Grabensteder and the Corps of Engineers have six major sponsors, 53 financial contributors, and 14 special resource groups. When members of Boy Scout troop No. 252 from First Presbyterian Church in Marietta are among approximately 5,100 volunteers for The Great Lake Allatoona Cleanup, all participants are given lunch! The Cleanup of litter around and in the partially drained Lake Allatoona in 1971 seems of diminished importance compared to today’s water problems, although at that time, it served as a wake-up call, and The Great Lake Allatoona Cleanup does continue to focus on the species’ ability to trash and destroy its life-giving sources. Thomas Carlyle, Scottish Philosopher (1795–1880), correctly predicted that a present recognized duty done will make a second duty to become clear. A first-time $10 membership for dues is mailed to The Georgia Conservancy, established in 1967 as “a nonprofit organization of people dedicated to the responsible stewardship of Georgia’s vital natural resources.” My immediate second duty is to become informed. As with the lone moth that attempts in vain to gain entry through double-pane glass to light within this room, one person’s influence seems to be up against insurmountable political ignorance and greed.

It’s a fact: all of Georgia’s rivers, streams and lakes originate within the state. I sip 16 ounces of water at the start of every new day and when I am on the tennis courts. It’s funny how Coca Cola enters my thought process when I am pondering water. Before marriage I guzzled it down ice-cold during a challenging tennis match. Nothing like it! It’s the best. Yeah, right . . . admit it. Tell the truth. You were a teenager then, and it burned all the way down. I conceptualize a worst case scenario: what if the current drought continues and there is a

dangerous scarcity of water? All clear pure H2O ceases to flow from kitchen faucets, and cold drinking water fails to dispense from the refrigerator. Preparation of food is near impossible. Everyone is dehydrated and thirsty. “Wow! That would bring Georgia’s water problems to a new level where it hurts the most, a kitchen without water; our existence.” We are feeling the pain of drought, crop losses, water restrictions, and with the ongoing un- reachable negotiations regarding water use between Alabama, Florida, and Georgia. With water bottle in hand and a new Wilson tennis racket, I’m off to the courts. Even so, I am somewhat encouraged. The window of our future is opening, and the moth is drawn toward the light. Children are becoming informed and concerned; Berry College students are involved in The Coosa River Basin Initiative out of Rome, Georgia; The Georgia Conservancy’s Generation Green young adults make positive headlines.

94 Litter in Lake Allatoona State of Georgia

Art by: Robert William Babcock, Jr. Middle School

PROCLAMATION: WATERWAY AND LAND CLEANUP DAY Robert and Eleanor Babcock, Governor Jimmy Carter, January 15, 1971 Top: David Grabensteder, Resource Manager, Eleanor, WSB Radio Reporter

Bottom: Volunteers Collect Litter at the First Lake Allatoona Cleanup, 1971 Eleanor Babcock receives Album and Certificate, 1971 DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY, Certificate of Appreciation for Patriotic Civilian Service

Nancy Landrum, Connie Lowry, Mr. and Mrs. Norman Corey, Jewell Kay, a Ranger, Jacque Long Eleanor and Robert Babcock, Sr., Ophelia Crisler, Monnie Smith, David Grabensteder

Original “Lake Allatoona Clean Up,” 1971 Eleanor at microphone for “The Great Lake Allatoona clean UP,” 1986

Part VII

FRIENDS AND WIDE OPEN SPACES

Until Another Season

Best Friends for Life

Weeds and Roses in Bouquet

Chapter 19 Until Another Season “Nancy, you know about me, you know that I came through it, and you can too. Nancy, you can; it will pass.” She seems to feel that no one, not the doctors in Decatur, not her husband—and especially this day—not the preacher of a local Baptist church believes she is literally hanging on to reality by a string; detached, unfeeling, lost between here and there, playing the part without her script. Minutes become hours and darkness sets in. I am silently questioning why she would go to this preacher, when she has her own church and pastor of another denomination. At a time like this, self-help Scriptures are for the birds; in fact, they only add to the confusion. Clinical depression, the loss of the drive for pleasure and happiness is in your head; one’s brain to be precise. It’s a physical illness, a chemical imbalance in the emotional center of a brain. I am furious at the minister’s judgment or lack of it. “I’ve been there, Nancy, you know I’ve been there.” During a visit several nights later my husband, Bob and I watch with Nancy’s husband, as she assembles the ingredients for a German chocolate cake. Tomorrow is her teenage daughter’s birthday. “Nancy, you’re making a German chocolate cake!” I question—a challenge for the most organized mind—and from the base up? Good. Good.” It’s encouraging and amazing to us that it seems so easy for her. Bob and I leave that evening with guarded optimism, thinking and hoping that Nancy can hold on. The solemn 20-minute ride for Bob and me from Marietta to Parkwood Drive is enveloped by memories: long weeks of camping together with Nancy and family in the North Georgia Moun- tains; regular water skiing days on Lake Allatoona; games and conversations at their home in front of a roaring fire. Bob and Nancy’s husband attended Avondale High School. After college, both become employed at Remington Rand Company as Customer Engineers. Neither is aware of this until both are scheduled for simultaneous computer training. So back in 1956, two inexperienced Southern couples, each with a firstborn three-month-old baby, arrive at the little town of Ilion, New York. Ilion is a small manufacturing town on the Buffalo Interstate Highway No. 90 between Utica to the west and Herkimer to the east. There in the Mohawk River Valley we meet Nancy for the first time. “Not much traffic tonight,” Bob says, as he and I continue to reminisce about those months we spent in New York with his co-worker and Nancy. Pre-Thanksgiving Day conversations among our Atlanta friends in Ilion are vivid remembrances:

“We must be together on Thanksgiving Day,” all agreed. “Can you cook the turkey?” Dick’s new bride said, “Yes.” One will bring this, another bring that. The plans were made. The big day arrived along with a perilous blizzard. Ilion, one hill after another, would make driving in a blinding snow storm almost impossible. “Can the old Buick make it?” We arrived safely. Husband, Nancy, their three months old baby, Bob, Me, our three months old baby, Dick, another Avondale friend and his bride gave thanks for each other, the scant apartment home, and our food—Pilgrims, missing Georgia, the comforts, and the aromas of our mother’s kitchens.

Recalling those months in New York and the years later with our good friends causes the time to pass quickly as Bob and I continue the drive home. Off Bells Ferry Road, Chastain Lake is serene, and the entrance to Parkwood Drive is in sight. As we pull into our driveway, the memories of a late November day in Ilion, New York, and a breath of prayer for dear Nancy return to the folds of my brain. Two days later on Ash Wednesday, rain and intermittent thunder and lightning intensify the turmoil of sudden and tragic news. “It happened yesterday,” he says. “I just couldn’t call you until now.” We are told the devastating news. The message is brief and we are unable to ask questions. In our minds we try to picture what happened:

Nancy’s daughter arrived home from school and entered her quiet, cedar-shake Dutch Colonial home graced with refinished furniture, meticulously chosen fabrics, magazines, books, and beautiful accents. Every nook and cranny is a reflection of her beautiful, mid-thirties red-haired mother. She possibly thought about that leftover birthday cake, dropped her books, and made a beeline to the warm, early American kitchen. Chocolate cake and a glass of milk are a soft fuzzy for the inside and outside. Thoughts turned to her mother.

Nancy would normally be in the basement stripping an antique, or upstairs showering. We picture her daughter bounding up the steps of the split-level and passing her own room with the white organdy canopy bed:

Remembering the car was on the driveway and not having seen Nancy outside, she entered her Mom and Dad’s room with the massive four-poster bed on a thick white carpet. We can hear her call, “Mom, Mom.” Nancy was not in her room or in the shower. She went into her brother’s room across the hall from her parents′ bedroom. Nancy was dead from a self-inflicted wound.

Husband, son, daughter, mother, dad, sister, grandparents, friends, and neighbors are shocked and grief-stricken. It seems that a friend is one who needs me, and one whom I need. Oth- ers might suddenly drop out of their places, but there would be no distress, no sense of loss, no lack of well-being. I do not need those—they might say—neither do they need me. My Nancy is gone, and I need her back. This friend’s soul is struggling to find meaning and reconciliation. How can I cope with this act of suicide committed by my best friend, knowing as I do, what the scriptures and religions say about suicide?

Throughout my life, I’ve learned valuable lessons by observing nature. And nature always offers me hope and healing; acknowledgment of our inseparability. Nature teaches about the tree that grows in a meadow and has space to spread its limbs to receive the sun and the rain—tall

102 and balanced of shape. Nature also teaches about other trees that grow differently in eroded soil, in crowded conditions, and with little exposure to the sun and rain. The bottom limbs of each— shaded by its own body—die, fall to the ground, and become nourishment for themselves and for others. It has stopped raining. Drawn to the cool moisture outside, I begin to walk in the yard among significant trees, bushes, plants, and flowers. January jasmine, not fussy about soil and grown from a cutting in Mother’s yard, is at the front corner of the yard. In frigid temperatures its bright yellow miniature blossoms delight passersby. A miracle! The first delicate crocus is up through hard, rain-bathed dirt. Down the hill under the dogwood, Kool Camellia (named after friends) is waiting patiently for my recognition. Poor pansy flowers, moody winter months are stealing your show; cold . . . warm, cold . . . warm. Were I a flower, would I feel the effects of the seasons? The trees communicate with each other, we know, and when a percentage of the trees in a forest are destroyed, those that remain barely survive. Is a lovingly placed rock—preventing erosion and shading from the sun— important beyond measure to plant friends? Does a daffodil prefer to remain a bud until full flowering or to join a bouquet for a higher purpose? The Portuguese clear-glass bud vase given to me by a dear friend on a special occasion sits on the table. The air bubbles in its clear, solid oval base are as numberless stars floating in the lights and darks of a sphere. A slender cylindrical stem holds only four teaspoons of water, and any one or two selections of beauty one might want to pick and place there. Daffodils . . . two chosen daffodils are cut and placed in the vase: one, at bud-to-half-bloom stage with its thin mauve-brown floral envelope rolling back slightly; the other, a flower, the fairest and choicest part of the specimen; a powdery substance having been changed to its most subliminal state. Nancy is the bud. I am the flower.

At the viewing, Nancy’s hands are immediately noticeable. Not small in size, her knuckles bear the signs of pressure work with sandpaper and chisel, and the nails are a convenient length. I keep looking at those hands, a personification of her giving and loving self; an indelible image. What? I can’t believe this, no music at Nancy’s funeral? Reverence is shown all along the funeral path up Roswell Road and through Marietta Square. Vehicles come to a stop, and police stand at each intersection with hands and hats over their hearts. Several books authored by Dr. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross are now in my library: On Death and Dying, and Death, the Final Stage of Growth. Her book about suicide has not been released at the time of Nancy’s death. In fact, the annual Kennesaw College Mini-Symposium at which Dr. Kübler-Ross will be a guest speaker occurs some time later. Participants in the fields of science, theology, medicine, and psychiatry—all known to be on the cutting edge in their field—will be guest panelists. On Tuesday, October 21, 1975, students, seniors, young, and old will assemble to hear Dr. Kübler-Ross speak about death and dying. The gymnasium will be packed. About 3,000 will attend the morning and afternoon lectures, the largest crowd ever to attend a symposium. I will be in the crowd. Nancy is dead. My mother will be dying of leukemia at Atlanta’s Piedmont Hospi- tal. What could I learn and how can I interpret the five stages that a terminally ill mother will go through? First Stage: Denial and Isolation. Second Stage: Anger. Third Stage: Bargaining. Fourth Stage: Depression. Fifth Stage: Acceptance.

103 When Dr. Kübler-Ross walks to the podium I will be instantly captivated by her appear- ance: rather tiny, thin, side-parted shoulder-length hair, eye glasses, no make-up. She will be wearing a skirt, a blouse—unbuttoned at the neck—a blazer, no hose with sandals. It will be 70 degrees outside. Dr. Kübler-Ross will be asked if her latest book on the subject of suicide has been released. We will hear that it is under lock and key, and if it were to be released at the present time, there would be mass suicides; our world is just not ready to receive it. We must learn to change our language and think in different dimensions? People will want to experience the place that she has proven and has written about in her book, and living life here on earth is essential to gain entry. No further clues about suicides will be given, except that only the physical body dies and there is life after death. Unlike with Nancy, I am able to recognize and understand the five stages that Mother experiences. With the passing of years, a fuller understanding and interpretation of Nancy’s untimely death and Mother’s death at 75 years of age, works to a spiritual advantage. Healing is an ongoing process. If birth and death are equally a part of human existence, it seems that what matters is how one lives during the between years; whether short or long. Is healing possible for all of us if we ask relevant questions and dare to hear the answers? Depression can take its toll. What is a person’s life like at a given moment? How can it differ from person to person, from friend to friend? So I begin growing in my own way, in my own time. My typical reactions to Nancy’s death draw me toward nature, to walking, to reading, and to writing a short article about her in a church weekly newsletter. Grieving becomes gradual therapy. LIFE ON THE OTHER SIDE: A Psychic’s TOUR OF THE AFTERLIFE is written by Syl- via Browne with Lindsay Harrison. In their chapter, Death: Our Journey to the Other Side, new horizons of thought, understanding, and contradictions open to me. “It is a cruel myth,” they write, “that anyone who commits suicide is eternally doomed. There are suicides who absolutely make it safely through the tunnel to the joy of The Other Side.” And might it not follow that after death, the dealing and the healing can be a back-and- forth current travelling invisibly from our Nancy to us and back to her from us? In The Legend of the Raindrop, Jewell Steiner Rice writes, “For Everything God Ever Made Is Always Resurrected . . . There is Nothing Lost Forever.” It is another early spring. As moody winter again teases the heart of all matter, the precious daffodil flowers and buds prematurely appear. One hard freeze can render tall stems watery limp and bent over to the ground, not to rise again . . . until another season.

104 Chapter 20 Best Friends for Life In early 1900s, near the courthouse square in Cumming, two young girls began a lasting friendship. Ophelia Smith, my mother, was the taller one, with a sharp nose and straight hair. The other, Miriam Bennett, had a plump round face and was crowned with dark wavy hair. Six decades of living friendship with Miriam ends when Ophelia dies. Twenty-one years later, the two best friends meet again at death’s door . . . or was it just a dream? Dreams can be cathartic—a purifying or figurative cleaning of the emotions; the relief of tension and anxiety by bringing repressed feelings and fears to consciousness. Dreams might be predictions, prophesies, warnings, instructions, and bearers of good news, or all of the above After the deaths of Dad Babcock and his sister Aunt Ethlyne Staples, their widow and widower, Bonnie and Dr. Staples, marry. In 1975, our 14-year-old son David accompanies his grandmother Bonnie and Dr. Staples to New York and later to Staples Camp in Norland, Ontario, Canada. Shortly afterward in early August, Bob and I decide to join them for vacation. Mother agrees to take care of Charlie, David’s dog. Older son Bobby agrees to have no parties in the home during our absence. Two weeks in Canada pass quickly. Fifty-three degree weather has made hiking pleasur- able, but paths to the back lakes are swarming with blood-sucking mosquitoes. I’m eager to get back to Georgia to treat poison ivy on my leg. Leaving Canada and on our way back home to Georgia, Bob and I decide not to sight-see in New York. We drive directly to Logan Circle in Brookhaven, North Atlanta, to see Mother and to get Charlie. Mother struggles with heavy steps to come from her back yard to meet us. Guilt- ridden thoughts invade me. She is so thin. The dog—she has had to bother with Charlie. I had no idea. Her arms . . . have big blue spots all over them. “Mother” . . . no other words can surface as we help her into her home. My heart floods with silent sorrow as I recognize the serious nature of her condition. I know mother and daughter are crossing a new threshold. In the following weeks, I drive Mother to the grocery store and to see her hematologist in Atlanta’s Colony Square building. An extremely high escalator in the building is an unforgettable challenge. I can stand behind Mother going up. Stepping on the descending stairs, steadying, and maintaining our balance on the way down frightens and tests us both. The most wretched moments of my life are seeing a lifelong physically strong human being become thin and weak. I strive to allow her freedom and dignity, watching her courageous efforts. It is something I cannot talk to her about, I can write this letter to ease the pain of my impending loss:

August 18, 1975

Dearest Mother, A high point of my vacation was when I discovered that “Trillium” is the Provincial flower of Ontario. I didn’t even know such a flower existed until my few days in Tennessee with Jewell. They grow wild in the mountains, especially large near the streams . . . and just for my room, my friend David arranged a bouquet using them. The only thing I bought for myself in Canada was this lovely Trillium illustrated stationery to be reserved for notes to the most special and precious—which explains why you are hearing from me now. It has been a while since I wrote you a love letter, so I thought I would make up for lost time. We are integral parts—one and the same—contributing and complementing each, and words can’t express the beauty and appreciation felt, only time Eternal can record it. We are so much alike yet so different, and that’s God’s way. At times, our uniqueness is difficult and yet in a way, beautiful. I’m sorry for every time I have been hurtful and less than what your inmost heart would have had me be. At first I didn’t notice the three drops of water falling from the Trillium petal (perhaps meant to be tear drops by the artist), but I understand. I love you so very, very much. Devotedly, Eleanor

Within two months after this letter is written, Sara and I drive Mother to Piedmont Hospi- tal in Atlanta. We are asked to take financial responsibility for her. Sara, on faith, signs. Mother’s hematologist is notified, and she is admitted. Jimmy’s wife, a nurse, helps Thomas, Jimmy, Don, Sara, Sammy and me to understand the diagnosis: Chronic Granulocyte Leukemia, a disease of the bone marrow in which unrestrained proliferation of white blood cells occurs. “There is a new drug, Mrs. Crisler. Although age is of concern, it might have a positive effect. Are you willing for me to use it?” her doctor asks. Mother agrees and hopes. We hope. Sara cuts and grooms her hair. Jimmy takes her a sausage and biscuit almost every morning, even though she cannot eat them. Don and Sammy do their special things. I deliver flowers from my yard, piano tapes, and Liberace records. Thomas sends cards, and telephones from Jacksonville. One semiprivate room patient after another comes and goes, uplifted for having known Mother. She begins to read All Things Bright and Beautiful and says it will be given to a young nurse of hers who reminds her of Sara and me. At the Kennesaw College symposium, I hear Doctor Elizabeth Kübler-Ross tell how dying persons will not talk about death with the most immediate loved ones, but will seek out another for encouragement. They just want to be shown that someone cares. In December during my weekly visit, words of Doctor Kübler-Ross are validated. I stand near Mother’s bed, and place the Liberace piano record in the player. I turn around as the music begins to play. The young nurse stands beside Mother’s bed. For the first time, Mother’s lips begin to quiver, and tears are in her eyes. Just like heavy rain after the first crack of thunder, I begin to bawl. The nurse begins to cry. “That’s enough of that,” Mother immediately says. As quickly as it started, the crying ceases. It happens. Mother sees acknowledgment of her terminal condition in my tears and knows my caring sorrow. I realize the nurse is her confidant. Later Mother makes her wishes known. She has me make an inventory of unused gifts in her dresser drawers at home to be given to the nurses

106 on her floor:Tacoa Rose pin and silver case—with Legend of the Christmas Rose card inside; Red Buxton coin/bill purse; Amway Till Dawn cologne and bath powder; box of Zen dusting powder (present from Miriam); Wind Song perfumed dusting powder and perfume; three chains, very nice; Royal Worchester Flameproof porcelain egg poacher; matching toweling, apron, cloth, and pot holder; knife holder with decal on front; large round, pinkish-salmon colored beads; Coffee Break red and gold coin case; party treats, (may be old and rancid!) She wants apothecary jars filled with cookies and candies to be placed in the nurses′ station. Mother wants to leave something to her children. It has been her stated wish not to let hospitalization eat up her small financial bequest. “I want to know when insurance stops paying fully, and when my co-payment requirement kicks in,” she says. Leave us something? Mother’s Spirit has already taken up residence in each of her six children. We know it. We have felt it throughout life, more especially during her two months in the hospital. She has been our Mother Blue Bird pushing us out of the nest without our knowing how or when. The copayment billing starts after 50 days at $23 per day, charge to be incurred until De- cember 29, then $46. Told the copayment is being charged, Mother decides to let go, decides to shed the shackles restraining her, and become a butterfly. For a week or so, Mother is in a coma and says nothing. The telephone rings. It is our oldest brother Thomas in Jacksonville. “Is he coming home for Christmas?” she asks. “Yes,” we reply. Unfinished business done, Mother chooses the “Final Stage of Growth,” death. As had been predicted by Dr. Kübler-Ross, each of the five stages of a terminal ill person are successfully left behind; denial, (shock) anger, (emotion) bargaining, (gradual realization of the real conse- quences) preparatory, (depression) acceptance, (increased-self-reliance)—some, privately: anger, preparatory, and acceptance in my presence. Piedmont Hospital has a practice that allows rotation of nurses when final breaths are drawn, to relieve nurses most close to their patient. The youngest brother, our Sammy, is in the waiting room when Mother goes Home. As the body is removed for autopsy at 2:30 in the morning, her children go to the hospital cafeteria to wrap Christmas packages for the nurses. We bury Carolyn Ophelia Smith Crisler on December 24, 1975, in Arlington Memorial Park, Sandy Springs, Georgia. Christmas morning, December 25, Bob and I sit around the breakfast table with our sons. “Mother always did everything just right,” I say. Everyone agrees.

107 To The Children of: Mrs. Carolyn O. Crisler 2356 Logan Circle N. E. Atlanta, Ga. 30319 December 26, 1975

Dear Friends, Just a little note to let you know you were in my thoughts during Christmas. Your mother loved all of you so much, and you were so nice to her. Please have a good new year, and keep happy. She would have wanted it that way. Your friend, Katherine Brooks, Admitting Clerk Piedmont Hospital, Inc., Atlanta, Georgia 30309

Atlanta, Ga. Friday, Dec. 26, 1975

Dear Eleanor, Your mother is in my heart and mind today, but I know she is in Heaven which makes it easier to bear, and some day we will be “together forever”—first at Arlington then I hope in Heaven with her. I wanted to tell you that she would be so happy and proud of her children the way they responded to this crisis. Her funeral could not have been more to her liking. It was so sweet and wonderful. Ellen said she would never forget Dr. Myers′ message, that she had never heard anything that impressed her more, and that your sweet mother deserved every word that was said about her. She also said that it was so thoughtful and wonderful of you children to wait on Dr. Myers, because he knew what a devoted Christian she was, and told it like it was. She has really been an inspiration in my life. She knew I loved her. All of you children are a part of my life also, and I love you dearly. All were so sweet and understanding of me, because they knew how much I would miss her. Please come by to see me when you can, and remember me in your prayers. With love always, Miriam

Younger brother Jimmy is Mother’s executor. In one day on Sara’s birthday, January 19, every possession in the little gray bungalow on Logan Circle—by reverent individual preference and Jimmy’s ingenious plan—has been selected. Florence Steigerwalt reminds in her revealing poem, A Friend is Special, that friendship can grow “imperceptibly without our remembering when it began.” I do not remember my earliest memories of Mother and Miriam as friends. All the while it was like looking into a mirror and seeing ourselves; Mother, me and Sara; Miriam, Barbara B., and Ellen. All ages, comparable, all daughters with naturally curly dark brown hair, and luckily, clothes sizes interchangeable among us. Thank goodness, we were wearing colors and not all that white

108 worn by our mothers in their youth. True, the Bennett family was affluent. The Crisler family was not. If I knew and understood the meaning of stability, the Bennett family environment was, the Crisler family environment was not. Miriam seemed to know just when to be there for Mother. She had a healthy appreciation of Daddy’s unfortunate background, his struggles with alcohol and inferiority-induced resentment of her and all of mother’s acquaintances. Both friends had reserved personalities. As year after year went by it became apparent to me that Mother was the rooted plant, Miriam the flower. Often times it seemed that Miriam was the weaker one. With two children and Neal to provide necessities, she had time to worry a little and be concerned. With six children, divorced and sole provider, Mother had no thought or time for worry. “Eleanor, I’m worried about Ophie,” Miriam told me. Mother had a major heart attack five or six years earlier, recovered and was dismissed as a patient by her doctor. Nevertheless, Miriam had to report what mother told her the day before. “I walked home from work to eat lunch,” Mother had said. “I sat down to eat my soup. When I woke up, my glasses were in my soup.” Mother obviously thought it funny. “Your mother is working too hard. The other day she was out transplanting a dogwood tree,” Miriam continued. “Well, Miriam,” I said, “if Mother wants to die doing the thing she enjoys most, working in the yard, let it be planting a dogwood tree.” Neither of us realized how little time our mother and friend would be physically with us. Miriam, the flower, knew the plant well. She and Mother grew and flourished in life together as best friends from first grade of school in their hometown, Cumming, Georgia, until Heaven’s door opened to welcome 70-year old Ophie back. Birthdays had always been remembered. There were shared intervals of joy and sorrow between friends and daughters. Months and years passed. Miriam’s oldest daughter, Barbara B., had a double mastectomy and died in mid-life leaving six children. Later I made an impromptu visit. I had gained some un- wanted pounds. “Eleanor, you are beautiful!” Miriam exclaimed. All my life Miriam had thought me skinny. Barbara’s face was full and round with peaches- and-cream complexion. My fuller face must have reminded her of Barbara B., and perhaps was comforting. Our conversation focused on her grandchildren, my children, and grandchildren. Two years before Mother’s death, Miriam had had a mastectomy. And I thought Miriam, the weak one. During my visit, I saw husband, Neal B., had failing health . . . what a surprise that Miriam’s death preceded his in 1991.

Once again my station wagon makes its way—as if on automatic pilot—south on Peachtree Dunwoody Road—past the Bennett home to Peachtree Road and Oglethorpe Hill Funeral Home. We had mourned Bob’s father, Barbara Bennett, and Mother there . . . this day we will mourn Miriam. Neal is overwrought, crushed, and bent over with unrelenting sobs. Youngest daughter, Ellen silently holds him, physically supports him, walks beside him in grief. When we have a few private moments, I tell her of my dream. “Ellen,” I say, “recently I had a first-time-ever ephemeral dream . . . like none I have ever had before. It was so real . . .

109 . . . “The entire body of Mother was standing there, tall, beautiful and young (in her thirties.) Her hair was combed back away from her face, the color was soft, but vivid in her cheeks, and she was in her blouse and mid-calf length skirt. She was as perfect and as real as she could be. Mother! Mother! Is it really you? Is it really you? I was ecstatic. She began walking toward me. I stretched out my arms and hands to embrace her. She walked past me, stood in front of a door and knocked on the door. When the door opened, Miriam was standing there.”

“Eleanor,” Ellen’s face almost flows with a new dimension, “Mother said before dying, ‘I saw Ophie this morning,’ . . . I’m so glad you told me that. Did you know she died on February 16th, Ophie’s birthday?” James Van Praagh, world-renowned psychic medium, is known to convey messages between realms. I have learned from his book, Reaching to Heaven, an astral body can actually leave the physical body and “work on the astral level.” My dream is a restorative gift; a joyful sign of wonder. In awe, I drink in Holy Light and feel the touch of lasting friendship. An older daughter and a younger daughter of Ophie and Miriam have shared revelations. So among other definitions, dreams are a way in which the spirits meet and communicate; friend-to-friend and mother to daughter. Life and death can sing the morning and evening song of triumph.

NOTE: More recent professional discoveries are revealing variations in the sequence, timing, and length of the Kügler-Ross five stages grieving process of a terminally ill person. Some stage may actually be skipped.

Marilyn A. Mendoza, PhD writes in her book, We Do Not Die Alone, “Jesus is Coming to Get Me in a White Pickup Truck,” about nurses’ observed experiences with terminally ill patients in transition.

110 Nancy and Daughter with Eleanor Babcock, on the Right

Below: Miriam Bennett with Ophelia (Ophie) Smith Crisler

Left: Ellen Bennett Above: Neal Bennett and daughter Barbara

Chapter 21 Weeds and Roses in Bouquet After my walk: 1978: a year of fruit . . . seed . . . beauty . . . bounty. This is the year of the weeds. Never before have I seen such healthy specimens, nor have their significance and worth come to the forefront of the consciousness. Oh . . . these brisk walks along winding mini-bike paths through the kudzu, sumac, goldenrod and tall grasses nestled among small-to-medium evergreen pines and laden with the moisture of a fresh new morning. The spirit of magnanimity manifests itself only to the seeker with a receptive heart, a sojourner in search of truth. Suddenly the connotation usually placed on weeds in the realm of totality and wholeness takes on new dimension. In acres of only weeds, there is an absence of contrasts—as weed versus non-weed—and the ensuing competitive stimulus . . . the sick, the stranger, the wayfarer, the youth in trouble, the aged forgotten, the hungry, neglected parents, and children. There are roses and there are weeds: Weeds and Roses in bouquet. – Eleanor Hope Crisler Babcock

“If you don’t mind living in the country, buy the new house being built next door to me,” Bob’s supervisor and friend, Harold Kilby, tells him. We purchase the gray brick ranch style house on a half-mile long dead-end street for $15,000—before it is even finished—after the builder reduces the list price by $500 to help us swing the deal. Nearby Chastain Road is not paved, and seldom are there more than three or four cars on the 4.8 miles of Bells Ferry Road from Highway No. 41 to Parkwood Drive, Kennesaw, Georgia. Soon Bob is servicing Univac computers at Lockheed Corporation in Marietta on three shift periods resulting in rotating time-off hours rarely falling on Saturday and Sunday. Needless to say, he is working or sleeping while I am juggling five different schedules. This is beyond challenging! Money is bread, and bread is power, or so I’ve heard. Susan B. Anthony has convinced me. I need a purse uniquely mine, and one with money in it, especially now that I am entrusted with aspects of child rearing and homemaking. “You can stretch a dollar more than anyone I’ve ever known,” an Augusta neighbor said to me many times. The kids were smaller then. Now, they are growing by leaps and bounds. Their shoes and clothes sizes are costing more, as is the food bill—from expanding appetites. Bob alone determines the unchanging weekly grocery allotment with little or no apparent appreciation for its dwindling elasticity. Invariably, it has to cover unexpected neighborhood kid birthday party presents, school supplies, etc. The boys’ clothes are bought large, shortened, lengthened and shortened again. The tallest weed in our collective patch at this present time is not having a budget that can somehow include a full spectrum for individual personal needs and household items. Second in height to not having a written budget, is the lack of a flexible plan by which each family can question the household finances and receive a reasonable response. To his everlasting credit, however, Bob sees that house payments of $107, utility bills, insurance, doctor bills, and taxes are paid on time. These years after my mental illness prove to be almost chaotic for Bob, Bobby, Wesley, and David because of my advocacy, on their behalf, against financial business as usual. It will be a toss-up as to who suffers the most. Since I am not one who lacks perseverance and firmness when necessary nor one who is short on the words I feel will restore balance and mental health, my efforts to communicate the importance of the boy’s needs—as well as Bob’s and my own—portray me as “nag,” destroyer of peace and tranquility. Each one of us draws strength from the solitary setting of undeveloped acres of land at the edge of our backyard. Tensions existing between marital partners and between siblings are soothed in wide-open spaces, creative tree houses, and hideout-forts in the woods. So this is what marriage is all about: merging two sets of invisible scars and insecurities into one big risky, pioneering venture. A path to growing up, facing change, bringing up children, caring about others, recognizing a calling, choosing honesty and integrity, straightening the back- bone, and standing alone, if necessary . . . becoming. Troubling, embarrassing, laborious efforts and struggles are weeds possessing emotional energy, a leaven and ongoing catharsis. We can all hope and agree years of living among distinguished weeds brings depth and insights otherwise undiscovered and lost in a smothering no-fault- insurance-type of existence. God’s sun shines on the weeds and the roses. Untitled no. 9, 1994, a work in the Indianapolis Museum of Art, by artist Jewell Chadwick, encourages the acceptance of “difference not as damage but potential.” A flower grows deep in the middle of blackberries. Developers have bulldozed most of the beloved old growth trees. The familiar path of yes- teryear is replaced with houses and cul-de-sacs that lead to nowhere. Fences remind us of our lost privileges, the freedom to hear God’s incessant whispering about Blackberries and Flowers, and Weeds and Roses; about the sacrifice of thanksgiving.

114 Part VIII

LOCAL PAPERS AND RECORDED KINSHIP

A Major Decision

Unexpected Warriors from Prior Generations

Integrated with Family and History

Trout, Hushpuppies, and Cheese Grits

The Economy of the Rock

Chapter 22 A Major Decision “Sis, I left for Atlanta after class on Friday,” Sara wrote on her attached note. “Take a look at this article.” I open the envelope and hold two printouts from microfilm of an article that appeared in the April 2, 1875 issue of The Marietta Daily Journal. The editor apparently believed the insertion of this “Good Word for Local Papers” article—written 13 years earlier in 1862—would be of value to his subscribers.

A Good Word for Local Papers—The New York Times says you might nearly, as well forget your churches, your academies, and your school houses as to forget your local paper. It speaks to ten times the audience that your local minister does. It is read eagerly each week from beginning to end. It reaches you all, and if it has a lower spirit and less wisdom than a sermon, it has a thousand times better chance at you. Lying as it does, on every table, in almost every house, you owe it to yourselves to rally liberally to its support, and exact from it as able, heightened a character as you do from any educator in your midst. It is in no sense beneath notice and care—unless you yourself are beneath notice and care—for it is your representative. Indeed, in its character it is the summation of the importance, interest and welfare of you all. It is the aggregate of your own consequence, and you cannot ignore it without miserably depreciating yourself.

It is as if a watchman’s warning has bridged over 100 years to guide my eyes to page 5F of the Sunday, April 16, 1978 Atlanta Journal-Constitution. There is a credit law, and I am one of the many women in America who are not taking advantage of it. I lost my credit history when my name changed, and it came as quite a blow to realize that for 23 years of marriage, all credit history had accrued to Bob alone: payments for the mortgages, automobiles, and appliances. A 47-year-old-woman, I know nothing about my credit rights or about the importance of having credit in my own name. I am not apathetic, I am simply uninformed. I learn that any accounts opened before June 1, 1977, must be changed to reflect my given name, and the credit bureau’s file must be under my own name. I learn The Equal Credit Opportunity Act went into effect in two stages. First, discrimination on the basis of sex or marital status was prohibited in October 1975, and then discrimination based on race, national origin, religion, age, and receipt of public assistance was prohibited in March 1977. Regulations required credit-granting organizations to mail notices to customers outlining their rights to have credit information reported in the names of both husband and wife. Over 310-million notices went out with return-forms to couples wanting credit information in both names. None of those notices came to 225 Parkwood Drive. A major decision must be made. Am I up to it? Apathy is not my problem. Robert and Wesley, in their 20s, are on their own. David is 16 and will soon be in college. Ap- proaching “empty nest” syndrome is not my problem. Realizing all my eggs are in one basket that Bob holds, middle-age financial insecurity haunts like a lingering ghost. What if I become wid - owed or God forbid, divorced? Money is still a touchy topic of discussion between Bob and me, but massaging his ego has long ceased. The ball is rolling. I’m off to the Credit Bureau to have a file opened. After establishing a credit file with a flawless payment record to the orthodontist, I take steps to have past and future payments reported according to the Act. Visits are made and requests are written to businesses. From the initial risky and frightening step, I suppose I am growing up a little more. From the time I was born, my life has been full of risks, and this is just another one— one in a struggle for independence that will last another eight years.

June 29, 1978 American Petro FINA Credit Sales Representative P. O. Box 2159 Dallas. Texas 75221

Dear Sir: At the time last remittance mailed to you resulting in an overpayment, a note was written informing you to reissue a set of credit cards. Please make a change showing all information the same except issue one card, R. W. Babcock, Sr. and one card, Eleanor C. Babcock per Equal Credit Op- portunity Act. It has been the “Mrs.” who has been using your card service the past years and she expects to continue with a card bearing her own name. Please take care of this immediately! Credit amount of $3.75 cannot be used until you act. Please respond to this letter. Eleanor C. Babcock

Cokesbury Book Store complies. Rich’s Department Store first denies, due to “no credit file,” and “insufficient income” but later issues a card. “Mrs. Babcock, Fulton National Bank wants to issue you and your husband some credit cards,” the voice on the telephone informs me. “My husband has enough cards,” I answer. “Issue one card in his name and one card in my name, Eleanor C. Babcock.” “Yes, Madam, we will,” she assures me. Several days later the cards arrive . . . neither card is minus the “Mr.” or has my given name. “No, no, no, no, no.” I’m frustrated and mad! “Will you go downtown with me to Fulton National Bank as a witness?” I ask a feminist friend. “Sure,” she says after hearing my story. “I’m sorry, your friend may not go in with you,” the secretary says. I go in alone to be pleasantly surprised and relieved to see a young female executive behind the desk. The phone call and promise told, the young woman makes an equally surprising statement. She is aware of my predicament and admits to having kept her maiden name after marriage.

118 “Your husband has an excellent credit record, and if you keep that advantage, you will have more credit than you might ever need,” she says after learning of my meager part-time income, normally not enough to merit a credit card with the bank. “I will give you a card in your own name, and it will be for $200 available credit.” “I want it in my own name. What would you do?” “Exactly what you are doing. Start your own history,” she says. On October 9, 1978, the envelope comes in the mail from Chamblee. I’ve joined the “choir invisible” and the lyrics echo from the red horizontal strip on the enclosed announcement!

“Relax . . . You’ve got MASTER CHARGE! MASTER CHARGE is accepted wherever you go. Travel is more convenient. Shopping is easier. You can pay medical and dental bills.”

Somewhere near Monroe Drive in Atlanta, I attend my first National Organization for Women Georgia Conference, and the day’s first business is to elect new officers. I witness unexpected raw political, “I mean business” action among the women candidates. I am mesmerized by the candidates’ maneuvering and determination as they vie for the chapter offices. The Song of Atlanta Chorus, a small but dynamic group of women, enters the risers and sings barbershop-style songs. They are great! How can I possibly know that some years later, I will become a lead, then a bass singer with the same chorus?

In May 1981, ERA Georgia, Inc. has its annual meeting at Mercer University in Macon. Joyce Dunaway Parker, president, gives the Keynote Address. After “Strengthening Our Bonds, and Affirming Our Faith,” there are workshops to sharpen our skills, to join forces with people of color, to appeal to the homemaker, and to expand our base. A small group of Georgia NOW members march at Cumberland Mall in Cobb County. Marlo Thomas marches with us, and Donna Novak Coles leaves us for a few minutes to check on the Great American Cookie Company in the mall. In another march to the Georgia Capitol, I help to push someone’s baby carriage. What a thrill! I attend the June 1984 National Conference in Miami Beach, Dade County, Florida—the city that passed its own Equal Rights Amendment. It is at the beautiful Fountain Blue Hilton. I arrive in time to soak up some sun. Judy Goldsmith, longtime activist and NOW president from 1982 to 1985, provides statistics that show substantial increases in women’s votes. “The goal is to win equality for women,” she says, and answers the repeated questions: “What do women want?” Her emphatic answer: “We want to rewrite our national agenda . . . to throw Ronald Reagan out. We want equal pay in the law books and in our check books!” Ms. Goldsmith continues. “The gender gap is greater in the South than anywhere in the country.” It is believed there is public support for a woman on the upcoming election ticket. “If there isn’t a woman on the ticket,” she says, “we won’t win.” “It is time for a woman…We have women, and they are ready to run for Vice President!”

119 Occasionally I still wear my sweat shirt with its Southern Feminist for Choice message, and prize the collection of books whose authors inspired and encouraged me:

Green Paradise Lost, Elizabeth Dodson Gray Those Meddling Women, Janice Bailey, Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions, Gloria Steinem I’m Not a Women’s Libber, but…, Anne Bowen Follis From Housewife to Heretic, Sonia Johnson

The next hurdle—eight years later—will test our commitment, Bob’s and mine, to each other, and a loving relationship is at stake. We both sense it as I periodically ask to redraft our wills, and to create living wills. I also ask to transfer our residence to joint tenancy, with right of survivorship. I can appreciate my husband’s fear—in light of my bout with mental illness—but I know from prior years that he also has some growing to do. I am encouraged. While participating in a small group discussion about some National Organization for Women cause, I meet Carol Reilly McGriff and learn she is an attorney in Atlanta. I tell Bob about her, and we agree to make an appointment. I can’t believe we are here in her office. She is so soft-spoken and professional. Mrs. McGriff goes over the details. It is time for the signing. “I worked all my life for this.” Bob is in an obvious quandary and seems to have changed his mind. “You couldn’t find a better person,” I say. “He always pays the bills and is a good provider, but do you know how it feels to be counted as having done nothing? I have given everything—just received no recognition for it.” I am feeling his pain but am also feeling mine. “I can understand how you feel,” Mrs. McGriff says to Bob. “My daddy had to deal with this, too. It was hard for him, but he did it. You know under present state law, half of it is hers anyway. Georgia just got tired of paying wife support.”

February 26, 1986 Mr. Robert W. Babcock, Sr., Ms. Eleanor Babcock

Dear Eleanor and Bob: Enclosed are the final wills you requested. For each of you, I’ve prepared the original will and enclosed two photocopies . . . I’ve enjoyed working with you both on this project. If there are any other questions that I haven’t addressed, please let me know. If you will call my husband, George McGriff, when your new deed has been filed and recorded, he will arrange for the title search to be conducted and for title insurance to issue on your home. Sincerely, Carol Reilly McGriff

120 I will be forever grateful to Sara, my sister; for local newspapers and The New York Times; for membership in the National Organization for Women and being at that little gathering of women that night; for Attorney Carol Reilly McGriff, and the moment when Bob and I, together, grew a little.

January 13, 1981 The United Methodist Church COUNCIL on MINISTRIES/ Regarding the EQUAL RIGHTS AMENDMENT

The undersigned hereby requests the Council to present the following three (3) statements of information to the Saint Paul Membership via its newsletter. All of the stated facts are a matter of record and at one time or another were published in important United Methodist publications such as THE INTERPRETER, NEW WORLD OUTLOOK, and THE ADVOCATE. Unfortunately there is vey little exposure to these publications by the general congregation.

STATEMENTS

The GENERAL CONFERENCE passed a resolution on the EQUAL RIGHTS AMENDMENT (for passage) in 1972, 1976, and 1989 . . . and reaffirmed -its sup port later in 1990.

The FAMILY LIFE COMMITTEE of the general Church supported the EXTENSION of time for ratification of the EQUAL RIGHTS AMENDMENT.

The 1979 NORTH GEORGIA ANNUAL CONFERENCE passed a resolution to assist in the passage of the EQUAL RIGHTS AMENDMENT in Georgia.

Respectfully, Eleanor Hope Crisler Babcock

Excerpts from a letter presented at an annual family reunion:

The CRISLERS, my relatives and Special FRIENDS Dearest Ones, the purpose of this letter is to ask your support for the

EQUAL RIGHTS AMENDMENT

I can think of no greater compliment to you, my family and friends, than that of my desire and need to appeal to you outright. Indeed, it is a healthy sign. It is my responsibility to be in step with changing times for the betterment of humankind, to do everything within my ability and means through our system of government to be an advocate of/for the voiceless and unrepresented, and to reach out to those of whom I am physically, emotionally, and spiritually a part, for help . . . 121 . . . I thank you, past and present generations for having protected and provided for me . . . you have allowed many privileges, and for that I am grateful. But, you see, at the same time, you have diminished me by disallowing my rights under the law. When that point in time that is crisis and crucial, co-existence in a society of legal realities becomes impossible. Legal rights have been left out of the bedrock of the United States Constitution.

As always, Eleanor Hope Crisler Babcock

Marietta Daily Journal April 27, 1986

EDITOR: Phyllis Schlafly’s recent syndicated column, “An intelligent candidate’s guide to the female vote,” reminded me of a pitcher of cloudy tea. Full of distortion, it will only be seriously considered by the not-so-intelligent candidate. Also, the column was a self-inflicting wound to herself, as a woman, and to countless women for whom she presumed to speak. “A feminist will hiss and boo you if you use the terms ‘girl’ or lady’—a lady will not. In fact, a lady probably will never hiss or boo at all,” she wrote. For Mrs. Schlafly, candidates, and all influential people, theRandom House Dictionary makes the best guide of all. It defines a “girl” as a female child, a young unmarried woman, a female servant or employee, a man’s or boy’s sweetheart, etc. It was so sad on this past Palm Sunday when the Cantata was concluded and a pastor intentionally or unintentionally, however patronizingly, made a gesture to the Music Director (mature, married, mother, accomplished musician, educator) and the Organist (mature, married, mother, accomplished musician) and said, “Come up here, ‘girls.’” Even sadder that the entire congregation did not collectively “hiss” and “boo.” A feminist is a person who believes that women should have political, economic, and social rights equal to those of men. Feminists, female and male alike, are like a pitcher of clear tea. We have transcended the unconscious need to be put down or to put other people down. Because we care about ourselves, we can care about all humankind. Ms. Schlafly finally said, “Don’t ask women to ‘get together and decide what they want.’” When definitions and references are accurate, women are together, and at this time, we comprise the majority vote. ELEANOR CRISLER BABCOCK Kennesaw

122 EDITORIAL: The Atlanta Journal November 30, 1998

Martha Ezzard Women need amendment, despite gains GROUP FLEXES MUSSCLE

Barnes has new view of women’s concerns

When Gov.-elect Roy Barnes showed up at the Georgia Women’s assembly recently, he got a standing ovation. Women voters helped put Barnes over the top. But plenty of women in the audience remembered when Barnes wasn’t so attentive. Leaders of the Georgia Equal Rights Amendment campaign mingled with college students in the racially diverse crowd and expressed confidence in Barnes’ “evolution.” Barnes admits to being unenlightened when he and most members of the Georgia House voted in 1982 to crush the ERA, 116 to 57.” If Barnes wants to look at women’s struggles through a new lens, he should sneak over quietly someday to the Georgia State University Library’s state ERA collection. The documents, clippings, cartoons, interviews and tapes comprise the most extensive state ERA collection in the country.”

May 6, 2003

@ISSUE Martha Ezzard The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“Women need amendment despite gains.”

“At last, there is a serious campaign in Congress and around the Country to revive the ERA . . . until women can rely on uniform constitutional protection, they face hurdles men don’t in seeking equal pay, pensions, unemployment benefits or workplace advancement . . . . Victory could be just three states away, some legal authorities say . . . bipartisan resolutions in both the House and Senate propose to start the ratification process anew for what would be the 28th amendment.”

123 May 7, 2003

Dear Martha,

Women will prevail with the spoken and written word. Your Keynote Speech at the Diane L. Fowlkes Annual Spring Event, April 29, 2003, reminded us of past defeat and challenged, once again, the fighting spirit within. Thank you for your column, “Women need amendment despite gains.” (AJC/Tuesday, May 6, 2003.) The information regarding the “seven-year limit” primes the passion of hope. It is most exciting to know that “bipartisan resolutions in both the House and Senate propose to start the ratification process anew for what would be the 28th amendment.” With recognition of all who have spoken, written and marched. Eleanor Crisler Babcock

In February, 2005, I receive ERA Campaign Network, The ERA Campaigner.

I read that “activists and supporters are focusing on the 3-state strategy to achieve adding to the US Constitution the Equal Rights Amendment: Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.”

Anne Bowen Follis writes in her Chapter 12, Out of the Cocoon!, like so many other women, the women’s movement has made its mark on us; and we will never be the same.

124 Eleanor’s Banner Celebrating Women’s Right to Vote Eleanor and Granddaughter, Michelle Elizabeth Babcock

Cobb County Democratic Women after March in Atlanta, Georgia Eleanor Babcock, Pat Chapman, Beverly McMurray COBB NOW GEORGIA, March for Women’s Lives, Washington D.C., March 9, 1986 Top, Left, Down: Carol Cohn, Pam Flournoy, Eleanor Babcock Top, Right, Lou Ann Basham, Right, Down and Front: Unidentified Members

COBB NOW GEORGIA, March for Women’s Lives, Washington D.C., March 9, 1986 Eleanor Babcock, Margie Pitts Hames, Attorney who argued before United States Supreme Court for Rowe vs. Wade; Right: Unidentified Members. Chapter 23 Unexpected Warriors from Past Generations Thomas Gilmer Crisler, the oldest brother, with his two sisters, Sara Carolyn and me, are taking a trip. My husband Bob is driving our van and will video record the nostalgic two days. This expedition will cover a large area from north to south and west to east of Atlanta. Several days earlier, Thomas hand-printed in ink, 13, eight-by-ten pages of priceless information and sketches of the 14–yes, 14!–home sites, where we lived as children growing up. Coincidentally, that same day, February 9, 1994, I learn from a source of the American Academy of Pediatrics that too many moves can prove to be tough on kids. It seems the children of families that have moved three or more times can face more problems than kids who haven’t moved. They will “likely have emotional problems, be suspended or expelled from school, and repeat a grade.” None of the six children of Paul and Ophie were ever suspended or expelled from school. There were some emotional problems, yes, but no grades were repeated. In fact, I was tested and advanced from sixth to seventh grade in less than a school year. The weather has turned out nicely for our trip. We decide not to pack lunches. Thomas in the front seat with Bob is holding his written road-map composition. Although lacking correct spelling at times, its detail is remarkable. Both sister Sara and I receive a copy of it with a cover letter. “I hope you will be able to read this,” Thomas wrote. “This medicine I take causes me to shake a good bit, and that has an effect on my writing. This search is very important to me. I can tell you in advance that it’s going to be hard to locate these places because everything has changed so.” To be truthful, today reeks with pathos. This trip will be a bittersweet experience, as our lives have been in their cause-and-effect existence. Lives in which each has struggled to find every truth of our being, to make character, mold life, and be the builder of destiny. We all want to revisit the past, but this trip is really for Thomas. At least, at this moment, it seems so. We are on our way. As sometimes occurs, there is an uneasy tension between Thomas and me. He can flare up over any little show of my independence or disagreement. Sara is five years younger than I. We have begun to recognize and accept the space between us that allows for simi- larities and differences. Sitting in the back seat allows me a side view vantage of Thomas. Even now it is a rarity for him to relinquish the driving to someone else, no matter the peril to passengers. His strength is waning, and over the years he has come to trust and rely on Bob—to a certain extent—more than on his own three brothers. Thomas is 63 years old. For over ten years he has courageously and methodically rationed his inhalant medication. Only when the currently prescribed amount no longer sustains his ability to breathe does he dare to increase his dosage. Eventually there can be no increase. Thomas has emphysema. He has no choice but to watch and experience each home’s location from the front passenger seat, acknowledging that “Sister” is in great physical shape and has managed to overcome pouting and fingernail biting. It is 24 miles to Atlanta. Before reaching our first home site destination, we have time to understand Thomas better by remembering his great grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler, grandfather Isham Franklin Crisler, and father Thomas Paul Crisler:

Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler had nine brothers and two sisters; sixth generation in America. He was born January 11, 1838, in Alpharetta in Milton County; married Amanda Ruth Manning. On April 22, 1862, Thomas Jackson en- listed in Company E 22nd Georgia Volunteer Infantry, made up of men primarily from Forsyth and Milton Counties, who were known as the “Warsaw Rebels.” He was wounded in the arm, which required amputation at the Battle of 2nd Manassas, Virginia on August 30, 1862. After recuperating, he was assigned as sub-enrolling officer in Milton County from 1863 until the end of the war. One of his nine brothers, William Julius, died of a fever in a Confederate hospital at Richmond on May 27, 1862. George Elzy Crisler died in a Falling Creek, Virginia hospital on August 5, 1862. Simeon Germany was also wounded at 2nd Manassas on August 30, 1862, and died less than a week later on September 5, 1862.

Grandfather Isham Franklin Crisler was born September 25, 1881, and had two brothers and five sisters. His wife, Dora Anne Evans, was one-eighth Cherokee In- dian. Five of their six sons were given biblical names: Thomas Paul, Abram Frank- lin, Samuel Isham, Joseph Coronel, and Moses Seaborn. The second son was named Robert Simpson. Grandmother Mama Doe—to me—divorced Isham Franklin, who was an alcoholic until four years before he died on December 7, 1941. Isham and Mama Doe link us to the seventh generation in America.

Thomas Paul Crisler, a.k.a. “Paul” or “Daddy,” was born November 23, 1903, in Alpharetta in Milton County. When their parents divorced, the six sons were dis- persed. Paul married Carolyn Ophelia Smith, and six children were born: Thomas Gilmer, Eleanor Hope, James Franklin, Sara Carolyn, Donald Eugene and Samuel Lamar. Paul, Daddy, died January 19, 1959, in Atlanta in Fulton County. Amaz- ingly, he was born in my birth month, and died on Sara’s 22nd birthday.

On this trip, as our understanding of our father’s influence on Thomas develops, this image of my brother will be integrated with our mother’s characteristics. Carrie Ophelia disliked the name Carrie, so she had it changed to Carolyn. In that day and time, that took spunk. Ophie, as everyone called her, was the only sister of three brothers and lived a stable family life near the courthouse square in Cumming. I’m told her papa ran the cotton gin; her mama kept the gin machines oiled. Throughout her life, Ophie had a special friend, Miriam. Both of them lived in Cumming and started first grade together. “They told me, ‘He’s the meanest guy in Alpharetta,’” Mother once said of Daddy. Possibly being the oldest of six brothers, he bore the brunt of a father’s, and surely a grandfather’s pent-up pain. Even though various relatives helped to raise Paul at times, he was pretty much on his own at 15. The attraction to each other was mutual. In 1928, when Daddy and Mother met, the country was entering the time of the Great Depression. Early in their marriage, Paul and Ophie lived with

128 a friend in Tampa, Florida. Jobs were scarce. People often moved in with relatives to share their shelter and food, and many times the rent couldn’t be paid. Ophie had a strong, large-boned frame, prominent nose, and an English background. Paul was a handsome, medium-size fellow with dark naturally curly hair, and a German background.

First Stop, Washington Street, Atlanta Thomas, in childhood and in manhood, is his beloved father’s shadow. To that I can now attest. The traffic has thinned and we are reaching the center of downtown Atlanta. Thomas uses the inhaler. All of his five-foot, ten-inch body gets involved. Breathing is becoming labored, and beads of perspiration form below his thinning curly hair. His ears—straight out rather than back toward his head—seem more prominent than ever. Sleeping on one’s stomach too much as a baby will do that to you. His sentences become broken. It takes so much effort. Thank God Thomas has the inhaler! We all begin to breathe a little easier now. “I was born at Grady Hospital June 9, 1930,” Thomas says. “At that time Daddy and Mother lived in one of the big homes on Washington Street. Daddy showed me the house several times when I was a boy working with him on Saturdays and during the school holidays. 1930 was during the Depression years of 1929–34.” “At nine days old, it was determined that I had erysipelas, and according to Daddy, a hole rotted out of my back as big as a small saucer.” Erysipelas is an acute disease of the skin and subcutaneous tissue caused by a species of hemolytic streptococcus marked by localized inflammation and fever. “The doctors at Grady Hospital told Daddy, ‘Go on home. We will let you know when the end comes.’ “After some thought and discussion, Daddy and Aunt Alice decided to do something, even if it was wrong. The next day they marched into Grady Hospital, got a pillow, put me on the pillow, and marched out of the hospital. “Daddy and Aunt Alice carried me to Egleston Hospital. After they started treating me there, I got better so fast they didn’t have time to graft my skin over the hole. I still have a scar and an extra roll of skin on my back where the hole was. “The problem has never affected me in any way . . . getting in the Navy, etc.”

After Thomas’ account we are all silent, lost in our own thoughts:

I imagine walking into an unfurnished room and merging fine ancient pieces of family heirlooms with circa present-day selections: a massive brown chest— wider at the top that at the bottom—with teardrop knobs on drawers that have to be jiggled and cussed at to open; a vanity-turned-desk and chair still wearing their past, trendy coats of glossy black paint; a bought on-time dining room set stripped of mahogany paint to bare wood; a hand-crafted Oriental rug—with copper threads that match the copper ceiling fan—recently purchased for cash in Istanbul, Turkey.

129 As furnishings are to their owner, so are inhabitants to their city. A mystical communion draws one to the other. “Like begets like” (John 3:6 NRSV). So here we are in the center of At- lanta, known as the “city with a heart,” opening a 63-year-old time capsule only to find ourselves among its contents. In one exciting glance, we see our personal lives in parallel to the life of a great city: birth, growth, death, rebirth, regeneration. The big old home on Washington Street has made way for greater, more permanent structures. Farming and carpentry no longer provide the sense of individual gratification and pride that Daddy always felt. Many strangers mass-produce housing in short periods of time, and small farms are vanishing. We mourn a past into which Thomas was born, and the subsequent loss of stately oaks in the Crisler family and in our metropolitan hometown.

Second Stop, Off the Cumming Square The van keeps moving. Its passengers are sufficiently primed for firsthand memories to surface. “I don’t remember where we lived after Washington Street,” Thomas says. “But, I do remember staying for some time in Cumming.” His head tips backward, right eye squints, and the tongue characteristically touches the upper lip. “Hey! That is news to me!” I exclaim. “No wonder The Fulton County Bureau of Statistics failed to find my birth record. Uncle Abe knew his brother to be my father and signed proof af- fidavits, but could both he and I have been mistaken about the county of birth?” Suddenly the 18-month age difference between Thomas and me becomes relevant. This explains why Thomas remembers every physical aspect of Mother’s Smith home place in Cum- ming: location of bedrooms, dining room, front room, kitchen table, fireplace, porches, and swing, the outhouse, the garden spot, the beehives, the old-fashion blacksmith shop, the big tree—all on the right side—the red dirt road, the two-story red brick jail house, the old warehouse—all on the left side. “I was able to get outside to play and watch the blacksmith at work,” Thomas continues, and his countenance softens. “It had to be in the summer time. I ate ice cream, and there were thunder clouds and lightening.” Was I born in Forsyth County during that time when Daddy, Mother and Thomas stayed at Mama and Papa Smith’s house? “For sure, Cumming is the place of some first vivid, mostly personal, memories,” I say. Mother’s Papa was 76 or 77 years old, and I, a small inquisitive five- year-old. Later, my memory comes back. “Our family had located in west Atlanta, so this happened on an overnight visit: it was early morning. There were some trees, vines and flowers in the Smith front yard. Across the red dirt road stood the two-story brick building. Mama Smith explained to me, ‘The white sheets hanging down from the high bent, barred windows are what the prisoners came down on during the night to escape.’ “In their dimly lit front room were a grandfather clock, a piano, a fireplace, and a big round table with a lazy Susan in the middle that went around until I could get the honey and butter for my big warm biscuit. Apart from eating the biscuit and holding Mother’s hand as we stood in that room looking at the dead body of her beloved Papa in his coffin, no emotional bonding with Papa Enoch surfaces. It turned out that his burial plot in the Cumming Cemetery was solid rock and had to be blasted with dynamite for several days before he could be buried.” Sara listens to every word.

130 Reliving brief moments with Mama and Papa Smith for Thomas and me is like touching a magic stone in our time capsule. What a blessing for Daddy, Mother, Thomas, and me to have shared the Smith’s heavenly home during a difficult time.

Third Stop, Gordon Road-Adamsville Road Bob wants to know, “Where to next?” Slumping a bit more, Thomas rearranges his sitting position. “Keep going down Cascade Road to the Gordon-to-Adamsville Road,” Thomas says. “One place on the left is an old house up a very high hill. The other, a garage apartment behind Mrs. Mc- Gee’s house, is about a mile back toward West End.” This is sacred territory, you can tell. Thomas pulls his body up as his voice and hands begin their story. “Daddy owned an old Model-T that had to be cranked after you set the spark, and one morning I remember him being pinned against a tree. After Daddy cranked it, the car started moving before he got out of the way. “It didn’t hurt him, but he had to call for Mother to come to cut the motor off somehow. My first memory of Mama Doe , Daddy’s mother, was when she and the family were in the front room and she was singing, ‘Coming Round the Mountain When She Comes’ and playing a five-string guitar. She could really play, too.” “You know, Thomas,” I say, “what strikes me most is how much is not remembered compared to the few distinct episodes that are, and how the person our memories are tied to so often differs.” The three of us seem to take in the thought. Thomas′ head tilts, eyes dilate—he wears no glasses—and his tongue makes two or three laps inside the mouth. I continue, “Like, I don’t remember Daddy there at all.” Even though I was very small, it was in that house on top of the hill that I first recognized Mother’s quiet courage. Years later, on Sylvan Road, a neighbor lady always came to our house during bad thunderstorms and sat on the settee to feel the calming presence of Mother.

Fourth Stop, Cascade Road Thomas is anxious to talk about Richard Taylor who lived with his parents and Granny next door to our Cascade Road garage apartment. “They had a scuppernong arbor in their backyard and Richard and I used to get scuppernongs in season. We were big buddies. At five going on six, I started first grade wearing tennis shoes and knickers with long socks. We took a lot of castor oil and cod liver oil.” “Dana Moon’s Sandwich Shop was down the street and it had the best chipped beef barbecue sandwich! Daddy would stop there to get one Ballentines′ Ale and put salt in it. I would get a Coke for 5¢ and a barbecue sandwich for 15¢. “I started going with Daddy to work on weekends and vacations. We laid the hardwood floor in Mr. Wallace’s new house using square-cut nails.” Thomas rests a minute. “I worked with him off and on until I joined the Navy in July 1948. Daddy was the best carpenter I’ve ever seen, and it didn’t take him all day to get something done. If it was in the carpenter-part of building, I saw him do it, and do it right the first time. “Daddy sent me to the store at the corner of Gordon and Hightower for a pack of Bull Dur- ham smoking tobacco.” “By that time there were four of us: you, Thomas; me; Jimmy; and you, Sara, you were a little baby then,” I say.

131 It’s best this big sister keeps what I remember of the garage apartment life to myself. Why bring up Daddy’s drinking spells now and spoil it for Thomas? He probably wouldn’t deny them, but he wouldn’t admit such a thing either—just give me that look. Poor Mother, she was looking so thin in that long dress. She never fought back. Granny Adams next door helped to keep her spirits up. We were allowed to sit on Mrs. McGee’s front porch to listen through the front window to Amos and Andy on her radio, and to hear President Franklin D. Roosevelt when he spoke to America. Anyway, for me then, just getting to the top of that long flight of stairs to our apartment before the Boogie Man got me, was my biggest problem.

Fifth Stop, Wieuca Road and Roswell Road There were the next two moves: to Wieuca Road, and to the house-store on Roswell Road. At these, all kids got the chicken pox at the same time. Thomas first started playing baseball, and we learned about real thick Miss Georgia Spinning Wheels milk shakes and butter cookies with holes in the middle. “The memories I have here are of winter time—cold and wet,” Thomas says. “Daddy was off from work a lot. Christmas was slim. We didn’t get much . . . some oranges, apples, nuts, and stick candy canes. “I was the preacher in a Tom Thumb wedding at school,” he remembers. “Mother made the robe, but I had to borrow the black shoes from a neighbor’s son. The shoes were too small for me and they hurt my feet the whole time I had them on.” I’m aghast! Thomas reaches down to the floorboard beside him. He opens a leather case, removes a handgun, and places it gently on the front dashboard. We are all hungry. The nearest restaurant on our way toward Jonesboro is in a black folk’s community southwest of Atlanta. “Take that gun off there and please get it out of sight,” I order. Startled at my response—how could he be surprised—Thomas seems to be unable or un- willing to move. “I’m embarrassed,” I say, “I will not have anyone see it in our car. It’s dangerous.” This sister means business. No one in the van challenges, so, almost meekly, Thomas complies. Vegetables, cornbread, onion, peach pie, and sweet iced tea are gratefully eaten and become a welcomed salve to reconcile a brother, his two sisters, and their driver. Mother is 33 years old with four children. Thomas is eight-and-a half, I am seven, Jim is four, and Sara is one. Pregnant with Don, Mother cooked, sewed, and cleaned ′till all hours of every day. Very few times, if ever, did she complain. She was never sick. There is no mistaking where Daddy’s heart and soul was during those early years as husband and father. He worked like a Trojan. Thomas would vouch for that. When he wasn’t on a job, he was farming, and there were periods when he did both to put food on our table. His blessing, “Kind Father, give us a thankful heart for this and all our many blessings” was prayed at every family meal. He saw to it.

Sixth Stop, Jonesboro Heaven only knows why we were moving again. We just were; to Jonesboro. If we Crisler kids were being inflicted with circumstantial wounds and scars, we had not figured it out yet. Guess we must have been lavished with extra helpings of ancestral resiliency; still and cool in mind and spirit.

132 It’s on to Jonesboro. A metamorphosis of thought and understanding is around the bend. Will it be recognizable? Thomas directs Bob to follow old Highway No. 41 south from Atlanta past the place where No. 41 and alternate No. 41/19 become two separate routes. Both eventually will dead-end at Highway No. 138, also known as North Avenue. From Highway No. 138, we turn left on to High- way No. 54, the Morrow-to-Jonesboro road, going on south parallel to railroad tracks. Thomas points out the Old Depot, an 1867 landmark. Sara is a college history major so she really perks up and cranes her neck to look. “This was country, show ′nuff,” Thomas says, “and we are not to the first house on the red dirt road yet.” Finally, we cross the railroad tracks in Jonesboro, drive a mile, and turn right. Anticipation is building. Yes, it has changed, although after 61 years, the area still looks rural. A home here and there on now paved streets. “We just have to get our bearings.” Thomas is squinting again, the sun is shining bright, and we are driving back and forth over the same road. “How about pulling over here, Bob,” he says. “Park on the side of the road. That just might be the hill.” Thomas watches from his seat, Bob follows as Sara and I lead the way across the ditch, over the railroad tracks through briars and weeds, and under a barbed wire fence. “There it is,” I shout. “There it is, up the hill in the pine thicket!” It isn’t very big—only three rooms at most—not painted. Sara draws closer as I distance myself from the front so that I can confirm its existence and think. It didn’t seem that small when I was seven. The front door is padlocked so it is probably being used for storage by the people in that house over there. Two sisters’ eyes become fixated on the dwarf house. The senses are keenly raw as our fingers gently glide over the dark, medium and light hues of preserved naked wood. No dogs are barking. There is not even a stir in the tall pines from the silent wind. Only the heartbeat of time can be heard. “No one in their right mind will do what we just did,” Sara and Bob agree, “not in this day and time.” In cautious minutes we are back down the hill with Thomas. Sara suggests that we park the van down a little and across the street. There are two houses. A “for sale” sign is in one yard, and the house appears empty. Bob pulls the van in on that driveway. Somewhat rested, Thomas is chomping at the bit to talk. “We came a good long way from up there to further on down this steep hill (he points in the direction) to a cold spring, where we got all our water for drinking, cooking and bathing. “Mother had an old black wash pot and two number-two washtubs that she used to wash clothes in. “I remember a lady Daddy was doing some work for, gave him Snappy, a Boston Screw- tailed Bulldog. Black with a white blaze on his face, he was the best dog we children ever had. Remember, Sister”—his eyes contact mine—“when you, Jim, and I picked gallons of blackberries for mother to can? We could take a couple of gallons to Jonesboro and go from house to house asking 25¢ a gallon. Sometimes we sold them, sometimes not.” Bob, Sara, and I are standing outside the open window of the van. Thomas struggles for air; each of us breathes along with him, longer and heavier. We’re not in a hurry. “A salesman was going to cook a full supper at a neighbor’s house down the road, with waterless cookware,” Thomas continues. “Mother and we kids were invited, so we went. While he demonstrated the cookware in the kitchen, we stayed in the living room with a standup Victrola

133 that you had to wind up by hand. It played regular big records: one was of Roy Acuff singing, “Wabash Cannon Ball” and “The Gray Speckled Bird.” It was the first time I’d ever heard these songs. I liked them then; I still like them now, and have one on a tape in my car.” “My time, Thomas,” I chime in. Memory has been primed. “Do you remember the vines and how we all flew high and wide across the creek down at the spring? Those muscadine vines were our Tarzan vines. “Do those inch-and-a-half long helicopter-shaped-body snake doctors really mean that a snake is near? “Daddy terraced the land behind the house and prepared a plot for me on the front side. Watermelons in the field were small, while mine grew twice as big. Was it the location? Could it be water from the spring? We were all surprised. “We used kerosene lamps. Mother made starch with flour and water for Daddy’s white shirts. After washing and while they were wet, she grasped the collars, the cuffs, and the two front edges of the shirts, drew them up together in her large hands and doused them into the starch. After the shirts dried on the line, she sprinkled them with water, rolled them up, and put the flat iron on the stove to heat. Ironing is done in the same succession: collar, cuffs, front edges, rest of the shirt body. By me,” I say. Starting down what would be the lower part of the hill, Sara becomes the expert. Her de- ductions concerning the lay of the land make sense. There are fences, homes, unanswered questions, and . . . a snake. The spring is beyond reach so we give up and return to Thomas. Right out of the blue, a woman comes stalking out of the house next door. “My shotgun is in the house and cocked!” She shouts. “What are you doing here?” I’m thinking she’s probably been peering at us through those curtains all this time, wondering what we fools are up to. Quickly, we tell our names and relation to each other, about our two- day trip, that we once lived up at the top of the hill. Just as quickly, the lady calms and is eager to tell about her own family and its history in the area.

Seventh Stop, Highway No. 41 “It’s gone,” Thomas says. “So is the big red hill. “We called it the house on big red hill.” He continued. “It was located north toward Atlanta on Highway 41, but still in Jonesboro. Remember the unfinished inside walls, a large kitchen with a dirt floor, and an outhouse (toilet) with a Sears and Roebuck catalog for reading and wiping?” Thomas is getting tired. His hands, with fingernails still bitten but not down to the quick as they used to be, are shaking. “Daddy would go hunting with his brothers up in the country, Alpharetta and Crabapple. He would bring lots of rabbits home. I would help him skin them and we would have fried rabbit, biscuits, and gravy for breakfast, um-good! Daddy got word that his daddy, Granddaddy Isham, was sick and not expected to live. He and all his brothers—except Robert—decided to drive to Lakeland, Florida to see Granddaddy. Daddy let me go because I had never seen his dad. We went in Uncle Abe’s black Hudson Teraplane car. Granddaddy was sitting in a little park across from his rooming house and appeared O.K. He died a month or so later.” “You were lucky, Thomas, you got to see Granddaddy Isham,” I say. “I just saw Grand- mother Mama Doe. “Many times, I walked over to a neighbor’s farm to buy sweet milk for us, and many more times, I lay on my back, looked up at the sky, and wished on a star.

134 “Can’t we just taste those sorghum syrup popcorn balls Daddy made in the dirt floor kitchen, and what about me swallowing that quarter he gave me? He was always giving me money, then borrowing it back. Who told him that I planned to put it where he couldn’t get it? It was an accident. Daddy never believed it. Mother made several trips to the outhouse with me. I never found out who told, and Mother never found the quarter.”

Eighth Stop, Sylvan Road The four-foot-high privet hedge borders the front edge of the yard where the Sylvan Road white wood house still stands a good way back. When we lived here, there was a step-down back porch with a well. Across the road was a wooded area and a swamp, beyond the house next door was the rock quarry, and a quarter mile down the road was the Seaboard Railroad’s Fruit Growers Express Boxcar Rework Facility. “Before blasting for granite at the quarry,” Thomas says, “a convict in striped clothes told everyone to stay inside. We kids always got under the table.” “Sara, you probably won’t remember this,” I say. “Grandma Smith came to live with us for a while, fell on the back porch, broke her hip and collarbone, and never recovered. “Mother sterilized a needle with a match and picked a pimple on the butterfly area of my face that later got infected. The core in the resulting thumb-length-long cyst ‘has to be taken out without an anesthetic,’ Dr. Ham said, ‘in my office in the Medical Arts Building downtown,’ and Thomas, when you cut the top of your foot in the front yard with the broken bottle, and it finally had to be lanced, we worried and agonized about you. “This is where Mother taught me to play the piano in that right front room. We never had much money, but how we did like to go to our Perkerson Grammar School Fair in the fall. While walking toward the fairgrounds, we saw a woman attempt to go up a low bank in her high heels. Suddenly she fell sprawling down the bank. Her feet and legs flew up, exposing her hose, garter belt, and white panties. What a sad, disgusting sight. That’s the first drinking woman we ever saw; she was drunk.” Thomas uses his inhalant again. The strain is beginning to bother him; still he has another thought to share. “Mother had Daddy struggled from here for some time. We really had it hard. Food was scarce. We had lots of wheat flour biscuits, margarine and coffee for breakfast. “The picture of me in my baseball uniform with you, Sister, and Sara, was taken near the front steps.”

Ninth Stop, White Street, West End The duplex on White Street in West End brings back memories of violence and potentially harmful events affecting America and the Georgia Crisler family. On December 7, 1941, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Uncle Samuel, Daddy’s brother, joined the Army at Fort McPherson and was sent to Florida for Air Force Training. Sam, as we knew him, went on 50 missions in Europe as a Waist Gunner on a B17. Uncle Moses, another of Daddy’s brothers, joined the Navy and had several Landing Ship Tanks shot out from under him. This duplex house stood on a corner lot across from an open field. “A very old man with a colored maid, elderly and plump, owned the house and lived on the right side,” Thomas says, apparently recalling good experiences here with our landlord, who gave him his son’s football with the words on it, ‘Strong Legs Run, So Weak Ones May Walk.’ Thomas

135 continues, “It was used in the Thanksgiving Day Georgia Tech versus Georgia game of 1937. Double feature movies were 10¢, loaf bread, 9¢. Daddy had an old ‘38 Ford Coupe that wouldn’t pull your hat off your head.” For his growing Sister, life was getting more complicated. The landlord’s greatly endowed cherry tree daily tempted. Mother thought up more responsible errands for me. Some nights it was hard to sleep because Daddy and three of his brothers played Setback cards late into the night. Mother left Daddy for a while. “Sara, come around here,” I say. “See that little door? That’s where I found Thomas smoking his first cigarette butt. You were about four years old and Thomas was 11 and a half. This is so sad; the house is empty and so run down.”

Tenth Stop, Queen Street, West End This new location reminds me of Thoreau’s surprised “estimable place to be born, and in the very nick of time too.” 730 Queen Street, West End was the best place yet, by a long shot. It had a basement. Only a few blocks away were Mama Doe’s sister and family; Daddy’s brother, Joe, and his bride; and Mama Doe. On our way to Peeples Street School, we walked past the Joel Chandler Harris House. We knew that he created the famous character, “Uncle Remus,” and retold old stories about clever “Br’er Rabbit,” who always outwitted “Br’er Fox,” but we never got to go in to listen. The war was still going on and meat, butter, sugar, and gas were rationed. An A stamp equaled three gallons of gas allowed per week. Our family was asked to participate in a cereal survey. Every week a variety of cereals were delivered. The five of us children chose our cereal each morning. Empty boxes were collected, tallied, and replaced with new boxes. We liked Post Toasties and Cheerios the best. Ice was delivered to the icebox, and glass bottles of sweet milk were left on the front porch. Providence took special care of us. “We got our first telephone here—black, French type. Later we could only take incoming calls because Daddy didn’t pay the phone bill,” Thomas says. “I became a School Patrol boy and got to go downtown to a free movie once a month. “My only bike (used, for ten dollars) came from Sol Cohn in West End. In the summer I went to work at the little grocery store on Queen Street, delivering groceries for two months, six days a week from 8 AM to 8 PM for $7.00 a week, then one month delivering for the drugstore at the corner of Peeples and Gordon Streets for $8.00.” Taking all of this in, and sharing inwardly my brother’s obvious pride, I ask myself, what was I doing all this time? With as much emphasis as he can muster, Thomas tells us about joining the Boy Scouts and attending Friday night meetings at the Scout Hut on Lawton Street. “I never got above Tender Foot rank but remember the motto: ‘Be Prepared.’ During eighth and ninth grades before we moved to Cooks Crossing Road, I went to Joe E. Brown Junior High School—later learned to have been named for a governor of Georgia.” I say, “Adults at school boosted my confidence by recognizing my ability to walk quickly and correctly down a flight of stairs during fire drills. In sixth grade, a teacher noticed my artistic talent and gave me an assignment to draw and color a life-size rendition of the 1776 Fife and Drummer on a cloakroom door. At ten years of age, with the largest breasts in the class, and while wearing that tight, faded yellow sweater, my art had its beginning. Cascade Church allowed a child piano player, me, at small gatherings, and Gordon Road Christian Church trusted an 11-year-old-

136 girl, me, to provide early Sunday evening Tea; usually a small snack with beverage. A lettuce leaf, pineapple slice, half of a banana, and a cherry became my raved-about candle salad. “I learned to say all the books of the Bible and was a contestant on WSB Radio Station’s Archie Lindsey’s Radio Bible Quiz Show two or three times. “Mother’s black onyx dinner ring with a diamond vanished from the kitchen shelf. She was pregnant with Sammy and getting very large. One night Daddy was drinking and knocked her down. That is when Mother and I went down in the basement to lie on a stack of plywood boards. Mother slept, I didn’t. “My first job was pouring one-fourth cup of grape nuts and milk into a bowl every morning for a next door neighbor’s invalid mother. That neighbor would call the police to Daddy at my request. Daddy never knew.”

Eleventh Stop, Cooks Crossing Road As the elder of Thomas’ sisters, I still have a plethora of stories to tell. Thomas just wants to listen for a while. Our two-day trip will soon be over—just one more house after this one—and he is worn out. Sara will not mind. It’s a privilege to tell about the Cooks Crossing Road life as I knew it to be. “At 5:30-6:00 AM, all six children of Paul and Ophie got the wake-up nudge. Ouch! From deep sleep to wide-awake in a split second caused my eyes to feel like there was a bucket of sand in them. Daddy and Mother knew from tradition and mostly from necessity that early rising for all is the only way to ensure that breakfast was eaten promptly, children were dressed, farm chores were completed, lunches were made, and the school bus was caught. “I remember a ride taken alone with Daddy to downtown Atlanta. On the way back home he parked the coupe by the curb directly in front of the little ice cream parlor located south of the Union Train Station. Daddy went in and picked a surprise flavor for me. Even at 12 years of age, Atlanta always charmed and excited me: the Penny Arcade where the piano was played to sell the latest popular sheet music, Rich’s Department Store, Lebs restaurant with the kosher pickles and hot mustard, the Rialto Theater, and Peachtree Street. “Daddy drove us by the flower shop where Uncle Moses worked, then stopped in to see Mama Doe on York Street. Mama Doe always seemed to be dressed well enough to be going out. She wore beads, and her hair—that I never in her lifetime had seen any color except jet black—was always curly and in place. She always had an extra rationing stamp or five pounds of sugar to give us. “Heading on home, we drove through Forest Park, East Point, and College Park, following the railroad tracks on which the train carried President Roosevelt’s body from the Little White House in Warm Springs back to Washington, DC. Continuing southwest toward Red Oak, we took a left turn over the tracks, past the field where every summer the gypsies camped, and drove one or two miles to our house. As we entered the unpaved driveway and wound around to the back side to park, we passed a Chinaberry tree, a field of corn, a hog pen, other fields, and the barn. Down a slight slope was a row of six Yates apple trees. “The house was a weathered structure with a narrow front porch from one end to the other. One Sunday morning, Daddy was reading the paper on the porch and Thomas asked him if he could start smoking.” Thomas later says, “Wish I had never started.”

137 “There was a long hall. Mother and Daddy’s room was on the right. When I looked in there and they were in bed with the covers up to their chins, I thought, Oh no, not another baby! I’m out of whack already from carrying babies on my hip when I play. “The kitchen was floored, but the inside walls were unfinished. There was an outhouse and a well. We had a pair of black and tan hound dogs, a black and white calf, and two horses. The good-looking horse’s name was Pet. Uncle Abe brought us kids a real miniature Texas saddle with a horn on it. “Remember,” I say, “we picked strawberries with the neighbor girls on a farm for five cents a quart-size basket; played baseball in the pasture across the street; ate churned home-made ice cream with relatives, and ran around the house to warm up. We built forts and played with stick guns; took solitary walks around the field to the sweet gum tree and chewed fresh sap; went fishing; picked cotton, chopped cotton to thin it, and knocked down dried cotton stalks with a cutoff broom handle—two rows at a time. In the dead of winter, with near frozen fingers, we picked off bushels of peanuts from stored vines left to dry in the barn loft. “I had a dotted Swiss dress for Easter and several flour sack dresses also, got lice, learned to candy Yates apples, make pulling candy and Whitehorse syrup with Sorghum syrup. “Older kids turned sweet potato vines so Daddy could cultivate; chased pigs out of the corn; swapped chocolate pudding for a few minutes of pitch ball; ate biscuit sandwiches (but wanted white bread); watched Mother wring a chicken’s neck, and chop the head off. At most sup- pers, we ate our favorite cornbread and sweet milk with onion and sweet iced tea. “None of us kids got whipped much, just threatened with a strap. Daddy’s was always within reach at the table. One thing he could not abide was giggling at the table. One would get tickled, then another. We just couldn’t stop giggling. It had gotten out of hand. We knew it was coming. Daddy would finally lean over with that thumb and middle finger to give the instigator a good hard thump on the forehead. “Many foods were unknown to us, but Daddy knew how to grow healthy crops, and at times, we had meats. He kept us from seeing the slaughter of the pigs, but later we saw everything: the brains, the hog jowl, the liver, and the intestines. Some meat was ground and seasoned to make the best sausage you could put in your mouth. Later, as we made our way back from the kitchen to our bedrooms, we dodged the long thin sacks of curing sausage hanging from the ceiling.” Thomas rouses, as if prompted to action. “Sister, have you forgotten what happened to Sammy? Tell about Sammy.” “Oh, yeah . . . well, we were playing in the back yard. We heard scurrying and loud cries in the kitchen. Running in, we saw Daddy holding 18-month-old Sammy on a pillow in his arms. Blood was pouring from a long gash on his forehead. The fruit bowl on top of the refrigerator had fallen down and broken on his head. Daddy ran over to the sugar bowl, threw a handful of sugar into the gash and, to our horror, he and Mother ran out to the car and took off at 90 miles an hour. A policeman stopped them, saw the problem and escorted them on to Grady Hospital where Sammy was sewed up without an anesthetic. It was an amazing thing that Daddy did. “Thomas, remember that Daddy promised to take us to a movie? We waited a long time for him to get home that evening. It was raining. When he finally got home, he was drinking and made you drive us. That was a scary turn of events. You hadn’t been driving long. You tell it differently, Thomas, so how about you telling it your way.” There is that look again. Thomas turns his head toward the window for what seems a term, then back again.

138 “Sister,” Thomas sounds perturbed, “Mother wanted to go to the movie and Daddy didn’t want to go! “We talked him into letting me drive the car, and everything went O.K. until I stalled the car on the railroad crossing in College Park, couldn’t get the thing to start, and there came a train. “It missed us by one track. After it went by, the car started without any trouble. “I was scared to death. Only other time I was as scared was when I accidentally pulled the trigger on Daddy’s double-barrel shotgun and could have killed Uncle Moses, but didn’t.” Thomas went to a city school in College Park. The rest of us attended Red Oak Grammar School where one day all the teachers were crying. They had all the classes assemble in the auditorium for a memorial service. At the exact moment when the train carrying President Roosevelt’s body ran through Red Oak, its whistle blowing, Jane Thames and I were standing on the stage singing “Rock of Ages.” Then a small tree was planted for him on the grounds. At seventh grade graduation, Jane and I played a fifth-year, 13-page duet on the piano. Daddy and Mother were sitting a few rows behind us. All the while I was hoping that Daddy wouldn’t make a scene. His being intoxicated made me anxious and nervous. It’s no fun to put a damper on the good-time memories and to bring up the bad ones. Some of us don’t remember them. Others might be in denial. Some see and feel the pain, but understand. All claim kinship to one another. “Daddy came home one day as drunk as a coot,” I say. “He went straight to the field where Mother was picking peas and broke her nose. The judges were fed up with broken restraining orders and Mother pleading Daddy’s case. What else could she do under the circumstances? She really loved Daddy. It had been years since she taught school, and there were six children. “This is it, Mr. Crisler,” the judge said, “If you violate this order, you will go straight to the chain gang.” “My guts were in turmoil as the whole family gathered around the potbelly stove, looking at Mother look at Daddy. Sober now, his attitude was grave. It seemed that each of us was over a cliff, clinging to a string that could break at any minute. What would Mother do?”

Twelfth Stop, Norcross Road, Roswell I’m wondering how and why it was determined that we would move from Cooks Crossing Road to Norcross Road, now Warsaw Road, in Roswell. “It’s like a dream. Thomas, do you know how it came about? Who played a part in it?” Thomas avoids the question. Maybe he isn’t too keen to hash that over, and maybe it’s too painful to think about now. Maybe, like me, he doesn’t know. At least we knew that Daddy was getting another chance, and we were happy. Someone must have thought it might be an encouragement to him and to our family. Some generations hence, it still is nearly impossible to find a person whose relatives can’t be traced back to one of the original Rucker, Dorris, Hembree, and Crisler families that settled in Crabapple and who eventually lived in the nearby cities of Alpharetta and Roswell. Alpharetta was small and vibrant. Crabapple was even smaller. Nearby, Roswell had probably 2,000 residences. So we moved to Roswell to farm and to try, once and for all, to help Daddy in his battle with demon alcohol. The house is gone, and the terrain looks completely different. “Thomas,” I say, “you can tell about the good times here, can’t you? Please try, then I will.”

139 No more prodding necessary. Thomas is inspired. His breathing calms and he begins speaking. “The house was about four or five rooms with an old fireplace in the dining-living room, a well on the back porch, a very good, big barn with a hay loft, a pig pen. We had two horses, a cow, pigs, chickens, a tractor, a one-horse wagon, and a two-wheel trailer with very high sides that was pulled behind the tractor. “Lovic Rucker had a barber shop in lower Roswell where we got our haircuts. There was a General Store across from the barber shop. A couple of doors up the street stood the old mill where we had our corn ground into cornmeal. Boy! Was it good! The miller took one-eighth of the meal as payment. We grew corn, cotton, syrup cane, peanuts, potatoes, okra, beans, butter beans, cantaloupes, and radishes.” Thomas squints his eyes and continues. “I remember plowing with a two-horse turner, breaking ground for corn and cotton, then laying off the rows, hoeing to get the grass out of the corn and cotton, stripping the fodder from the syrup cane, chopping the stalks down to the ground, loading the trailer and pulling it to the syrup mill at Crabapple. Russ Rucker had the only old-fashion copper box for cooking the syrup. Boy! That was some good stuff. I was in Miss Pattilo’s 1945-46 ninth grade class at Roswell High School then.” Thomas pauses and thinks for a minute, then continues. “Jimmy and the Coleman boy wouldn’t come home after school—fishing, I think. Daddy whipped him several times because of it. He still wouldn’t come home.” “Several months passed and miracle of miracles, Daddy was still sober. In Roswell, he was talented, hardworking, strict, generous, and kindhearted: the Mister Hyde of his seemingly Doctor- Jekyll-Mister-Hyde personality. One drink of alcohol would open up the floodgates to a river of memories and repressed emotions. Daddy would look different. “The Play, written by me here as a Roswell eighth grade pupil for The Alpha Civic Club’s, Ye Old Amateur Show, at Milton High School auditorium in Alpharetta, was my earliest attempt to write, and it was ‘well given,’ the write-up says. No, the classroom scenes took no prize, but the comedy, ‘Over the Fence Gossip,’ by Mrs. Addie Devore and Mrs. B. F. (Laura Mae Poole) Man- ning did. Just think, approximately 52 years ago, kinfolk shared a common time, a common interest, and a common stage together. At least one of us, me, didn’t even realize that we were related.” “Not one word of the play comes back to me now. I do remember writing it and being on the stage as a teacher. At that time, I was a student experiencing the healing process that comes from writing and from being bathed in the loving recognition, acceptance, and inclusion of community leaders . . . and, as it turns out, kin folks.” Aside from alcohol’s terrible and sad influence on brothers and sisters, it is certain that our actions and opinions were influenced by sound and respected parental guidance. Did I write the play during the six months that Daddy was able to stay sober, or did I write it after that day when he came home from Atlanta, drinking again? Perhaps it bore some manifestation of a young life minus some of its carefree and happy spirit, or was simply an indication of possible writing talent. “Some mornings before walking to school, the cow had to be milked, and thick, leftover country gravy washed from the heavy black iron skillet. Different kids milked. Sara, you and I alternately washed or dried the skillet.” “Didn’t I have to stand on a stool to reach the dishpan?” Sara questions. Bob drives up and down Warsaw Road. Everything has changed. Even Thomas can’t say for sure where our driveway or the house used to be. My bittersweet story continues.

140 “It was in this home that Daddy’s drunken verbal and physical abuse reached its height. Aunt Alice and Uncle Isaac Morland, childless, wanted to help, and asked Mother for Sara. Mother said, ‘No!’ If anyone was to be sent to Daddy’s cousin, Cassie, in Alpharetta, Daddy would go get them. Most of the time, the young children were already in bed when Mother and I sought refuge in the barn or elsewhere. We knew to wear two sets of clothes in case Daddy came home drinking. At least he periodically went into another room for his next drink. As soon as he got out of sight, Mother and I left, shed the top layer of clothes, and walked to Roswell to a movie. Daddy treated us all equally. Mother was always his first victim. Whether I fought back to protect Mother or whether Thomas appeased Daddy, we both received the same treatment.” Without warning, Mother’s consistent patient style changed dramatically. There she stood, tall and strong, with face frozen and determined. Her feet firmly planted in the middle of a small rise in the backyard, she held the baseball bat in the ready position. “If you come up here, Paul, I will kill you,” Mother said. Daddy kept stumbling closer and closer to his destiny, like a lemming to the sea. In one crucial second, we lunged for Daddy. Thomas grabbed one of his hands, I, the other. His condition allowed little resistance as we pulled his body through the yard into the barn and locked the door. That was when my letter, written in desperation and addressed to The Court House, At- lanta, Georgia, was read and immediately acted upon. Thomas decides to tell Sara and me about his final days on Old Norcross Road. It is our first time to hear about them and we listen with solemn attention.

Thirteenth Stop, Hillside Cottages, Ponce de Leon at Fourth Street, Gordon Road, Austell, Pine Street, Briarwood Road, Brookhaven “Mother and everyone but me,” Thomas said, “had already left Roswell when we started harvesting. The war was still on. Daddy, Mama Doe, and I picked the seven acres of cotton. (He couldn’t get anyone else to help him.) We picked enough cotton in three days to go to the gin in Crabapple on the fourth day and used the tractor and trailer with the high sides to haul it. A bale was 500 pounds. We got about a bale to the acre. “Sometime after gathering the crops and in the following spring, Daddy and I had a falling out, and I just left without packing any things; no clothes, shaving gear or anything. I remember it was hot as I walked to town. No money, nothing. As I walked along, I wondered what I was going to do. Then I remembered a distant relative, Lovic Rucker, the barber in Lower Roswell. “When I got there, I told him my problem and asked him for ten dollars to catch the old blue bus to Atlanta, and for trolley fare to get to the Church Home for Girls on the corner of Ponce de Leon and Fourth Street where Mother worked. “I got there after dark. Mother happened to be at the sign-out desk in the lobby. I was about 16 years old and glad to find someone I knew in Atlanta. Mrs. Tuggle was the head lady in the home. Mother introduced me to her, explained the problem, and Mrs. Tuggle got me some supper and let me sleep in a little room in the basement until I got a job.” Sara and I listen to Thomas as he continues, and I become inwardly sad. “After a week or ten days, I got a job with a tree trimming outfit at 70 cents per hour with a five cent increase after three months.” “When I got my first week’s pay, I rented a room at a boarding house down Fourth Street at seven dollars per week with two meals a day plus one dollar per week for five sack lunches.”

141 As if hypnotized in a flashback mode, I see my older brother, Thomas Gilmer Crisler, in a new light; not just as lifelong sparring partner, loud speaker, and defender of Daddy, but also as fellow traveler with purpose. As I stare past his sharp, high cheekbones, and the faded and life- less green eyes of a diseased body into his very soul, my reflection appears. We are two Crislers and two Spirits. Our lives are an unending journey of many small trips—traveled separately and together—backward, then forward with mirrors in hand. Seeing Thomas in this new light is like receiving a surprise special delivery. In time and space and the endless galaxy of souls, the gift arrives. Its size, and shape, and wrappings, and ribbons give little hint of its priceless and timeless content. The bow goes in the garbage—no need to save it—the paper is ripped to shreds. Shape and size of the box becomes a mirage. Thomas is a gift, a giver and a receiver; yet, more than that, he is our connected umbilical cord to past generations, to relationships, and understanding. His distinct and individualistic self, tapped into the Universal Mind, fills many blank pages with successes and failures, joys and sorrows, insights and mysteries. It has been two days well spent, driver and three passengers agree. My heart warms and questions emerge. “Thomas, can I know more about Daddy, Granddaddy and Great Granddaddy just by having grown up with you? I see some of Daddy in you, but this ‘Sis’ wants to know, could you be Great Granddaddy reincarnated?” “Sister,” he says, “Don’t give me any more of that trashy unbelieving stuff. It’s just not clear to you yet.” His countenance softens. “Be grateful to Mother and Daddy.”

Fourteenth Stop, Beaufort, South Carolina The funeral for Thomas is on Saturday in Savannah. The burial is on Monday. Young sailors in white uniforms march in disciplined cadence toward the hearse, remove the casket and carry it to its open grave. At first sight of the sailors, this sister’s heart breaks wide open. Tears flow un - controllably as if to cover four generations of fathers, sons and brothers; Thomas Jackson Crisler, Isham Franklin Crisler, Thomas Paul Crisler, Thomas Gilmer Crisler. The Navy became his second father figure, and the Navy lays Thomas to rest in the small military cemetery in Beaufort, South Carolina, in a walled-in and serene setting under giant oaks among other comrades; a special place.

An everlasting thank-you note of acceptance for the gift of Thomas is signed. It is sealed with the kiss of an Unfinished Creation.

142 Grandmother (Mama Doe) Dora Anne Evans Crisler

Sister and Brother Thomas, Sara, Donald, and James Eleanor and Thomas Eleanor Holds Samuel, with Siblings Dora Ann Evans Crisler with Sons Thomas Paul, Robert Simpson, Samuel Isham, Abram Franklin Joseph Coronel, Moses Seaborn Said to Possibly Be an Early Crisler Home in Alpharetta, Georgia Milton Avenue

Jonesboro House Sylvan Road House

White Street House Queen Street House Sara, Thomas, and Eleanor Thomas Gilmer Crisler

Chapter 24 Integrated With Family and History

Crabapple, Alpharetta, and Roswell are historical. The Rucker and Crisler families were among its early inhabitants. The Rucker Reunion is a place and time to find some pieces to my ancestral puzzle, to talk about bygone days. My question to Aunt Julia Rucker Crisler is: “Will it be all right for me to come to the next Rucker reunion? I am inspired and anxious to be more connected and knowledgeable about our two families.” “Certainly,” she says. “I hope you will.” The beautiful fall Sunday morning of October 4, 1998, finally arrives. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, every lovingly prepared dish for the shared meal will be placed with utmost pride on the lunch table. Individuals are known for their yearly specialties: sweet potato pie, fried corn, congealed salad, fried chicken, fried okra, and on and on. Convenience food available almost everywhere will be spotted immediately and shunned. Volunteer butternut squash seeds sprung up in husband Bob’s garden after he enriched the soil with kitchen cuttings, shredded plant and leaf compost. A bushel basket full of harvested crop is on our carport. One large well-shaped squash is halved, seeded, cooked, and almost scraped hollow. Brown sugar and a pinch of salt are added to the squash. Shells are filled with the yellow-orange mixture then a mint garnish is added. Shortly afterward, our van pulls into the small parking area of the Crabapple Community Club House. “Let me help you with that,” Julia’s youngest son, Simeon, now president of the reunion, heartily welcomes Bob and me. “So glad you came.” At the entrance to the clubhouse, Rucker family historian Suzanne T. Coker is requesting that all arriving guests sign in and identify their parents. “I’m a Crisler. Thomas Paul Crisler was my daddy. Did you know him?” I ask her. “Since committing to write a book, you see, more and more questions surface. It’s as if a giant unfinished puzzle exists with only side pieces in place around me.” I’m impressed. The Rucker’s do it right! What a contrast to we Crislers, who sign in at our reunions and suffer through the group picture taking, but we don’t keep as thorough records as our forefathers and mothers did. Historian Coker welcomes me, and a few steps later, I begin looking for some familiar faces with a Crisler background. No other place on God’s good earth can be more important today than the intersection of Crabapple Road, Birmingham Highway, and Mayfield Road. Over 160 years of known history is here, and I am trying to tap into the wholesomeness of it, to draw strength from it, and to honor all my ancestors. The intervening years have brought changes of course, but Crabapple is still endearing. The origins of Crabapple date back to the 1830s, when farming families came north of the Chattahoochee River. Among those were the Dorris, Rucker, Broadwell, Hembree, and Crisler families. In 1874, a log cabin school was built and named after the crabapple trees; later it became the name of the community. Great, Great Grandfather, Abel Crisler—spelled “Abel Cristler” in the ledger accounts of the James Dorris Store—traded at the Dorris Store from 1835 to 1844 and, according to its store ledger, at the Howell Store from 1840 to 1844. Daddy was born in Crabapple. Fresh in my memory are the long trips back and forth from Atlanta to Crabapple, and to nearby Alpharetta. Once on Mother’s Day, Daddy stopped to cut red roses from a fence for our lapels: red was worn traditionally when a mother was alive, white when a mother was dead. Another time in winter, icicles over a foot long hung along roof edges and a spend-the-night visit found me in a dark room, huddled under thick covers with a wrapped, flat iron warming my feet. Aunt Julia promises to take me to the old Crisler home place. “We need everyone to go over for pictures.” Simeon Newton Crisler asks the 88 relatives to cross the street to the historic Crabapple Baptist Church steps to have their photographs taken. Simeon’s mother, Julia, married Daddy’s brother, Samuel Isham Crisler. The group pictures are taken and Rucker family members start warming food and slicing fresh vegetables. Having been introduced, I begin to circulate among the crowd. Chessie Rucker, wife of deceased Roswell barber, Lovic Rucker, is recognized as the most senior Rucker present. “I taught Don, your brother, in school, and I knew Sara, your sister, at Ro- swell United Methodist Church,” she says. Eleanor Rucker Drake, descendent of John Rucker, says, “Eleanor, I remember your brother, Thomas.” Byron Rucker and wife, Rita Gentry Rucker, remember me. Rita and I attended eighth grade together. She tells me my friend, Martha Hill, still lives in Roswell and is taking care of her mother. The big bonus of the day is, as always, Aunt Julia Rucker Crisler. “I have two sisters, Margaret Rucker Thornton and Dorcas Rucker David, and one brother, Johnny Rucker,” Julia says. “Johnny Rucker . . . Johnny Rucker. Julia, do you mean to tell me that Johnny Rucker, the famous Coopers Town Hall-of-Fame baseball player, is your brother?” I ask in amazement. “Yes,” she says. “That’s true.” “I’ve heard of Johnny Rucker and Nap Rucker all my life from Daddy and his brothers. Tell me something about Nap.” After several moments of silence she answers. “Well, his name was George Napolean Rucker. He rose from sandlots ball in Alpharetta to semi-professional leagues in Georgia. In 1906, he was drafted by the Brooklyn Dodgers. Sports writer, Grantland Rice nicknamed him ‘Little Napoleon,’ and he became known as Nap thereafter. His nephew, Johnny Rucker played for the New York Giants.” Little wonder that their names came up so often when I was a kid, or that our favorite Crisler pastime was playing hardball pitch. Once in a while Daddy went to see the Atlanta Crack- ers play at Ponce de Leon Park across from the big Sears, Roebuck Store. “Nap was a pitcher, and at one time he had Ty Cobb for a roommate,” Julia continues, “and was named to the National Baseball Hall of Fame and the Georgia Athletic Hall of Fame. Someday I’ll show you the home in Roswell—built in 1839 by founding father Roswell King—where he lived with his wife, Edith. You know, he became a two-term Mayor of Roswell.” On the wall of the Crabapple community clubhouse hangs several collages of photographs and news articles. No doubt about it, Confederate soldier and Alpharetta pioneer, John Rucker is Julia’s grandfather and today Julia’s pride is considerate, but controlled. The more I see and hear, the more my appreciation grows for the Rucker family and it’s intermarriage with the Crisler family; our life experiences and contributions. On October 28, 1987, a special United Daughters of the Confederacy Iron Cross Ceremony was held to mark the grave of John Rucker. The cross is a decoration for bravery and courage. The

150 ceremony was requested by a cousin of Julia’s and the mother of George Napoleon Rucker, Ann Rucker Quay. The North Fulton Chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy and approximately 50 Rucker descendants conducted the ceremony. When John Rucker ran away from his home near Crabapple, he joined the Confederate Army. Serving in Company E of the 22nd Regiment as a Southern Army Georgia Volunteer Infantry- man in Virginia, he was wounded. The bullet remained in his right arm throughout his life. In what was still part of Cherokee County, he was an enrolling and conscription officer. During the Federal occupation, Rucker evaded the Union Army “by climbing a tree near the old family cemetery.” Another war of sorts—caused by the Alpharetta growth boom—spurred Julia and others into action. Commenting on the proposal to change many city street names to clear up “confusion for emergency response personnel, new residents and visitors,” as stated in The Alpharetta Roswell Revue, “Opinion Column,” July 1, 1994, she wrote:

To date, we have found no public support for changing the name Rucker Road to State Bridge Road. You have no doubt thoroughly researched the cost and confusion that will result from the change as well as carefully weighing the benefits that will ensue. However, respectfully may I request that you not change the name because of its historical relevance? George Rucker was a great student. In 1890 he established a newspaper, The Alpharetta Free Press, which he owned and edited for more than 30 years. J. J. Rucker was instrumental in bringing electricity to Crabapple to power his Rucker Cotton Gin (now the Raven’s Nest Antique Store.) Simeon B. Rucker built the first Rucker home, a log cabin on Rucker Road in 1833. JULIA RUCKER CRISLER

Aunt Julia’s nephew, John H. David, Jr., made a persuasive case against changing historic Rucker Road to State Bridge Road:

There is a road running from Crabapple Road to Alpharetta. This road carried Rucker cotton from the fields to Rucker Gin and to Duluth for shipment to mills all over the southeast. This road passed the homes of Nap Rucker and John Rucker—two Cra- bapple baseball legends. This road passes through land once farmed by five Rucker families and by the log cabin where a Rucker wrote a message on his porch wall as a dare to North- ern troops who were trying to capture him. This road is woven into the history of Crabapple and Rucker families, as well as into the memory of Rucker descendants and their neighbors. This road is Rucker Road, and should never, ever be State Bridge Road. JOHN H. DAVID, JR.

151 Soon I want to have lunch or dinner at the historic John B restaurant in Crabapple, but now, I am more interested in my aunt. Reunion attendees are beginning to spot-check desserts, so I hastily recover focus. “And what other wonderful secrets can you tell me about yourself?” I ask Julia. Wearing her familiar captain’s hat, “It helps my eyesight,” she says, and gives me a glimpse of the many other ‘hats’ that she has worn through the years and of the ones that she continues to wear now in her 85th year:

Teacher of French and English, Fayette County High School Teacher and Acting Principal, Morgan Falls Teacher at Milton High School in the 1940s, one student was Aubrey Morris, longtime time WSB radio personality Teacher—the beginning of her family life—at Crabapple Northwestern Elementary during WWII

“I especially enjoyed taking the students on trips to Washington, DC, to the Atlanta Art Museum, and to the Cycloramal,” Julia says.

Left teaching; worked as a Civil Aeronautics Administrator at the Atlanta Airport Georgia Federation of Woman’s Clubs, second vice president Member, Science Society Member, Roswell and Alpharetta Historical Society Member, Roswell Garden Club Member, The Dean Rusk Family Cemetery Care, near the Rusk farm and Mt. Gil- ead Church, her mother was a Rusk. Member, the Smithsonian Institute National Business Women’s Week honoree Charter member, 8th Air Force American Air Museum, Dunxford, England

“What I am most proud of,” Julia speaks with passion, “is my membership of the Interna- tional Rucker Society, and Simeon Newton, my son, is on its board. Recently the Rucker Reunion of Alpha-Crabapple entertained 200 members of the International Rucker Society.”

There is no doubt my wonderful aunt, Julia Rucker Crisler is one of the highest ranked stalwarts: firm and resolute, physically and morally strong, steadfastly supportive of organizations and causes; valuable. Lunch is spread. Blessings are asked, delicious foods eaten, attendees acknowledged, Simeon conducts business, and the money for expenses is collected. “The community club house is too small for us now,” Simeon says, and the family agrees. “And the city of Alpharetta plans to take over this property just as it took over the church across the street.” A committee will explore two new suggested locations before October 1999. The Rucker family cemetery is in good shape, but it needs an identifying sign. Some vandalism has occurred there, and people often request to visit it.

152 “Starting today,” Simeon says, “we will share memories of the past. The historian will read a letter from Simeon Germany Crisler giving an account of the Battle of King’s School House, fought at 2nd Manassas, Virginia on June 25, 1862.” Reverently, we sit in sad and silent communion as the 136-year-old letter is read. Simeon Germany Crisler—through his distressing and heartrending letter from the battlefield to his mother, Anna Crisler, and his father, Abel Crisler, on behalf of himself and his comrades—breaches the chasm of empty space between and around us, touches our innermost being, and lives again; a found piece of the puzzle:

Camp in the Battle Field This June 26, 1862 Dear Mother and Father, It hurts me much to have to write you such a distressing letter this morning in the way we all suffered yesterday, we were in one of the severest fights that has been fought. At least one regiment suffered very much in our company. There were three in our company killed. Two of our mess, were killed. Joe Rucker and Levert Pilgrim were killed out of our mess. John Mosteller was killed, all shot in the head. There were 22 of our company wounded and several of our mess was wounded. Dock got slightly wounded in the top of his head. Teasley got wounded in both of his legs below the knees but his legs are not broken. I hope it is not very bad. John Rucker was wounded in both arms but none are broken and I hope he will get well without losing one of his arms, but Sandy Morris got his left arm broke below his elbow. I would like for you to tell Mrs. Morris about her boys. Monroe Emory got his right eye shot out, and the doctor says he will get over his wound. These are who were wounded in our mess and I can’t mention the others who were wounded in our company. Captain Foster shot off one of his fingers with his own repeater. I tell you we suffered powerfully for about two hours and we had to fall back to get ammunition and I tell you I don’t think it is near done yet. The Yanks ran into our pickets and I think our men are fixing to whip them back and I expect we will have more firing today and I hope the Lord will be with us and give us a great victory but if it is my lot to fall in battle field I hope it will be a just cause for we are fighting for our country and our rights and loved ones left behind. I will have to come to a close and I feel so badly about the way our boys were treated yesterday, but I did the very best I could and took deliberate aim while our boys were groaning all around us. I was close to Joe Rucker when he received his blow. He mourned very pitiful for sometime although his brains were shot out. We buried our dead this morning. We do not know how soon it will fall to some of the rest of our lot to have to fall on the battle field. I hope the time will come when we shall meet again in peace and if we don’t meet in this world I hope we will meet in a better world than this. So fare you well at the present, Father and Mother,

June 26, 1862 S. G. Crisler

153 Simeon Germany Crisler was wounded at 2nd Manassas, Virginia, August 30, 1862. Six days later, he died as a result of his wounds. He was the brother of my Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler and the Great, Great Uncle to my brothers, Thomas, James, Donald, Samuel, my sister, Sara, and me. Dishes are collected and washed. The Club House, where for many years relatives once sat to chew-the-fat with other relatives, and where countless Crabapple gatherings took place, is being tidied for the last time. There is sadness, but also joy that a larger space is necessary to accommodate a growing family of families whose historic current runs deep . . . and today, I am drawn into it.

(Account of the Battle of King’s School House, fought on June 25, 1862, tells of the death of Joseph T. Rucker, son of George Elzy Rucker and nephew of John Rucker, and the wounding of John Rucker, son of Simeon Bluford Rucker.)

154 Top: Julia Rucker Crisler and George Napolean “Nap” Rucker Brooklyn Dodgers Georgia Athletic Hall of Fame National Baseball Hall of Fame

Bottom Right: Brother, Johnny Rucker New York Giants

Julia Rucker Crisler Interviewed by Eleanor Rucker Reunion, 2006 Center, in Captain’s hat, Julia Josephine Rucker Crisler, Barbara, and Simeon Crisler, Stripped Shirt

Rucker Reunion, 2009 Back, Second Row, Right to Left: Robert and Eleanor Crisler Babcock, Lovic Rucker Front First Row, Far Left: Simeon Crisler in Black Shirt Chapter 25 Trout, Hushpuppies, and Cheese Grits Georgia and especially our North Metro Atlanta area had a fairly decent early spring this year. Late 1999 spring to Summer Solstice has been one hot and dry day after another. Drought conditions became almost unbearable, until last week. What were a few widespread thunder storms and scattered showers increased to become a canopy of moisture and healing rains, too late, though for Bob Babcock’s Early Sunglow Burpee sweet corn crop, the five blueberry bushes, and two cultured blackberry bushes loaded with much smaller berries. Only when we experience prolonged dearth or shortage, do we acknowledge vulnerability. Family reunions may suffer occasional drought conditions—or shall we say dry spells? This is not at all unusual. Families and individuals experience personal disruptions. Vision and responsibility is forgotten. Interest diminishes. War and civic involvement figure in. An uncle or aunt, who spearheads the planning, dies. Maybe a cousin or a sister is waiting in the wings to continue the important tradition; maybe not. Generations can and do drift apart and lose track of each other and live in the same state or sections of the country without ever having met. There have been Crisler reunions in Georgia off-and-on since 1933. 1988 began another reunion drought of ten years. The first symptom was an anonymous suggestion to have the reunion held “every other year.” Half-heartedness crept in to help destroy the continuation of a noble intention. Attendance was down. A weak link broke. During that ten-year span, I remember receiving questions and comments. “Aunt Eleanor,” Amy, who had not attended since she was very young, wants to know, “when will the reunion be?” We are at her first baby shower. She is beautiful and asks sincerely. “We haven’t had it now for a while,” I say. “Eleanor, when is the reunion?” Crisler House asks. We are at the Alpharetta Cemetery; Crisler’s beloved mother, Cassie Crisler House is being buried. “We’re not having it anymore,” I answer. This really hurts. Crisler’s mother was always at our reunion. His growing family lives in Augusta and has attended only several. “Somehow, I thought it would always be there,” Crisler says. Julia Rucker Crisler, Uncle Sam’s wife always wants to know, “When will there be a Crisler reunion?” In 1998, Bob and I are vacationing in Houston, Texas with my cousin, Ann Crisler Wade and her husband, Mike. I say to Ann, “Isn’t it so sad that many in our older generations have died? Some of our own generation—and especially the younger relatives—have not a clue what the true essence of a Crisler is.” As surely as rain falls, most families reunite themselves. Ann gets paper, pen and calendar. We select a Saturday and mail notices. Not everyone can come, but 54 do. The drought is over, and the 1998-reunion album becomes recorded history.

Today is the June 26, 1999 Crisler reunion. At 6:30 AM in the gray light of dawn, I switch on the overhead fan light in the 12-by-12-foot backyard Tea House—so named by my cousin, Jo Carole Crisler Driskell. It is the perfect place to be after another morning heavy downpour. The Tea House—built three feet above the ground on stilts by Bob and a neighbor—allows a view of surrounding dogwood, maple, and redbud trees. Four steps lead up to the front screen door from the rock and concrete pathway and backyard patio. Wood siding extends waist high and removable screened partitions extend to the roof. The Tea House has a cupola and a screen underneath the floor. I sit in the old swing, holding my daily devotional book. As I flip pages to the day’s reading, a notation appears in the Julyrd 23page margin, “Fam- ily Reunion, 1977”; 22 years ago, I calculate. “1977”: a flood of memories and an order of past events unfold. The moment is entrancing. My senses merge with the moist environment. Residual water drops from leaf to leaf as if the trees are mourning the cessation of the rain. Singing birds herald the freshness of a new day and the porch wind chime tinkles with the intermittent breezes and recollections of when sons and daughters memorialized Mother in 1976:

Mother died and was buried on Christmas Eve in 1975. Her six grown children sat around her small dining room table January 19, 1976, and celebrated sister Sara’s birthday with a shrimp dinner. Jimmy, Mother’s executor had a plan, which enabled us to choose, in harmonious love and respect, her household furnishings. Out of devotion, and in response to grief, brother, Thomas suggested the Crisler reunion be resumed as a memorial to our mother, Carolyn Ophelia Smith Crisler. We all agreed . . . and wouldn’t you know? Thomas delegated the work to me. “Eleanor, you are the chairperson,” Thomas said that day.

The meat of this pre-1999 reunion meditation speaks to heart, mind, and soul—“keep steadfast to what seems good” during drought conditions. Sunshine breaks through an opening in the clouds above the Tea House. Warmth erases the void of ten years as I relive the 1976 memorial reunion for Mother, Carolyn Ophelia Crisler, at Red Top Mountain State Park on Lake Allatoona in Cartersville. I run into the house and open the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. The ghostly spirit of brother Thomas engulfs me. Eyes brim with tears. I hold the 250-page, Vernon Royal No. 1428 Account Book in my hands. It looks very old; in fact it looked old the first day I saw it. The book- binding is of quality black leather, once soft, now stiff with age. In a most unusual fashion, 22 inches of hemp rope has a hanging loop at one end, and an eight-inch-long part of broken rubber band tied to the other. Looking at top and bottom areas of the leather that are crumpled toward the inside center, my guess is the rubber band was used to hang the book in a convenient spot. Form No. 279, of the type that Thomas, a life insurance salesman, might use, is pasted on front of the account book. Thomas has written: “Names of Persons Attending the Crisler Reunions, 1st one held as memorial to our mother, July 1976. Please Sign Book.” Thomas and this record book were inseparable. He was Keeper-of-the-Names from 1976 until 1985, when his health began to wane. No names are included in the Account Book for 1986 and 1987. The Babcock van is packed with folding chairs, Kellogg Creek direction sign, Family Tree poster, and home-cooked food for the 1999 reunion. Bob and I are the first to arrive on Saturday at the Group Shelter on Lake Allatoona in Acworth. What a cool place, and so close to a sandy beach! The kids love it. At last count, 59 relatives are here. I attempt to obtain signatures for the record. Does anyone miss him and feel personal loss as I do?

158 “One thing, make sure no one gets my stove dirty!” Jim says as he unloads his grungy camp stove. We are having fish, hushpuppies, and cheese grits to be complimented by Silver Queen boiled corn, freshly sliced tomatoes, fabulous Oriental salad, Hungarian slaw, baked beans, chocolate fudge pie, and multi-layered caramel icing cake. Belly laughing, hugging, eating, playing, and talking fill a year’s space in kinfolk’s hearts on this eve of a new millennium, and hopefully, a new rainy spell. Cousin Ann and I knew family gatherings could not be left to chance. Annual Crisler reunion picture albums exist for 1976 through 1987, and are resumed in 1998 and 1999. Different in the Vernon Royal Account Book is a list of some 1999 names not listed as attendants:

The Crisler House family, David Babcock, Matthew Babcock, Jonathan Babcock, Pam Crisler, Angela Crisler and family, Karen Crisler (Jimmy, Junior and wife), Kim- berly Crisler, Paul Crisler, Mike, Nancy, Robert, Gregory, and Lawrence Crisler-FL., Laverne Crisler, Roger Crisler, Chris Crisler, Gail Crisler, Colleen Crisler Thomas- PA., Marnie Cobb Curbow, Angela Crisler Tittle, Deborah Cobb Bailey, William (Bubba) Tittle, Susan Crisler Donnelly, Matthew Donnelly, Amanda Tittle, Blake Tittle, Michael Rios-PA. Mahala Crisler, Nancy Crisler Jaskowak, Christi Crisler Duckett, Ruth Crisler Jaskowak-NJ. Willie Tom Crisler, Dorothy Gill.

Before the Vernon Royal book is placed back in the bottom drawer, a copy of this letter is tucked inside its pages:

July 19, 1999

Dear Thomas, In retrospect, it was a LOVE feast and appropriately, with fish and bread (trout fillet and the best tasting hushpuppies ever cooked.) We savored the aroma and I mar- veled at the skill of brothers, Jim, Don, and Sam as they cooked. Agnes Crisler sat in the lucky seat and received a basket filled with onions, peanuts, cornmeal, sorghum syrup, apples and a shrub that was grown in mother’s yard. Your son, Billy took all the pictures, sang, and played his guitar. Little Kirk Crisler did the break dance complete with back twirls on the floor. Ann Crisler presented each cook with a six-inch fish trophy. We ate, hugged, kissed, and talked:

“So glad you could come.” “Who is that?” “Now who does that one belong to?” “So you’re for Jimmy Carter?” “I brought the chaise lounge for Moses.” “We’re flying to Hawaii in October.” “Because it was Ophie’s shrub, it means more to me.” Love, Sister

159 CRISLER SONG

Oh! We’re the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others fish all day. Yes, we are the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others hunt all day.

Daddy is a carpenter and farmer, too! One, of the brothers six . . . Mother has strength to carry through Her children: . . . a healthy mix.

Oh! We’re the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others teach all day. Yes, we are the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others work all day.

We like bread and milk with a glass of tea. So, shake in the pepper and the salt. And slice up the onion as hot as can be. No thing better can be bought.

Oh! We’re the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others golf all day. Yes, we are the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others camp all day

Husbands and wives, nephew and niece, Cousins . . . uncles . . . and aunts. Me maws and Pa paws and grand kids a piece. Cats that purr and dog that pants.

Oh! We’re the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, some a nurse all day. Yes, we are the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others sing all day.

Reunions past, “please hand me a fan.” Memories are in our hearts. Kirk break dancing, fish in the pan, Getting together is smart.

Oh! We’re the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others at school all day. Yes, we are the Crislers and we’re O.K. Some sleep all night, others play all day. —November, 1994 160 Crisler Siblings Sara, Thomas, James, Eleanor, Donald, Samuel

This Way to the 1976 Crisler Reunion at Red Top Mountain State Park Y’all Come! 1976 CRISLER REUNION

Hugh, Simeon, Barbara, Jim, Roger, Elaine, Lynn, Sam, Julia, Tom, Barbara, Don, Dona, Sam, Barbara M, Bobby Deborah, Mary Lee, Abram, Lois, Moses, Agnes, Eleanor, Susan, Felicia, Cassie, Willie Tom, Mary Ann, Mike Todd, Jay, Christi, Sara, Carol, Amy, Kimberly Jimmy Jr., David, John, Kirk Pam Crisler, Brothers: Samuel, Abram, and Moses with Nephew, Thomas shown with Family Tree and Crest

Uncle Moses and Aunt Lois check out past Album pictures with guests at Red Top Mountain Reunion. Were you at Aunt Julia Rucker’s 88th Birthday Party?

Aunt Julia and Eleanor have coffee at Sister Sara’s home. Mike, Jo Carole, Amy, Tim, Lynn, Jimmy, Simeon Ann, Julia, Lois, Elaine, Nancy, Gregory Angela, Christina, Todd, Nichole, Robert, Mike, Eleanor Bob, Amanda, Blake, Lawrence Crisler Reunion June 1998 (2nd Half, From Left)

Matthew D., Don, Bobby, Cathy, Kirk, Sammy C. Susan, Felicia, David, Marjorie, Wesley, MaGee, Sara Marnie, Becky, Jonathan, Matthew Alexandria, McKensie Sammy B., Michelle, Amy Baby Darian, Mark

Some Special Attendants at Crisler Reunions Not Pictured:

E. Eugene Eidson, C. Norman Edison, Howard & Dot Mason, Herbert & Mildred Dickerson, Nell Fuller, John Marvin Dorris, Mary Dorris, Lovett Rucker Chapter 26 The Economy of the Rock As expected, wounds have been opened, causing surprising results. Preconceptions about people vanish in a critical inspection of our spirituality. Possibly, as 19th-century Bishop Phillips Brooks suggested in his Prose, we can all become living stones in “growing walls.” I’m reminded of a discussion between a young wife and Celestine Sibley. The subject was the wife’s totally unappreciated mother-in-law. Ms. Sibley admitted having had a few reservations about mothers-in-law in general, but found her own to be “spunky, humorous, and generous,” actually her “best friend.” Having asked a few specific questions, the advice was to just “stop whining and start laughing, if you can.” Experience tempers the tone of in-law stories. Come to think of it, everyone is an in-law; something akin to the mourning dove, a presence of spirit, a balancing act of the most delicate persuasion resting on a husband or wife’s shoulder. The saving grace comes when sons and daughters pick a mate to round out themselves and bind in-laws to in-laws; Babcock to Crisler, Babcock to Griffith, Babcock to Srok, Babcock to Johnson, Babcock to Staples and Geiger. What emerges is a relational house, a stone house with the same Abba and Imma. Were I not acquainting myself with mountain flowers this morning, a rare spotting of the Eastern bluebird, Sialia sialis, would have been missed. It is said to be a symbol of love, hope, and happiness and a gift of indescribable beauty. Today, as with the Eastern bluebird whose population has declined in many areas, in-law to in-law relations are becoming fuzzy, as traditional family life feels the hammer that shapes a stone. In Anita Diamant’s book The Red Tent, one is reminded of ancient gender roles as recorded in the Book of Genesis. It is a glaring fact that very few women are mentioned by name in the Book of Books, even less their day-to-day arduous trials, numerous challenges, and their contributions as wives, mothers, and sisters. Lest they be forgotten, some snatches of memory endear me to in- law grandmas, aunts, and cousins of a bygone generation and they must be recorded.

“Sixty-three years old and I can still shake a leg,” Grandmother Mama Doe wrote on the back of a photograph in which she is standing in front of a small country-columned front porch. Just as I remember her—except for the solid gray hair that had always been jet black—in a dress and heels. From my earliest age until her death, she seemed different, almost odd. Everything in her house was in place. She always looked dressed up; straight up and down like she had on a corset, her black hair not pulled back like Mother’s but in a tight curly round crown. Not prone to hugging, she was always doing something for and to me: trimming my bangs and rouging my face; protecting her immaculately made bed with the pillows rolled under the spread; and singing a “ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting” song to the clap of her hands, coaxing rhythm from the smallest of us. Oh yes… and making me deviled egg sandwiches. If I could step into that photograph beside my daddy’s mother, Mama Dora Anne Evans Crisler, I would hug her tightly. I would ask many questions of this part-Cherokee woman who found it necessary to separate from an alcoholic husband and see her six sons scattered to the winds. But, as I now approach the end of my own sixth decade, I look at another five-by-seven silver-framed black and white picture on the black antique desk a few feet away from the “Banquet Table” in the dining room. Barren limbs in the top background of this photograph indicate the time is late fall or early winter. A third down on the right side is part of a house—some roof, part of a door and one window. Midway down on the left side are parts of a door, fender, and wheel of a small indistinguishable make and model car. There she is, much younger. Forty-five to 50 years of age with black hair, smiling, in a long-sleeve, small-checkered print dress with a high fitted open collar, under which a double layer of solid delicate ruffles ends two inches above a fitted waistband. She stands surrounded by her six grown sons in suits and ties, posed left to right in order of their age. Daddy, Thomas Paul, being the oldest, has his left hand resting over his mother’s left hand. To the back left of Dora is Robert Simpson, at the back right, Samuel Isham. In front of him is Abram Frank- lin—the only one wearing glasses—who stands almost starchy tall, showing a vested chest inside the only open coat. It is as if he is merged into his mother’s proud countenance. Kneeling on the grass in front of their mother and older brothers are Joseph Coronel and Moses Seaborn. Unaware that she had died, I was not at my grandmother’s funeral. Some soul held the camera, framing forever Mama Dora’s existence. I must do my part to relate her humanity, her link in the chain of history, her contribution as woman. If women must rely on women to remember them, to glean from their fields after harvest, what better means than a camera, some black and white film to allow creative shades of memories, and an adoring soul to snap the picture?

In other pictures, I see and hear adopted Aunt Alice who baked Key Lime pies and once sang in Carnegie Hall. I feel the strength of second cousin Cassie Crisler House, and remember her taking care of kids in trouble. I appreciate her beautiful flowers, boxwood shrubs, and pine trees shaped like enormous umbrellas, and can almost taste her black-eyed peas, slaw, cornbread, and iced sweet tea lunches. I remember Aunt Mary Lee Bates Crisler′s White Lily flour biscuits and cakes that still inspire her beloved daughter, Mary Ann, to journey from Houston, Texas to Atlanta to purchase a year’s supply of the superfine flour. I envy Mary Lee′s soft round cheeks and quiet family devotion. Oh, and they all line up for a piece of Aunt Lois Hamilton Crisler’s caramel cake. Aunt Lillian Ranovich Crisler’s echo chamber instills reflective grit from the heart of coal min- ing country in Pennsylvania to the edification of her daughters and granddaughters in the medical profession. Aunt Julia Josephine Rucker Crisler symbolizing Crabapple history, and its Crisler and Rucker families deserves an entire chapter to polish and preserve this especially cut “stone.” For generations our house will benefit from Aunt Julia’s undergirding support. In Maya Angelou’s poem, On the Pulse of Morning, delivered at the inauguration of Wil- liam Jefferson Clinton in 1993, a “Rock” issues what seems an urgent invitation to humanity to “stand upon my back and face your distant destiny.” In the economy of the Rock and the building of a family rock house, neither is less important than the other. The foundation that was is ultimately the foundation that is. The sides that were are the sides that are. The roof that covers will always be. Blessings are on the ground beneath and the sky above.

Galatians men of olden times thanked God in their morning prayers that they had not been born a woman. How sad. How imperceptible! Only a cursory observance reveals the extraordinary support my four brothers have received over the years from their wives and in-laws.

168 “This is Felicia.” Some of the family is gathered at Mother’s when brother Don walks in and introduces an unexpected petite woman more than a head-size shorter than he. The doll-like creature, dressed in a fuchsia two-piece suit, takes a seat. My brother, Donald Eugene, has fallen in love with a teacher whose family members are also in the education profession. In a wedding picture, dainty silver shoes show as the bride descends the white steps arm in arm with her young Georgia State University student groom. Donald looks down at the steps to ensure her safety. Felicia looks straight ahead. She is a living statute in white, with a crown of short net veil, long close fitting sleeves on a small waist bodice, flower bouquet, and long flowing skirt. Both mother and mother-in-law wear hats and short dresses of satin beige and powder blue. If I could just stop addressing her as Fuchsia, instead of Felicia! It’s the color of that suit she had on that day at Mother’s house. Subsequent photos are of Donald in his stark black graduation cap and gown flanked by the women in his life: his wife, his mother, his mother-in-law, and, of course, his sisters. Years pass. Daughter Carol is born. Styles change. We are all wearing glasses. The purpose of my later pop-in-pop-out trip is to purchase the freshest fruits in the Marietta area. No flowers are on the list, just exotic fruits. The unexpected death of a sister-in-law’s mother deserves special selection and quality . . . yes, and a healthy basket of fruits instead of flowers for Felicia. Don’s earlier heart attack and recent surgery begs for lifestyle adjustment, so I include some unsalted dry-roasted soybeans for him. Shopping at Harry’s Market in Marietta is similar to selecting an evening meal down the food line at a Piccadilly Restaurant. One must maneuver past flowers, plants, birdhouses, and bird foods at one; past salads and desserts at the other. As I pass leftover poinsettias and dwarf Christ- mas evergreens with colored balls, the empty shopping cart comes to an abrupt halt. I succumb to front-line shopping stimulation. The elegance, smallness, and delicacy of the Narcissus plant are intricate to me, and remind me of my sister-in-law. One is selected for Felicia, one for me. It’s possible we choose our in-laws while front-line shopping, their placement and magnetism, recognition of one’s unconscious desires and needs. I’m on to the fruits: a fresh pineapple, two grapefruits, four tangerines, two kiwis, red grapes, and one star fruit. A simple inventory of family albums conjures endless examples of women’s contributions to four brothers’ well being; Thomas had Shirley, Barbara, and second Shirley to inch him along toward wholeness; James has strong, medically trained Elaine; Donald has Felicia; Samuel had Dona, (a.k.a. Dona Number One) Dona, (a.k.a. Dona Number Two), and now, Imogene. A sister can acknowledge tender mercies shown to brothers, but 21 years of experience as a rookie mother-in-law requires some serious evaluating. Well, life gets complicated when a mother-in-law role becomes a mother-in-law-grandmother role. Grandchildren ultimately become part of the equation, you know. I choose to delay my frank and honest mother-in-law confessions until just one early reference to my only granddaughter, Michelle.

169 As a young child, Michelle colored a lined sheet of paper green, drew a tree, a snake and what appears to be a beetle on the grass. Her spelling and penmanship must be decoded. In black crayon, she wrote the following letter:

Dear tooth fary, I loosde my tooth. Will you still pay me Ples rite on paper to answer the Kwasgn. Wate do you do with your Teth that you git?

Before Michelle received an answer, I think the tooth was found and placed under her pillow. I will venture a guess about what happens to our baby teeth; one by one they are mixed in mortar as a bonding material that the Master Mason uses to ply the trade of building human stone houses. Thinking back, Mother didn’t seem to have time to venture opinions about Mama Dora, at least none that I ever heard. I had secret ones, rightly or wrongly, about some things Bob’s mother, Elizabeth did that got my goat—like when she kept telling Bob to “be careful,” as he did climbing chores at her Stone Mountain home. I thought He is not a kid! Then right in the middle of my struggle with mental problems, she started reading a psychiatry book. It was in her hand when we met with her, Uncle Edward and Aunt Ethlyne outside Morrison′s Cafeteria for lunch in DeKalb County. It’s like jiggling baby teeth until they come out for such remembrances to get lost. Bob’s mother was the greatest, not a mother, but a good generous friend. I just needed to cut my permanents (get experience) to become a mother-in-law in my on right; to hear echoes of my own admonitions to “be careful, do this, do that,” peppered with the same love and concern as legions have had before me. The “permanents” are in place now, tarnished a bit by exposure to the air of living. Sum- mers go, winters bring joy, hope, and recognition of gifts; new stones for our cathedral of stones; daughters-in-law. Catherine invites Bob and me to spend New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day in the family’s new house west of Canton, Georgia. “Three generations, together,” I write in my journal later, “. . . a bittersweet time . . . an inventory of myself in the lives of ones for whom I care the most; acts done and left undone; words spoken and left unspoken. I ponder life’s rhythms and my own as the beat seems at times so out of sync with those I love when tough love seems dominant over patient love. Yet, I observe so much good and positive growth in the lives of all of us; son Robert, Jr., daughter-in-law Catherine, grandson Sam, Bob and me.” Robert (Bobby) has quit smoking. He cooks, is a loyal worker, an organizer like myself. He spends good time with Sam, is sensitive, and owns Bobcat and Wishbone. Most of all, he appreci- ates Catherine, who has a delicate heart. She misses her Mom and Dad, has a brilliant mind, and is growing and learning. Their son, Sam, is a product of us all. God teaches me to learn from my children . . . even more, to learn from my daughters- in- laws, Marjorie, Rebecca, and Catherine, as I acknowledge the miracle of focus and front-line picking of husbands and wives. I see them as high mountain flowers.

170 Avalanche Lilies bloom amid retreats of melting snow on high mountains. Avalanche Lily is Marjorie: quiet, strong, clear thinker. Sunrays make dew drops shine on Rock Plants forcing their way between rocks on barren high mountain slopes. Rock Plants are Rebecca: innovator, advocate, mother of mothers. Indian Paintbrush flowers provide splashes of color that resemble fallen stars in the Rock- ies. Indian Paintbrush is Catherine: self-luminous, alert, precise.

Spring and summer arrive. Baby birds are everywhere. Pairs of sparrow and blue bird are practicing their flying lessons. Bob and I watch the drama of a wren couple building a nest in a most unstable location under the eve outside our window. The white hanging basket of pink Vinca does well in sun or part shade, but for this hearty plant to remain a shelter for eventual new birth, its roots must be continually watered. The wren nest may not withstand the drenching, however carefully administered. And what about winds stirred up by tropical storm Allison that set the basket swinging? Being a daughter-in-law and having daughter-in-laws is both a privilege and a challenge. The sphere of influence is both immeasurable and limited. So we walk a fine line, remember who we are, and strive to be our best selves. Living with the diachronic phenomena of individual growth and changes over time, we take pictures of each other, fill the family albums, place ourselves in the hands of the Stonecutter, learn from each other, and live to tell women’s stories.

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Part IX

POLITICS

President for a Time

Cobb County is a Tough Row to Hoe

Chapter 27 President for a Time On my November 8, 2000 birthday, the media heralds what is to become a long and tedious testing of personal understanding and acceptance of an election outcome. It pains me to imagine what a change in leadership may mean should one political platform espouse completely opposite phi- losophies from mine. An eight-year period of inclusiveness for women and minorities, and representation for preservation of the environment with attempted focus on sustainable resources has somewhat tempered my personal activism. I am not complacent, but encouraged by recent years’ acknowledgment of mounting environmental problems; climate changes, droughts, and water wars between states; global warming, air and water pollution, increased medical problems in our children. Grassroots people were fighting against development and for the survival of aged oaks and wildflowers in Hapeville, Georgia, working desperately to save lakes for drinking water and recreation. There was thought-provoking leadership toward conservation of natural resources and alternative life styles. Tears and blood were shed to ensure choice for women, and civil rights inched forward. My ears are still primed, and I hear the messages: First, Gore, then Bush is declared the winner in Florida by a margin of less than one-half of one percent of the votes cast. Wall Street gets jittery. Vice President Gore signals a fight for disputed votes; emotions in some Florida counties get high; Pat Buchanan seems not to feel well about the possibility that he got votes by mistake; suspense lingers; Jimmy Carter urges patience during the recount; TV ratings go up and viewers are riveted to screens. Courts and lawmakers enter the picture; history is on hold while the Florida Supreme Court and U.S. Supreme Court agree and disagree. Bush vows to guide the nation to a common ground, to unite and unify. He speaks some healing words, despite the partisan struggle. For winners, closure comes with rah-rah; for the los- ers, cynicism. A nearly evenly-split country wonders about a future with George W. Bush. “Mom,” David whispers in my ear about Retired General Colin Powell and Condoleezza Rice as Secretary of State and National Security Adviser, “you have to admit he is picking some good people for his cabinet.” “We’ll see, David; issues, issues.” My answer is true to pre-election resolutions; to ride the waves safely to the shore, eyes focused beyond the shore, lips sealed. Recognizing the gravity of the situation early on and knowing how prone I am to be caught up in the significance of history in the making, I become assertive: I hand everything over to a higher power, let the media spin its interpretations without ceasing, and clean the lenses of my eyes in readiness for the deeper meaning. Engulfed by a sea of Republicans, no one might have envisioned or planned an election so reflective of the past and of the possibilities that lie ahead in the future. The 2000 election is Divine Intervention. Both Sister Sara and I agree. Even though our vulnerability is scary and unsettling, it is turning out to be exciting. America has been delivered a wrapped package. We know what it contains before it arrives: President George W. Bush wrapped in his non-uniting cabinet paper. Battle-scarred front liners pass the baton of responsibility to those whose votes did count. Three and one-half percent of ballots cast in Georgia are reported uncounted (exceeding the 1.9% national rate and the 2.9% Florida under-vote). One of those could be mine, ours. The popular vote supports women and minority rights and protection of the environment among many other issues. The big question is, will the new administration be an inclusive government with caring earth-resource protectors? Maybe sons Robert and David know the answer. There is comfort in the words of African-American artist Sonia Sanchez: “A vote is like a small prayer beside the road…” We believe—sister Sara and I—that God heard all prayer-votes cast beside the road. He will even out the ruts and expect fair play. A new day has dawned. Like a refreshing frost to cover the January 2001 night, old ways hear a presence, open to surprises, and begin to live a new chapter. I’m still fitting a lot on my plate of activities. I turned 69 in November and feel another year older but have new and great fields of insight while trying to “aganuska, ading” (have patience, little sister). I am like one leopard being chased by another and know what Wang Weifan, in his Lilies of the Field, must have felt when he said, “Watch me pluck up my spirits and run!” It really is a new day when parents give sway to their children’s responsibilities and actions and tell them so:

David, I want to say thank you for your caring and sensitivity toward me during the 2000 election. You are our Earthling Son and you make us proud, me, especially. I consider it a compliment that my children are forming political opinions. Through the years, interests and commitments change. We are a generation apart, so really are expected to see issues differently. God bless us all, Mom.

Wesley is busy building a new home and driving his new tractor. No doubt about it, he and all Georgians are feeling the trickle-down change of directions in the political winds, and considering events, spoken words, and memorable comparisons in Washington, in Georgia, and in our own lives, chocolate seems to be the love potion during these months of a new century. There is a new attitude in D.C. The first week for the new president is deemed a success, and even the press is hospitable. Old and young alike are keyed up with personal growing pains, impatiently chomping at the bit for change. Free speech on the Internet presents political humor and satirical irreverence, and it is as it always has been according to Robert Schmuhl, professor of American Studies at the University of Notre Dame, “the great leveler in a democratic society.” Some see this as damaging, others do not. Georgia appears to be on a mission; with apologies from the governor, new strategies are formulated for the state’s 8,000,000 people with their houses, trash, cars, toilets, paved roads, driv- ers, and schools. It happens so fast, Jim Galloway describes it in The Atlanta Constitution as “a lightning strike.” Representative Denmark Groover had supported adoption of the 1956 flag by an all-white legislature protesting court-ordered desegregation. Groover returns 45 years later to ask the House Rules Committee to correct his mistake. Governor Roy Barnes addresses the House of Representatives, expressing regrets for vot- ing against a holiday in memory of Martin Luther King, Jr. “Each of you knows the right thing to do . . . And in the end, that is all that matters.” On Wednesday, January 24, 2001, The Georgia House of Representatives votes 94 to 82 to adopt a proposed redesign of the state flag; the Senate with 34 for, 22 against. The state seal

176 and images of five other flags, including the 1956 flag with the battle emblem of the Confederacy, blend past and present on a sea of new rich blue cloth. In God We Trust is printed under the banner. Might we suspect the Chamber of Commerce may have secretly distributed bags and bags of chocolate, the love potion? “I’m too old for that.” Mr. Wilson, a widower and dear friend looks toward the ground when I hug him tight and call him a sexy man. Such a pronouncement bounces off a blue bird, out- of-season, perched at the top of a dormant Bradford Pear tree in his neighbor’s yard. “Hush, here comes Mom.” Robert—he is 45 this month so calling him Bobby is over for good—and his brothers and cousins are in deep discussion about the election back in November for the 43rd president of the United States. I walk in, do an automatic U-turn and exit their serious world. They are focusing on politics and personalities, finally.What a difference a generation makes regarding perceptions and issues. I burn with amusement and pride. That I already know their allegiances is cause for many chuckles. Art and creativity mark Bobby’s, hum, Robert’s trail with his Spiral Graft drawings and a scrapbook of cartoons about President Nixon, Double-talk, Cold Wars, Everyday it Happens, Kids, and People. Satisfaction can’t be ignored when David sits on my living room floor with his children, Matthew and Michelle, watching Captain Planet on television. It is a cartoon environmental education program with Captain Planet, and all of its characters are animals. “Doesn’t what the lion is saying remind you of Memaw?” David asks my grandchildren. Now that is certainly reason to be proud, being compared to a talking animal! Yes, I am plucked up and my spirits are running on new paths of contentment. Last night, I watched This is How it Was and Jailhouse Rock for hours, all Elvis. It was the first time I understood his genius, his total mind, body, and soul creative gift to us all. I am sad and sorry he had unhealthy and unhappy premature last days, and I join all the millions who have been touched by him. Today as I sign in at Dr. Doxey’s Canton dermatology office, his young receptionist silently slips a prescription sheet toward me. Spontaneously, my eyes focus on the few inked words: “Mrs. Babcock, We all love George W. Bush,” signed, Dr. Doxey. I melt with laughter, the receptionist laughs, Dr. Doxey’s nurse laughs, and Dr. Doxey laughs. As we have done for countless years, Republican Doctor and Democratic patient laugh, talk politics, acknowledge Divine Intervention for our country, our state, and possibly for ourselves. A subsequent personal notation in my journal:

July 7, 2003 In the John F. Kennedy Center Library, former President William Jefferson Clinton speaks and he answers questions. Clinton says, “It seems—from reading about other American presidents— that each president had something to offer for his particular time of service . . . had something to offer that was needed.” For myself personally, and possibly many others in our country and in the world, President George W. Bush reflects America’s increasing arrogance, reliance on military might, and destructive influence regarding world environment. Perhaps this is a contribution: to see ourselves as we are, and are becoming, to see ourselves as other peoples of the world see us.

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Chapter 28 Cobb County is a Tough Row to Hoe Outside a double window, the jet stream is dipping deep into Georgia, wrapping Cobb County in blankets of snow, sleet, and frigid temperatures. I wake early, hydrate with 16 ounces of water, and sit down to read and write at the antique-yellow desk in the computer room. It is a daily ritual. Venetian blinds are open. After all these years, the memory of a military police message invades the morning quiet- ness. In seconds, a friend’s quest for peace in his life appears as an unfinished painting. Eyelids blink, and in one instant, the brush of my eyes paints an abstract portrait. I see an image of David and the events of his short life, making up a background that begs for charity and knowledge. David’s canvas-of-life occupies a turpentine-and-oil preparation. He is a senior in high school. His mother, Jewell, is my soul-mate and equal to a Persian Queen. His father rounds out a perfect couple. Everything about their home has drawn me to it: the aromas of beef pot roast, cakes and cookies, the grand piano, and the beautiful voices of their daughters. Jewell often says she needs me to provide frank answers, to provide different perspectives. Life has dealt her severe blows. She was born an unhealthy baby in 1912 when her mother had malaria fever. Eleven years later, her mother died of pneumonia. One of Jewell’s sons died while attending college. As is always the case in a great painting, the subject, David, stands off-center on the canvas. He is tall in stature and very slim. There is no mistaking the striking resemblance to his brother and sisters, both in looks and intelligence. He stands there with a glass in his right hand, actually leaning slightly forward and looking toward his left. The eyes are in shadow, but his full crop of wavy light brown hair, Lincolnesque nose, white-shirted open collar, and shoulders are highlighted by the sun. Narrow suspenders are buttoned at the waist with silver buttons. The long, dark blue pants have a vertical row of buttons down the front fly. Our friendship blossoms as each of us share separate and distinct personal traumas while sitting in a swing on the rock patio in the back yard. This is long before my first art teacher, Zada Jackson, speaks about “eyes being the most important asset,” and before Dr. Mary Calderone enlightens attendants at a Kennesaw College Symposium about gay people. “Certain birds,” she says, “have been dependent on this characteristic to prevent over-population of the species.” We are to keep an open mind. Keeping an open mind, I remain silent about the subject to cover my ignorance regarding gay people, when it dawns on me that David is gay. Even if our eyes can’t see each other’s dilem- mas, our minds are open; we listen to each other. French existentialist Albert Camus, who won the 1957 Nobel Prize in Literature, espoused a philosophy that emphasized the uniqueness and isolation of the individual in a hostile or indifferent universe. Although Camus’ admonition is unknown to us at the time, it can best be said that neither David nor I walk in front or behind, follow or lead. We walk beside each other and are friends. A wise man once warned that a prophet will always be held in honor except in his hometown and among his kinsmen. Therefore, dabs of grays and black dot the entire coarse fabric canvas to represent Cobb County. Dark tones at the bottom of the canvas-of-life pull us closer to David. Medium tones rise upward and diminish into lighter ones allowing for depth and perspective. It all seems to start with his trying to cope at school, and without elaboration, it’s safe to say that some religious indoctrinations salted tender wounds. David attends a Cobb County High School. He is an A student. One day, two days, a week, David does not go to school. At this time, young men are being drafted into the army for service in the Vietnam War—a disturbing possibility for David—so after quitting school, he enlists in the Marine Corps and goes through the grilling challenges at Parris Island, South Carolina. We are so proud of his accomplishment. Immediately, contrary to hopes, he is assigned to duty in California where servicemen are embarking for Vietnam. David’s short furlough ends. I have been experimenting with watercolors and finish my small painting of tree trunks. David is sensitive and loves Nature. Wanting to be of some encouragement, this first poem is written for him.

To David Does it matter how imperfect a tree may be, or the artist who holds the brush As long as there are houses built for the starling and the thrush? Oh precious bluebirds, colorful cardinals, what mysteries are in store to see! Whenever and wherever you appear, God’s grace can come to me. Let not the robin trouble you when she stares in abstract doubt, Must be listening for a worm, that’s what it’s all about. – Eleanor Crisler Babcock

Both the first tree painting and the first poem become two of the few possessions packed in David’s knapsack as we say, “good bye.” Should we know? Is it really an accident that David’s dog tag remains in his room at home in Georgia? “David is AWOL.” The officer speaks to his parents from California. After being notified that he is Absent-without-Leave from his post—for what seems an eternity—there is little or no communication from him. Imaginations run wild, hearts grieve con- tinuously. Sporadic calls come allegedly from one state, then another. Winter winds chill doubly those present, and possibly, the absent one. How is he faring? Is he warm? Is he hungry? Jewell, his mother, endures stress of varying severity. At this time it is not unusual for David’s brother to be in downtown Atlanta on week-days. Walking in the city, he runs into an old friend of David’s, senses uneasiness in the friend’s behavior, and decides on a follow-up telephone call. Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring . . . it seems no one is at home . . . just to make sure, another ring or two is allowed out of sheer concern for his brother’s friend. The coded count of rings pre- cipitates a safe answer on the other end of the line. “Hello.” David’s voice is recognized. He has been in Atlanta all the time! Acting decisive- ly, the police are notified. David goes to jail. Parents enlist the help of their legislator. David comes home, leaves, and crosses the border into Canada. Care packages and money are sent to him. Bob

180 and I visit his pad in Toronto and persuade him to go to Staples Camp in Canada with us. Appear- ing miserable, he hitchhikes back to Toronto, and many months pass. Word comes to his family he has received a severe blow to the head from a fall down some stairs. A relative brings David back to the States and to his parents’ new home in a remote mountain town in Tennessee. I know God’s finger must have drawn a line to this placejust for David. The mountain folk have an annual Ramps Wild Leek Festival; rattlesnakes coil out in the open and dare any city gal not to wear heavy boots. Aged and broken apple tree limbs laden with fruit hug the ground in tall weeds and grasses awaiting wide-eyed discovery and appreciation. Tril- lium, having a single cluster of three leaves and a three-petal white flower, grows everywhere and is claimed to represent the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. This is where the real shadow of David’s gay existence becomes acknowledged reality. And I thought I had trouble? This is where it has to start for him, and as it turns out, for all of us. The following September, I gas up the station wagon and drive alone to David’s parents’ new double-wide trailer that perches on the lower side of a mountain. Shrubs and a few flowers grow close to the trailer, but it is impossible to tame the fast growing weeds in order to have a garden or to sit near the creek. They have their bedroom, David has his bedroom, and at the end of the trailer, I have mine. “David put the flowers in your room, Eleanor,” Jewell says. I feel a fleeting, romantic tinge and acknowledge his thoughtfulness. The food is wonderful. David’s father reads or piddles around in the yard adding rocks to a bank or a gully in a losing battle to contain erosion. David is withdrawn. I just relish being with my friends. On Sunday we go to the little church where men sit on one side, the women on the other. Local people have welcomed the Georgia couple and look up to them. There seems to be a reciprocal learning exchange between them: a living fulfillment of the Isaiah prophecy to repair broken walls, of restoring streets to dwell on. “David, why don’t you and Eleanor go climb Smith’s Mountain,” Jewell suggests. Like two zombies suddenly reanimated and thankful for the voodoo snakes′ spirit or super- natural power administered through Jewell, two friends hit the narrow road leading to an unfamiliar area. One half-mile later, we turn right on a less traveled dirt road, cross a small bridge and into the shaded yard. We pass an abandoned well, and the vacant unpainted board house. It’s a hot day. David is wearing sneakers. I am wearing tan, slick-soled leather oxfords with metatarsus-strengthening bars glued underneath. David spots the place to begin the ascent. He goes before me only two or three arm lengths at a time. We are only two arms lengths apart from each other. Laughter greases our determination to succeed when every inch scaled in oxford shoes requires David to pull me up to a higher rock or shrub. Smith’s Mountain is our open-air lapidarian, providing just enough rough and tumble to smooth, polish, and cause us to shine. The mountain is drawing both David and me to a lonely place, dispensing wisdom. We are learning today life’s lonely places are opportunities for laughter and serenity. For uncounted mountain-top moments, David and Eleanor are free and unencum- bered—if only for a time—of our complicated lives. Descending is one rip-roaring burst of slip-sliding laughter. It is simply the only way to get down. My hair and clothes are soaked with perspiration, our thirst, almost unquenchable. I run to the creek, throw my body to the ground and dip my face into the water. David fills an old bucket with ice cold water to personally anoint my head and body, shocking my eyes open to see a gray, palm-size heart-shaped rock among the smooth creek-bed pebbles. What a find. It is a momentous gift from an unknown benefactor, a reminder of one of the brightest and happiest times in my life.

181 David, I wish we could have another talk like we had on Smith’s Mountain. The passing years have helped me find a voice. Was I of some value to you when, at your request, we drove to Unicoi State Park to picnic? How about when you took me to dinner in Atlanta? From this ret- rospective vantage point, you were reaching still . . . for hands, for my hands to pull you up, for laughter. You found companionship, grief, and ways to brighten your parents’ home with your artistic talents, your nutritious dishes and soup, your periodic presence. Didn’t we both feel pain, helplessness, concern, compassion, healing? Didn’t we learn about love and understand the Plan, interpret the Universal Picture? The work day finished, you and your young nephew, Chip were a few miles from home. At the stop-sign intersection, the car-carrier truck demolished your truck, and in an instant you both were killed. With your family, I viewed your picture beside the urn of ashes, eulogized with Jewell and your brother at your gravesite—located a stones throw away from my beloved friend’s grave—and put two daffodils in your “knapsack” for safe keeping.

The droning small airplane and rising sun spring me back to 2000-real time. I’m suddenly aware why David has been in my thoughts. Yesterday, I saw a still-life image of power when a photograph, taken by David Guttenfelder of the Associated Press, appeared on the November 20, 2000 front page of The Atlanta Constitution. President Clinton had concluded a historic three-day visit, discussing war history and economic policy with a Communist leader in Hanoi. (He protested the Vietnam War a generation before.) The next day he is in downtown Ho Chi Minh City completely surrounded by cheering Vietnamese. Once more, even though my stomach growls for breakfast, I take out the Guttenfelder photograph and feel myself emotionally present among the people. No artist could have envisioned such a perfect subject and then paint in all the necessary basics. It is a street scene focusing on the tragedy and triumph behind the faces of a famous president and the people of Vietnam; flesh- colored humanity. The middle of the picture is awash with smiling Vietnamese faces and upraised palms and fingers that seem to touch the strength of a historic moment. The highlighted, most prominent upturned smiling face, and the highest and largest palm and fingers in the photograph belong to the President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton. My eyes follow the huge hand of the president downward to a smaller one, then directly up to the outstretched hand and arm of a Vietnamese hoisted up by an unseen force, reaching for Clinton’s hand. Above the Vietnamese arm and hand, one lone face shares the passion of the moment. It seems only human to be affected by the experiences I bring to this scene: mutual needs, hands reaching out and up, power giving, grasping and encouraging, changing. One life lived— whether by a country’s marginally appreciated president, or a gay friend—is, to me, a prophesy fulfilled . . . that God’s all encompassing love and extended hand is for all his people. Thirty-one years of listening, observing, hoping, and learning from David’s tragic life leaves me exactly where Dr. Calderone asked me to be; open minded still, saddened for my friend’s suffering, and missing the occasions when our paths crossed. Difficult years taught David and me how to sing our song in a strange land. No one, or country, should ever say to a human being, “I do not need you.”

182 The Atlanta Olympics basketball venue was moved from Cobb County, and the Torch passed it by, but the gay community in Atlanta and in our country, is finding its voice. In Cobb County, The Theater in the Square in Marietta opened dialogue, and funding has been restored once again for the arts. Georgia Equality Inc. lobbies for gay rights and is said to expect a new law to change the behavior of businesses motivated by homophobia. A life lived can be a prophecy of understanding and change in Cobb County, and in the world.

On December19, 2010, the United States Senate repeals “don’t ask, don’t tell” by a 65- 31 vote. New York Times’ Carl Hulse, The Atlanta Journal Constitution, calls it a “GAY-RIGHTS LANDMARK.” Joseph I. Lieberman says, “We righted a wrong,” and “today we have done justice.”

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Part X

THE FUN SIDE

Living History in Story Form

Then, Now, and Later

Chapter 29 Living History in Story Form It is a special day for special people: cousins, fathers, stepfathers, mothers, and grandmothers. First there are lengthy interviews and calendars marked to be at Hickory Flat Elementary School, Cherokee County on April 11, 2001. At 10:00 AM, guests gather, sign in, and wait for escorts. There she is! Her hair is pulled back from her face and hangs like a mane. That slightly lowered side-glance of granddaughter Michelle matches mine, and mutual pride sells a song of love with our faces. From the blue stone in her freshly pierced, preteen ears down to her toes she is dressed in blue. Well, so am I; blue summer skirt, white knit top, blue matching jacket, silver ear rings, and with mother’s large silver leaf pin to match patches of my gray hair. Soon I am sitting in Michelle’s desk and she is standing beside me. I had no idea the local radio station and newspaper would be on hand to report the event at the school. Language Arts teacher, Ms. Raynor, enters the fourth-grade classroom and informs us that she had instructed her students to write a biography about a famous person, but that some wanted to write about someone they knew. She tells us, “I said, ‘All right, write the famous person biography, then about someone special you know.’ They and I have learned so much. We wanted to honor you today. Thank you for coming.” The artistic ten-year-old, Michelle Elizabeth, wrote her grandmother’s biography. The finished product is on her desk—in living color—from her computer to my heart. American writer, Ruth Goode, was born in 1905; the year of Michelle’s great grandmother, Carolyn Ophelia Smith Crisler’s birth. According to Ms. Goode, the stories I tell Michelle about her parents′ childhood and my own early years are “living history.” If I, as storyteller, am happy and thoroughly enjoying every minute on the stage of life, my listeners will become those linking past and future generations together. “This grandmother and barbershop singer of 18 years can truly say—as instructed to say to myself before a performance or competition—‘I’m glad I’m here, I’m glad you’re here, I know my stuff. It’s fun and I love telling about it.’” Later in the month of April, grandson Sam comes to spend the weekend with his Papaw and me. The confident pronounced postscript, in rough cursive writing in his Easter card does not escape attention. It seems a life prologue: “I’m a better fisherman than my dad.” My grandson was on a recent Steinhatchee, Florida, fishing trip with his mother and father. “Sam,” I say, “family albums hold frozen segments of time and accomplishments. Move- ment is restored in memory, like maybe the photograph of a big string of fish caught by Bobby, your dad.” I ask Sam to open the antique-white bookcase and to bring the red and the marbled-red albums first. The pages have pictures of his father and mother, Michelle’s father and mother, and his Uncle Wesley and Aunt Marjorie before and after they were married. It is a teaching moment as my fingers rub across black and white and colored history. The emphasis is on collected memories. It will be impossible to relate every single milestone in our separate lives to Sam as we bob along, trying to keep in step with each other’s syncopation. In the first photograph, a wedding is in progress. “Sam,” I say,” “the preacher addressed your Aunt Marjorie, ‘Sis, do you take Wesley . . . ?’” The meaning of that word “Sis” was important to me. It seemed to me a thoughtful tribute to her mother and father, and made me proud to have been “Sister” to so many of my kin. Marjorie Lee Griffith Mitchell Babcockand married Wesley May 16, 1980. A small affair, they wanted it that way. Friends and lovers, both blessed with beautiful hair, held hands and hearts for life. Moms and dads witnessed vows and admired their prudent decision: beautiful rings, rather than an expensive wedding. “What a coincidence, Sam! Wesley and Marjorie’s first rented house was in Canton across from North Crisler Street, a short paved street that ended at a small, overgrown graveyard. No Crisler relative was found to be buried there, but I later learned a Crisler family once lived in the present funeral-home house nearby.” Sam is thinking. “Remember when Jonathan, Matthew, Michelle, and I tussled with Uncle Wesley in your back yard, and how he pushed us in the tire swing?” Sam asks. I flip the album pages forward to those pictures. Wesley and Marjorie always take interesting vacations. They discovered and camped at Babcock State Park in Virginia. “And guess what, Memaw, we have a picture of the old water wheel and creek at that park over our fireplace at home,” Sam says. “Oh my, look at your Uncle David and Aunt Becky: sweethearts in their teens. They married July 24, 1982, fresh and full of zest for living, eager to excel, celebrated their first wedding anniversary, and owned a small foreclosed home on Beech Street in Marietta. They possessed identical goals to ‘finish college’ and to establish the good habit of ‘getting enough sleep.’” “I consider my talents to be writing letters, sports, and keeping up with current events,” bright, reddish-blonde hair daughter-in-law said. “My world hero and heroine are Pope John Paul and Mother Teresa.” “My talent,” David said, “is thinking through problems and trying to solve them.” At the Kennesaw College Honors Festival, May 24, 1985, Rebecca Lynne Srok Babcock was included in Who’s Who Among Students in American Universities and Colleges. While in Southern Polytechnic State University, David Crisler Babcock was chosen to be an IBM Co-op student employee, was on the Dean’s spring quarter list, and was soon to be IBM employee. These photographs speak for themselves. Families and friends accepted the invitation to gather on our decorated carport to listen to an up-tune of accomplishment and beauty:

Dual-Doings Celebrating Double Diplomas Delightful Dishes Delicately Done (Lunch) In honor of Becky and David Place: Bob and Eleanor Babcock’s

“Six kids!—I said to Becky—you plan to have six kids?” The thought was staggering. “You know, Sam, when your cousin was born, Papaw and I became grandparents. We donned blue hospital shirts and held Jonathan Michael Babcock, changed poopy diapers and got

188 peed on, rode him on our backs, and collected these pictures in the album. Then Matthew Christo- pher was born.” “Matthew has the Srok nose,” his grandfather, Tom Srok announced, having viewed and held Matt on his first day in our growing family. Like his Uncle Wesley, he was destined to be the in-between child after his mother pared down her anticipated total child-birthing goal. Your cousin Matthew, Sam, had time to watch his older brother play hide and seek with Papaw and me. Soon he joined the fray. “Your Aunt Becky became a first-rate real estate salesperson for Northside Reality, and IBM continued to appreciate your Uncle David’s thinking skills and people-to-people talents. He spent seven years working at The Research Triangle in Cary, North Carolina, and Becky excelled in real estate. Papaw and I would drive eight hours from Kennesaw to Cary, North Carolina. These photographs were taken there on weekends spent hiking over a small bridge to view honored, near extinct elm trees; eating ice cream; watching parades, and playing Scrabble. Good memories are preserved in these photographs. “The week of Michelle Elizabeth’s birth, Sam, I rode many hours on a Greyhound bus to Cary, to see our first and only granddaughter. Look at this picture of Michelle. She is cast in her father’s mold: same shape of head and bone structure. Becky brought her to Atlanta when she was several months old. I laid her on my lap, she looked at me, she looked at the surroundings, and she looked back at me. At that moment I was convinced she knew everything there was to know.” “I don’t know if I want to be an artist, a singer, or a mother.” Six years old and Michelle was already trying to plan her future! “Why, Michelle, you can be all of those,” I answered, at least three times. Some album pictures tell a story of doctors’ skill, family support, and childhood courage and resiliency. Light ripples across the inserted 1997 Christmas letter written by Becky:

“In June, we moved to Woodstock, Georgia . . . in July, we celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary with a four-night cruise to the Bahamas and a few days in the Florida Keys. The cruise ship was a perfect getaway for us—just the right amount of fun, romance, and luxury! “It has been 15 months since Matthew’s second surgery to remove the low- grade, non-spreading dysembryoplastic neuroepithelial tumor, and he is doing great. He is no longer on anti-seizure medication.”

Other than at the annual Babcock Easter egg hunts and family camping weekends, the photographs and home videos began occurring at widely spaced intervals. We all got so busy. Becky was serving on the Cherokee County School Board, coaching elementary basketball and softball games, and working with scouts. David was working out of his home office, traveling for IBM, leading scouts, and going on frequent scout camping trips. Jonathan, at 14, bursts with pride that his height has exceeded mine. Matthew, 13, buys his own computer. Michelle, ten, chooses shoes with moderate heels. Sam is getting restless. One album remains. “Sam, did your mom and dad tell you that they met through a Tall People Club? See that picture taken at their wedding reception? Papaw was climbing a ladder to plant a kiss on your mother’s cheek. Catherine Johnson and Robert Babcock, Jr. are six feet tall. Wasn’t your mother a beautiful bride?” I ask.

189 “I saw that picture before,” he says. “It is as real today as it was that day in September when Doctor Edward Staples, your dad’s great uncle, was waiting for the wedding procession to begin. Steve Hadley, best man, and Robert, Jr., mistakenly positioned themselves behind the church alter rail. Robert stepped in front. Steve did a leap-frog over the rail! I began to shrink low in utter disbelief. I had not the nerve to glance at the bride’s family and friends. “Catherine’s father, Samuel Johnson, was equally tall and handsome as he escorted his daughter down the aisle. Doctor Staples—with experienced but aged, shaking hands—reverently blessed the union as he had done so many times for relatives. “Your mother taught school in Jonesboro and your dad drove to work in Kennesaw. Soon they moved to Acworth near Robert’s work. Cathy began to teach in Cherokee County. The sun was warm and the fishing days long for this well-suited couple—whether in a canoe on the upper lakes in Canada or on West Point Lake near Columbus, Georgia. “Sam, your father placed a bouquet of flowers outside Cathy’s tent early in their courting days.” This strikes a familiar chord and Sam’s interest revives. “Daddy still gives Mom flowers real often,” he says. “The days leading up to your birth will be remembered as near disastrous with Robert’s close call in the small company airplane crash and with Cathy’s early labor. You were just an ounce or two above premature. It didn’t take long for you to gain enough weight to bounce right off of their living room sofa. That’s one picture we don’t have!” “In this picture, Uncle Edward is on the screened porch at Staples Camp in Canada holding you at a few months old. And here, you are being baptized by him with Moore Lake in the background.” “Memaw, I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in so long. Make me one like you always did: you know stir the jelly and peanut butter together in a little bowl first.” Sam has been patient with my story telling. “How about grape jelly and some milk, Sam? Don’t bother returning the albums to the cabinet, and Sam, about being a ‘better fisherman’ than your dad . . . you have been Sammy, and now you are Sam. Don’t make hasty conclusions about yourself until you have taken down your dad’s photograph albums and spent time thumbing through them. The big question for you this wonderful year of promise is, will there be a “fisherman” epilogue when my third grandson, Sammy and Sam becomes Samuel?” While making Sam’s sandwich, I remember pictures taken in Chattanooga as my Song of Atlanta Show Chorus competed for Regional Competition Gold Medal. Faces and hearts sold the songs. We danced, drew others to ourselves and won 640 points and a Gold Medal. Photographs welcome memories. Faces sell songs of life.

My Memaw By Michelle Babcock April 9, 2001 Eleanor Hope Crisler Babcock is her name; she is my Memaw. She was born on November 8, 1931. Where was she born? She was born in Fulton County, GA., near the baseball stadium. When she was a kid, she lived on a farm part of the time, and in the city part of the time.

190 Often times she and her friends would pretend sticks were guns. They also made forts, took walks, and picked wild strawberries. Sometimes they even picked things off the sweet gum trees & chewed them as gum! They also played hopscotch in the dirt. At school, just like today, there were drills. Almost every day at her school, they would meet in the assembly room for an assembly. They had recess every day unless they were bad and did not earn it. My Memaw told me she used to sit under a tree and daydream about things in the future and past. My Memaw played two sports, basketball and baseball. There were six children in her family. The girls wore skirts and dresses, basically. The boys, they wore pants and collared shirts most of the time. Eleanor had toys like paper dolls and tea sets. She also had a wild flower garden. She would also sew clothes out of flour sacks. My Memaw’s most joyful moments were getting her first grandchild, winning a singing competition, and buying her first house. Her most sad moments were when her mother died and most of all, when her brother died. When Mr. Truman was President, my Memaw saw him walk his dog. Her favorite President was Jimmy Carter. My Memaw enjoys reading, singing, writing, playing tennis, and painting. She is in the Song of Atlanta Women’s Barbershop Chorus Group and has won many medals including gold. Lately her group got the highest score in the history of her chorus competition. She used to be in the Georgia Harmony Group, but changed to be in the Song of Atlanta Show Chorus. In 1971, my Memaw started the Lake Allatoona Cleanup. She decided to start the cleanup when the water went down in the winter because she saw all the trash in the lake, including a refrigerator. She started by making flyers and only spent $20.00. Scouts and churches helped clean the lake and altogether, there were 1,100 people cleaning up trash. They picked up 120 tons of trash! Volunteers are still doing the Great Lake Allatoona Cleanup today.

191

Chapter 30 Then, Now, and Later What a good thing it is to remember our past, where we came from, who we are. It can make us cry, it can make us laugh. We walk for a while on that ground left behind, and contemplation seems to make more sense of the then, now, and later. “On your wish list, Sam, what is the one thing you want the most?” His mother had asked. “A kitten,” he says, “I just want something of my own to love me. Bobcat is Daddy’s cat and Wishbone is his Lab. Besides, Wishbone is big.” Sam’s tenth birthday is the special occasion. Papaw and I arrive first with two bowls and a bag of assorted mouse toys, a brush, had alsoan requestedidentification tag, and kitten treats. Sam money and receives some from aunts, uncles and his Granny Dorris. Except for the fact that several in the family can’t make it, the day couldn’t be more extraordinary for Sam or for me as I glow with pride, recognizing the maturity and the accomplishments of son, Robert, and daughter-in-law, Catherine. Their newly-bought home exemplifies their interests in furniture, paintings, and plants. Cathy looks so happy. Her premature gray hair is now a soft blond, long enough to clip up in back. Her mother died earlier, and her beloved, handsome father only recently. I’m reminded how this science and mathematics teacher with computer skills and an aversion to heat hiked with her father as he fulfilled his dream on the Appalachian Trail to Maine. Blisters! Blisters! Cathy’s brother, David Johnson, is here at Sam’s party with wife, Tammy, and daughter, Jessica. Her sister, Susan, is here. There is magnetism between these Johnson siblings today as they share Sam’s chocolate cake with white icing. “Sam,” David Johnson says, “I just ate your elbow. Does that mean I am going to turn into a girl?” The sugar sheet birthday cake, in the form of a portrait of Sam, astonishes everyone. “You have to kiss your elbow to turn into a girl!” Sister, Susan, reminds David Johnson. Mother and Father Johnson in heaven are surely laughing and loving this scene. I look at eldest son, Robert, Jr. It’s easier now to think Robert, than Bobby or Bob as he is mostly called. The rimmed glasses flatter rather than diminish his eternal sparkling eyes. My fisherman prince is ripening on the inside and walking tall. “This is sweet table sausage; you can get it at Kroger,” Robert says—still, a kid at heart— learned to cook as a single, enjoys all foods, is a perfectionist camping organizer with all the latest gadgets, a hard worker. He replenishes the dips and chips and slices more cheese and sausage. Grandson Sam receives his six-toed gray and white striped kitten. Later, the basement door opens and Robert backs out the go-cart and dirt bike. Sam drives the go-cart like a pro, regardless of this passenger’s plea to slow down. Robert takes off like a bat out of a high pine and passes us. My full-time work as mother has ended and a new vocation begins. I ride instead of drive, discern the meaning of the yesterdays, and try mentoring the next generations. Celebrations and crises bring a degree of integrity over the years. I have found camping together to be a microcosm of family life and human nature. Years ago, Staples Camp in Canada could accommodate Bob, me, and all three sons and their families. One summer, over a minor point about whether to fillet or broil the fish, a major outburst educates me about unsuspected possible pent-up jealousies and rage between what I considered to be my well-adjusted sons. My tears of disappointment and embarrassment flow. Cousin Peggy empathizes, and I discover that good and bad seeds can be planted in family ground where the center of life is the thickest. Staples Camp cannot accommodate all 12 of us at one time, so we decide to begin our own Georgia camping tradition. If we can pursue that goal we can find and exercise individual poten - tials, give and receive, learn and unlearn. Robert first chooses primitive camping in the mountains near Helen, Georgia: no water, no toilets. “Well, you brought the bear food!” Robert, Jr. says when Bob and I arrive with SAS, a pet baby chicken. The name is an acronym for writing teacher, Sarah Anne Shope, who brought the chick to me from her home in Blue Ridge, Georgia. I couldn’t leave it at home . . Michelle would love it. “Mom,” scout leader David says, “When we get set up, I’ll give a bear survival lesson.” SAS sleeps in the pickup truck. So much for primitive camping. Wesley and Marjorie choose The Lost Mountain Campground near the Nantahala River in North Carolina. It is complete with adequate space for four tent sites, a high waterfall, a rushing cold-water creek, and is a convenient walk to rest rooms and hot showers. We ride on horseback along Fontana Lake, and raft down the Nantahala River, successfully negotiating the “bump,” the “haystack rapids,” and a number-three waterfall on the two-hour trip. Michelle and Sam carve wooden flowers. Papaw (Bob) constantly splits wood for the fire. Wesley speaks only a few witty words. “Wesley, why did you pick the Yosemite Sam tattoo?” Cathy inquires. “Well, I was about 24 years old at the time. That was one of my favorite cartoons. I chose it to be mid-calf on my right leg to distract attention from the large burn scar behind my knee,” he says. No one verbalizes it, but most would agree that Robert could have been a drill sergeant. His parenting skills could certainly have been more finely honed. “Hey, what better opportunity to spot another’s strength and weakness, confide concerns and frustrations, grow an additional inch in sensitivity, patience, and kindred love than at camp? Three cheers for daughter-in-laws Cathy, Marjorie, and Becky.” “That was the best camping weekend I have ever had,” granddaughter Michelle says. We look forward to our third Annual Babcock Camping Weekend on June 15-17, 2001, at Sweetwater Campground on Lake Allatoona. David and Rebecca have made thorough plans. Sam will bring his new ball glove and ball, Michelle, her ball glove, Jonathan, his fishing rod, Matthew, the floats for riding behind David’s boat, and we all will bring food. Aunt Julia Josephine Rucker Crisler may get to come. We plan, pack, load, unload, then load, and unload again. Next year’s camping trip will be at Gulf Shores, Alabama, over school spring holidays with bathing suits, golf clubs, and appetites for sea food. Times, they are a’ changing. Gilda Radner, born in 1946, became aware in her teen years that funny women just didn’t pass muster, so to speak, and they were minimally accepted. But attitudes changed, and Gilda was happy “being born part of the transition.” Before she died in 1989, she was a successful and revered comedian in step with other positive changes for women in the world As a member of Georgia Harmony Barbershop Chorus and the Song of Atlanta Show Chorus, with regional medals and an international medal, something funny happens when this one- of-a-minority, born-and-bred Southerner opens her mouth. My southern drawl, when coupled with

194 childhood stories, sets off spontaneous laughter from the alien-chorus members. They laugh and keep laughing. It feels really good to be a chorus comedian! Husband Bob plays softball and tennis, and hand-held, battery-powered Vegas solitaire. A voice seems to whisper to comedian and sportsman about things relational: “As your ultimate parent, be reminded that both of you will eventually experience suffering, loss, and death. “Eleanor, keep a heroine spirit and, by all means, your sense of humor. Reread the James Van Praagh and Sylvia Browne books. Take them to heart. This is just one of your many lives, keep faithful to your own pre-written blueprints, then pack your camping gear—don’t forget your tee-tee pot—and come Home to the big Heaven campsite. “Thomas Jackson, Isham, Dora, Simeon Germany, Enoch, Mary, Cassie, Ann Louise, Paul, Ophelia, Neal B., Miriam, Bill, Elizabeth, Uncle Abe, Uncle Sam, Uncle Moses, Uncle Joseph, Uncle Robert, Aunt Lillian, Aunt Mary Lee, Aunt Julia, Aunt Alice, Thomas, Pam, Mahala, Uncle Edward, Ethlyne, Mary, Martha, Ben, and many friends have the huge tarp up. “You have walked the ground of the past many times. Now is the time to remember the Mussulman devotions and ‘put your hands to your ears, listen from the other world,’ and later, when you come camping, bring a big pot of Crisler Brunswick Stew.”

195

Barbershop Singing Friends: Cindy Bunker, Carol Thalimer, Eleanor Babcock, Suzanne Randle

Indianapolis, Indiana: National Song of Atlanta Show Chorus Competition Eleanor Babcock, Suzanne Randle, Cindy Bunker and, Eleanor Babcock, Comedian Eleanor: Shot-put, Gold, Tennis, Gold, Race Walking, National, 5K, 10th Place Robert William Babcock, Sr. Robert, Softball Retirement, Unisys Corporation, Bob and Eleanor Mr. and Mrs. Robbie Barnes Robert: Tennis, Gold Medal Trusted Old Truck, Driver, Robert

Part XI

HISTORY

Off the Cumming Square

History of a Good Family, Second Only to the Bible

Chapter 31 Off the Cumming Square

“Where then is our God? You say He is everywhere: then show me anywhere that you have met Him.” —Rev. James Martineau (1805–1900)

I feel a responsibility to the next generations. My senior job descriptions are clear: storyteller of the familiar, harvester of truth in the ebb and flow of familiar and unknown. But each time a story begins, the phone rings. It’s cousin Ann Louise Smith Nelson calling from Acworth, Georgia, on a November 1992 afternoon to alert me. All of four-term Governor Joseph Emerson Brown’s blood relatives are being sought by Honorable Marietta Mayor Joe Mack Wilson. “Eleanor, did you see Celestine Sibley’s column this morning?” Ann asks. “Mayor Wilson asked her to help locate Brown family members and inform us about the dedication of a new city park at the end of West Atlanta Street, adjacent to the Confederate cemetery, between Powder Springs Road and Atlanta Street, Marietta.” “Us, what do you mean us?” I ask. “My grandmother, Florence Eugenia ‘Jeanie’ Brown and your grandmother, Mary Brown were daughters of our Great Grandfather John Brown, and John Brown was a first cousin to Joseph Emerson Brown. John Brown was 16 years younger,” Ann says. Ann has letters and a book that open the door to Mother’s ancestry. I know so little about Mother’s side of the family, and can barely comprehend the lineage this cousin is revealing with such rapidity. “Eleanor, please come to the Brown Park dedication November 7, and let your brothers and sister know about it,” Ann says. “I know that Nancy, Bill, Helen, and Larry will be going with me, and I plan to bring a large portrait of Great Grandfather John Brown.” I call my siblings but generate no interest. Bob wants to go to the park dedication and is taking the movie camera. No picnic lunch this day though, since it is cold and windy. We arrive at the two-acre park landscaped with magnolias, azaleas, and other Southern flora. Women are walking around in long period dresses and bonnets. Re-enactment association soldiers are in Confederate grays and browns, and Union blue. The ice-cold wind blows one more surprise my way as we try to recognize a familiar face among the 50 gathered Brown family members. So this Brown family member and one-time officer of The Georgia Conservancy (environment organization) is kin, I think and approach her. Cousin Ann, enthusiastic co-writer and keeper of the Smith Family Records, is bursting with pride. She sits by me and her brothers and sisters on the first of several semicircular rows facing the Gazebo—moved here from the Marietta Square—draped in red, white, and blue. Her all-beige clothing blends with her wavy gray-blonde hair. The beige stone pendant is so long it almost touches the blowing collection of papers in her lap. To make sure I show up well in the photographs, I am wearing a wide, bright blue knit headband, and gloves to match. A wool black and white plaid dress jacket over a black turtleneck sweater with long close-fitting black pants and black boots insure that the headband and gloves accomplish their intended purpose. I am beginning to appreciate the importance of the occasion, but it will be some time before the full impact registers. We all stand for the Presentation of Colors: The United States Flag in the center, on its left is the Georgia Seal on a solid blue background, on its right, The Stars and Bars. Adopted in 1861, the Stars and Bars include stars for seven seceding states. We see behind us the battle flag containing stars for 11 states and for seceded governments in Kentucky and Missouri. It was carried by troops into battle. Now it is waving next to the heavy cannon facing north. Betty Hunter, Honorable Mayor Pro Tem, tells attendees to be seated. We hear credits and introductions. We learn that Joseph Emerson Brown was born in South Carolina in 1821; was 15 when his father moved to Georgia. At 23, he arrived in Canton in Cherokee County. He taught at the Canton Academy, and tutored students at night. For a short time he was a law student at Yale. He married Elizabeth Grisham, daughter of one of the Canton founders, and they had seven of their eight children in the home that General William T. Sherman would burn. Joseph Emerson Brown was admitted to the bar in 1845 and served as a United States Sen- ator and Chief Justice of the Georgia Supreme Court. Alexander Stephens, Vice-President of the Confederate States during the Civil War, nominated Brown to the Democratic ticket for Governor. Brown learned about this while working in his wheat fields! Cousin Ann and I are mystified and burst with pride about what we are learning. I am familiar with a section of Atlanta known as “Ben Hill,” and now we are hearing that Joseph Emerson Brown’s opponent for governor was Benjamin Harvey Hill; that he made fun of a quilt that Cherokee ladies had made, and called Joe Brown slow. What followed was the Calico Quilt Campaign in which Joseph said, “I’m ‘slow’ and proud of it. Any man who holds in his hands the destiny of his people must be cautious and slow to act.” Brown received 57,000 white male votes to his opponent’s 47,000. From 1857 through his term during the Civil War, he was known as “the war governor.” He took on the banks and the special interests, became associated with Western Atlantic Railroad, and defended the importance of public education. A second election was held in 1859. Brown had seen that the Georgia Militia was the best equipped and best prepared to fight, and had made sure our Georgia arsenals were in the hands of the Confederacy. Brown didn’t campaign in 1861. In 1863, the absentee ballots of Confederate Army soldiers in the field got him elected. The war ended, and Joseph was put in prison. President Andrew Johnson released him on parole if he would come back to Georgia, resign as governor, become loyal to the cause of the Federal Government, and ask all the people to do what the Reconstruction Acts told them to do. In 1865, Joe resigned. In 1866, he did as requested. “Oh, no! Joseph Emerson Brown became a Republican. Thank God it was brief,” I exclaim to my cousin Ann and cousin Larry. We are learning so much about our ancestor, Southern history, and a Southern politician who represented the common man. The sun is shining more brightly. It is still very cold, but the wind is not blowing now. We marvel at our family connection to this man who became the President of Western Atlantic Rail- road, became wealthy, and did good things.

204 I remember that my brother Thomas attended Joe Brown Junior High School when our family lived on Queen Street in West End. Governor Brown continued to promote public education, was a Trustee of the University of Georgia, and gave money to the Southern Theology Institute and to the University of Georgia for a scholarship fund for needy students. Joseph Emerson Brown died in 1894. He is buried in Oakland Cemetery, and his statue with his wife, Elizabeth, seated by his side, is on the Georgia Capitol grounds. His son, Joseph Mackey Brown, was Georgia’s governor from 1909 to 1911. He lived in Marietta for a time. Brown family members take an opportunity to shift a bit in their seats and compare responses to what has been learned. There is a short skit in which Mayor W.T. Winn is portrayed by Dan Cox. Winn introduces Governor Joseph E. Brown, portrayed by Charlie Brown, the governor’s great grandson. They rec- reate a scene from November 1863. The Mayor describes a man of great character and compassion who has wisdom and foresight. Governor Joseph Brown thanks us for being here, and gives a brief report of the war. “We ceded the Battle of Chickamauga, and 34,000 on both sides died.” A sad reflective silence pervades the audience and is intensified when the Zion Baptist Church Choir’s Civil-War era spirituals are harmonized with the grinding wheels and whistle of a train on the northbound tracks a few yards behind us:

A medley of Nobody Knows the Trouble I See; Deep River; Swing Low, Sweet Chariot; Let Jesus Lead All The Way

The distant train whistle sounds a complimentary act of respect to the Negro spirituals. We all shuffle a bit and sit tall, Ann, Nancy M., Bill, Helen, Larry, and me. Betty Hunter, Honorable Mayor Pro Tem, again takes the podium to recognize Brown family members. It had been hoped that people would use this little park for family reunions and family gatherings, and that those who had loved ones buried up in the two adjacent cemeteries would come here to find their ancestors. Acknowledging the Brown ancestors at the first big family reunion, we are asked to stand. We stand. The Honorable Mayor Pro Tem dedicates this park here at the gateway of downtown Mari- etta to Governor Joseph Emerson Brown. All eyes focus on Confederate gray and brown and Union blue groups participating in the Gun Salute: 5th Missouri/9th Georgia Infantry, 7th Georgia Infantry, 18th Georgia Infantry, 54th Massachusetts Infantry, and 1st Georgia Infantry. We notice how long it takes to load and fire their muskets. As advised, we cover our ears. Two Confederate and two Union soldiers man the lone cannon. In front and at the edge of the sloped terrain, passenger cars speed east and west. Behind and at close range to the soldiers, the Battle Flag continues to wave. Boom . . . Boom . . . Boom. We have been entertained with War-era instruments by Birmingham, Alabama’s Bobby Horton and spirituals sung by local citizens; welcomed by city representatives; introduced to our extraordinary relative; recognized as the first Joseph Emerson Brown Park family in reunion; and

205 reminded of the human sacrifices of our fathers, husbands, sons, the Ladies Soldiers′ Relief Soci- ety, and Marietta Ladies Aid Society. The inevitable picture-taking time arrives. We stand close to each other in the Gazebo and on its steps. Soon this picture will accompany a priceless video now in Bob’s camera. Great Grandfather John Brown’s great grandchildren place a shovel of dirt on the roots of the memorial tree, donated by Daisy Landscape, in honor of his cousin, Joseph Emerson Brown. Ann holds the large portrait of Great Grandfather John Brown, for a small intimate picture of his kinfolk. For the first time we hear about his wife, our great grandmother, Nancy Green Brown, and mother of our grandmothers, Mary Brown and Florence Eugenia “Jeanie” Brown. The sun has to set and rise only once before Bob and I drive to the Georgia Capitol in downtown Atlanta. I want to see a statute of a governor with his wife seated at his side, said by decorated veteran Senator Max Cleland to be “the only such statue in the United States.” For four years, I lobbied the Georgia Assemblies for ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment for Wom- en to the United States Constitution without a glimpse of Joseph Emerson Brown and his wife, Elizabeth Grisham Brown. I saw General John Gordon on his horse on the opposite corner of the grounds, unaware of the power he shared with my own relative. Bob photographs me with the statue of Governor Brown and Elizabeth. A mammoth oak and portions of the Georgia Capitol are in the background. Later, a five-by-seven oak-framed copy is mailed to The White House with my letter:

Mrs. Hillary Rodham Clinton, Chairperson, Health Care Task Force Old Executive Building, Room 287, Washington, DC, 2005

I want to encourage, confirm, and laud you and President Clinton as Amer- ica’s First Family. My family heritage through Daddy has been well known all my life, thanks to clannish type reunions, record keeping, historical research, and the faithful prodding of individual members. Not so, regarding my mother’s background. An uncle named, Brown seemed to have a bizarre and puzzling first name. The year 1992 and the year 1857 hold remarkable parallels for you and for me. Not only was my hope restored with the election of a brilliant caring President who reveres his equally brilliant and caring wife, but my connection—through my Grandmother Mary Brown and her father, John Brown—to Governor Joseph Em- erson Brown became known. To know Governor Brown is to recognize brilliance, caring and devotion to his wife, Elizabeth. Similarly, as with President Clinton, although often at odds with other politicians, Governor Brown was a favorite of the working class. Needless to say, after the Joseph Emerson Brown Park dedication in Mariet- ta, Georgia, on November 7, my husband and I made a beeline down to the Georgia Capitol, to photograph the “unusual and uncommon” statue of a governor with his wife seated by his side.

206 Please accept this enlarged version of our print and several copies of newspaper articles that helped to locate, invite family descendants to the reunion park dedication, and ultimately, to provide an unparalleled serendipity for you and for me. Is this not a matter of immense phenomenon and grace? Sincerely and eternally yours, Eleanor Hope Crisler Babcock

I am delighted to receive a response from the First Lady:

THE WHITE HOUSE Washington July 14, 1993

Mrs. Eleanor Crisler Babcock 225 Parkwood Drive Kennesaw, Georgia 30144 Your thoughtful gift means so much to me. Thank you for remembering in this special way. Hillary Rodham Clinton

Subsequent to learning about Joseph Emerson Brown and the family connection, it becomes clear I know very little about Grandmother Mary Brown Smith, and Grandfather Enoch Franklin Smith. Mother lovingly spoke of her Papa, Enoch. I can picture his house and his front yard off the Square in Cumming, but I remember little of him. I look at a black and white family portrait of Grandfather Enoch Smith, Grandmother Mary and their children, Uncle Stewart, Uncle Brown, Uncle Claude—later killed in an automobile accident—and Mother. Alice Grogan stands behind the group. Papa Smith has a sharp nose, short dark hair, and mustache; Mama Brown Smith has a full face and a dark bouffant hair style, typical of the times. I want to know my grandfather Smith, to feel connected, to identify and possess the seal of good seeds. I know that Enoch is a uniquely important name. All my life, others have spoken about the Enoch who became the father of Methuselah and who “walked with God.” (Genesis 24:22 NRSV) The Enoch God loved, the Enoch in the Bible, and my Grandfather, are the only two Enoch’s I have ever heard of. It stands to reason, Papa Enoch was a good man. Questions, questions, yes I have questions. Nine years after the Brown Park dedication I call cousin, Ann. Soon the Toyota Sienna van is parallel parked in front of Ann’s old house in Acworth, Georgia, where she was born and has lived all her life. We walk through the small front room between boxes and bags of items to be picked up by relatives, down an unlighted hall, and into the room adjoining the kitchen; the room that holds a virtual, timeless history of lives, past and present, in surrounding memorabilia. Cousin Ann is bombarded with questions. She answers. “Eleanor, your grandmother, Mary Brown and my grandmother Florence Eugenia Brown are the links between the Brown family and our Smith side of the family. Their father, Great Grandfather John Brown, was born in Forsyth County February 22, 1837, and he died in 1914. Mary married your Grandpa Enoch Franklin Smith. Florence married William Andrew Turner. One

207 of the Smith-Turner’s four children, my mother, Monnie Azzilee, married James Lemon Smith. Enoch Smith and my dad, James Lemon Smith, were brothers,” Ann says. “Whoa! I’m getting dizzy.” At least pieces are coming together. I have visited Ann’s mother, Monnie, several times, heard her tell of moving to Acworth by covered wagon, and watched her proudly identify the rocks collected and housed in three china cabinets. They are from all the continents of the world and every state in the Union. “This business of rock collecting is certainly contagious,” Cousin Ann reminds me. “I also started collecting heart-shaped rocks in accordance with my February birthday.” I often wondered why anyone would have first name monikers “Brown” and “Lemon.” Ann is all too ready to explain. It is almost too much to take in at one time, this introduction to decades of family history. “You know, Ann, hearing about family history is one thing, living it is another, especially when one is very young. Once I accompanied Mother to Miami in a Greyhound bus to visit her melanoma-cancer-ridden younger brother, Brown, before he died. He had gone deep-sea fishing, he said, and the cancer on his face became terminal. When we entered the building where he was being cared for, we saw an obviously tall and thin man in mid-life sitting in a wheelchair. He asked me to go outside so he could be alone with Mother.” “Look at me, Ophie, look at me!” To Mother’s shock and horror, Uncle Brown jerked off the pewter-color plate covering a gaping hole that had covered three quarters of his face. “Ten years,” he said, “ten years I have suffered.” Later we watched pure cream being poured down his throat, and sat in silence during the long bus ride back to Atlanta. “On other occasions, Mother took me north of Cumming to see her Uncle Mather A. Smith. A prominent Forsyth County merchant, he owned a store and a home located across the road from a tornado shelter dug inside the red dirt bank. A tornado had almost destroyed the city of Gaines- ville. I knew none of Mather’s family, so mostly looked and listened to the adult conversations. Mother always asked about another uncle, Lemon Smith. “After my marriage, I drove Mother to see Bell Clark in Buford, Georgia. A large, short- hair dog, with a blue and a brown eye, ran toward us from the back of Bell’s small, old wooden house. “Ophie!” she exclaimed. I was struck by the joy of this stranger. We followed Bell through the front door and saw in one corner of the front room her husband in his sick bed. No telling how long he has been sick. She is getting on in years, yet she is taking the utmost care of him. Staring at the small black soot-stained fireplace while snatching a glimpse of seeping daylight between wallboards, I almost felt the chill of an approaching winter. Bell talked about her son, Joe Clark, an ad skipper in the Composing Room of The Atlanta Jour- nal-Constitution; how versatile a do-it-your-self person he was. “My heart is broken, Ophie.” She couldn’t seem to talk about it until we were ready to leave, when we were in her front yard. She looked down the way past her house. “My grandson . . . he came home from the Vietnam War and committed suicide in my well. I just can’t think of ever using the water again. They are treating it, but I won’t ever be able to use that water again.” This good and giving woman, Mother’s half-sister, lived humbly on acres of valuable land. She could have had a comfortable home but preferred what she had and contentedly cared for her beloved husband.

208 “Can the void that exists between Smith relatives and me be filled with the reality of a mother who cared enough to be there with Brown, Mather, Bell, and others?” I ask Ann. Ann quotes the German 20th-century poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.” “Can I just be happy with questions and to have tagged along with Mother? Don’t I know Papa Enoch because I knew Mother?” Cousin Ann, who as Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote in her book Gift from the Sea, has “the persistence of a hungry seagull wanting food,” urges more questions to satisfy my latent inquisitiveness. “How old are you, Ann?” “I’ll be 81 in February,” she says. “Eighty-one, and do you know I will be 70 on November 8th? “If you can, Ann, would you summarize what you know about our Smith ancestors? Were they good people, bad people, or some good people? Looking back over two generations, what do you believe about the Smiths?” “I heard my mother speak of the different ones in the Smith family. They were all fine, hard-working people, and some of them had jobs that kept them off the farm life. The rest of them lived rurally, and as far as I know, they were all good people.” “Ann, connect a Smith face to a memory or past event,” I say. “One memory that I can’t erase when I think of the past is about my daddy’s father and Great Grandfather Albery Bruton Smith. He was born in l836, and Grandma Smith was born in 1839. My mother told me about this incident that happened during the Civil War.” “Your grandmother told your mother, and your mother told you?” I ask. “Yes, Mother said that Albery was a very good friend of a man who was part-owner, with his brother, of the bank on Main Street here in the town of Acworth. That friend and banker was Albery’s Captain in the Georgia Home Guard. The two of them went above Cartersville to make a reconnaissance of the area . . . let’s see . . . I think Sherman may have been on his march to Atlanta from Chattanooga, heading toward Acworth, a main route railroad town. We were a busy little town, only about 35 miles from Atlanta. “The original railroad bed ran through Allatoona Pass. Returning to Acworth from Cart- ersville, Albery Bruton Smith and Captain Smith Lemon found the bridges had been burned. They had to cross over the Etowah River on the railroad trestle. The Captain’s horse was too frightened to walk on the trestle so Great Grandfather Albery put his coat over the horse’s head and led the horse, cross tie by cross tie, across the trestle. Picture that in your mind! “At that spot, where the Little General engine crossed over the trestle on its way to Chat- tanooga, the pilings remain. Also at the Etowah River is Cooper’s Iron Works where the smelter made ammunition for the Civil War. Allatoona Pass is the historical designated spot of the Un- known Soldier.” Ann promises to obtain a small paperback book detailing other area historical facts, but my goal today is to learn about Smith relatives. Ann continues to tell me about Great Grandfather Albery Bruton Smith and Captain Smith Lemon. “Captain Smith Lemon helped build this town. He played Santa Claus by climbing up in the rafters of Albery’s house and dropping down bags of Christmas things, and when his first wife died, he courted his second wife three times in Great Granddaddy’s house.” “Did Captain Smith Lemon or Great Grandfather Albery Bruton Smith get injured in the war?” I ask.

209 “Not seriously that I know of. After their reconnaissance work, they were sent to South Georgia with the Confederate troops. I remember Grandmother saying they caught this chicken, found an old tin can, boiled the chicken in it, ate the chicken, and got sick.” “In the meantime, the Union soldiers had the entire town of Acworth under siege. Grandmother decided to go to Gainesville to be with family. She piled some belongings and Enoch Franklin and Sara Emma, two children of her final 11, in a covered wagon. She walked most of the way, sat awhile, then walked all the way on the only dirt route to Gainesville. I think there was just one old mule or horse. They stopped along the way to sleep. It must have taken a week to get there. Grandmother’s feet and legs were so swollen, they couldn’t unlace her high-top boots; they had to be cut away.” “So my Grandfather Enoch, the youngest son of Albery Bruton Smith, was born October 7, 1859. He would have been just three or four years old during the Civil War. I can imagine him bouncing up and down on the wagon trip. You know, Ann, it never occurred to me that the Smith family, as well as the Crisler family, were caught up in the Civil War. I always wondered, though, how your daddy, Lemon Smith, came by his name.” “Well, after the war, Grandfather and Grandmother decided to stay in Gainesville. Their last child was born there and was named Lemon Smith after Captain Smith Lemon.” “You’ve confirmed my vibes about Papa Enoch, Ann, about the Smiths.” “Yes, Enoch was a Smith, and the Smiths are just good stock.” “You and I have a treasure that most would never dream of having, our closeness to each other and to all the Smiths. Our past and present are linked handclasp-to-handclasp with what we do know and what we do not know. I know we are double cousins, don’t try to explain it to me again, it’s too heavy for me right now. I wish I had touched base with you more in our earlier years. The few times I did were enough to identify you as the most distinctive and practical practicing Christian example I have ever known; a self-giving action person. You became your mother’s quiet, long-term, extraordinary caregiver. Witnessing this human interaction, I was touched by the presence of God . . . a transforming experience.” “Ugh, let me see if I can find some pictures for you. Oh, here is one of Mother in her younger years, standing by the street marker, SMITH STREET.” “Do you remember, Ann, back when I parked the black van at the curb in front of your house, and like a pilgrim under a clear night sky, I shared a basket of fruit with your mother, Mon- nie, in her last days? The night was still. I looked up to see what appeared to be a new star, one of the brightest in the galaxy, a star claimed by me, for me. I remember thinking: Did I find you, Star, or did you find me? Did you draw me to this place tonight?” The answer came inside the house on Dallas Street in Acworth. “Monnie was lying in her single bed next to the right wall, a small man sat in a chair facing me. Life had taken its toll on him. Ann, you stood to my left. We were all silent. Your husband had come back. Your face shone radiance and happiness. James Nelson was back.” “Instantly, James brought my daddy to mind. He even resembled Daddy in certain ways. In one silent moment, an unexpected gift of total reconciliation without verbal expression, was recognized and accepted by the four of us.” Double cousin, Ann, brings us back into the present. “You must write, Eleanor. “If you don’t write about our people, everyone will be forgotten.”

210 The hours with Ann have passed quickly. I am led back through the narrow hallway; dimly lit but more visible with rays of light from the outside world. On my way back to Parkwood Drive in Kennesaw, I have some answers. Off the Cumming Square, stories were told about a “hanging” near the Square and within sight of my Grandpa Enoch Franklin Smith’s house; something about what a Negro did to a white person and what white people did to him. “It was just an accepted fact,” Mother had said, “and has been since I was very young. No Negro dared set foot again in Forsyth County.” West of Forsyth County, in Cobb County, a more famous lynching of Leo Frank, a white Jew, occurred. A plaque, placed by a rabbi in 1955, marks the site. The episode of 1915 was told to many for the first time in the year 2000. The Civil War was a turning point for the South and North, for the Browns and the Smiths— for me. The past and present entwine themselves with our roots. Looking again at the Smith family portrait, I see that my brother James’ facial bone structure is similar to that of Papa Enoch. Donald and Samuel, easy going and gentle other brothers, exemplify what I feel was Papa Enoch. Thomas reminds me of courage and endurance. Sister Sara and I are the light green moss that grows insepa- rably at the trunk of Enoch’s family tree. We all live on this side of the “turning point.” “For sure, God is everywhere, and who knows, I may have been ‘walking’ with Him for quite a while.”

211

Historic Marker, Brown Park, Cherokee County, Canton, Georgia

Ann Louise Smith Nelson Helen Smith Couch

Historic Zion Baptist Church Crisler Street, Canton, Ga.

First Brown Family Reunion Dedication of the Joseph Emerson Brown City Park Adjacent to Confederate Cemetery in Marietta, Cobb County, Georgia Early Crisler Family Residence, Cherokee County Historic Canton, Georgia

CRISLER ST Sign, Historical Marker on left Cherokee County, Canton, Georgia

Great Grandfather, John Brown (1837–1914) Father of: Grandmother Mary Brown Smith Cousin of Joseph Emerson Brown (1821–1894) Alice Grogan, Grandfather Enoch Smith, Stewart Smith, Grandmother Mary Brown Smith, Carolyn Ophelia Smith Crisler, Claude Smith, Brown Smith (Claude Smith, killed in Automobile Accident)

“Sallie” Edna Smith Bernhardt, Ann Louise Smith Nelson, James Lemon Smith, Jr. Helen Smith Couch, Lawrence E. Smith Nancy Smith Maxwell, William M. Smith (Jean Smith Fortson, deceased)

Chapter 32 History of a Good Family, Second Only to the Bible The Book of Numbers, Chapter 26 (New English Bible (NEB), 1970) records Second Census descendants and identifies them by tribe and head of clan. We Crislers have always been referred to as clannish. When Great Uncle Joseph Julius Crisler became president of the newly organized Crisler Clan Annual Reunion in Georgia, July 20, 1933, I was 20 months old. The Clan’s historian, Mrs. James Roscoe McDuffie, wrote and published, History of the Crisler Family in America, 1736–40, and dedicated it to the memory of her grandfather, Dilmos A. Crisler, (sixth generation). As a ninth generation, 11-year-old descendant in America, I was barely aware of this history. I do remember how serious Great Uncle Joseph Julius Crisler and other relatives were when we sat in someone’s beautiful backyard to discuss the progress of our historical account. It is a distinct blessing that this thin, 49-page, five-by-eight-inch slate-blue record of the Crisler family was entrusted to me. The rough texture of the outside cover seems to convey well the difficult odds and hardships endured in order to enjoy life in a new land. In the ensuing years, I have come to know and appreciate our good family and its history. Thanks to Mrs. McDuffie, our Crisler family can trace its ancestry to the ancient history of German people. In some written accounts of the first American is not Crisler families, John Jacob Crisler acknowledged. Crislers arrived in “first and second waves”after 1729 when threats from Leop- old, Archbishop of Salzburg were issued regarding subjects’ religious preferences. Many had re- nounced the religion of Rome. They had to conform, or “leave the Dominion, or be put to death.” Andreas Gar (also spelled Garr) of a Palatine family became the head of his American family in 1732. Four years later in 1736, according to Mrs. McDuffie, “John Jacob Crisler arrived with his ‘party.’” Landing in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, these immigrants settled in “the vicinity of Germantown, Pennsylvania. They later moved to Virginia, and settled in Spottsylvania County.” John Jacob’s 21-year-old son, Theobold Fawatt Crisler, married Rosina Garr in Madison County, Virginia in 1737. I now look back at least three generations and sense struggles; walk the fields of battle in Manassas, Virginia and Kennesaw and Acworth, Georgia; hold in my hand a Civil War powder horn with initials on it of Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler; and listen for echoes from the past to carry in my pouch of honor and devotion. Collaboration with Caroline Matheny Dillman, author of Days Gone by in Alpharetta and Roswell, Georgia, Volume I, results in a breakthrough on the Crisler Family line. I had no idea who my great grandfather was, or how knowing that would connect generation five to generations seven through eleven. Ms. Dillman needed the five preceding generations, and I needed the link, Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler, between generation five and generation seven. Constructing our Family Record, fourth generation, Julius Crisler was born in Culpep- per County, now Madison, in 1767, and married Elizabeth Souther of Madison County, Virginia. Julius Crisler, known to be founder of the Crisler family in Georgia, had 14 children who settled in Elbert, Oglethorpe, Hinds, and Cherokee Counties. One son of theirs was fifth generation Abel Crisler, born in 1808. He married Anna Maxwell of Cherokee County. Abel Crisler was the father of Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler. One of Great Grandfather’s brothers, Great, Great Uncle Benjamin Franklin Crisler, was born June 20, 1844, near Alpharetta in Cherokee County, now Milton County. The Georgia-Cherokee County history is now focused, and exciting:

We know Great, Great Uncle Benjamin Franklin Crisler was a teenage Confederate army soldier along with his eight brothers. After injuries, he returned to farm life and resumption of his schooling. He came to Canton and, according to Rev. Lloyd G. Marlin’s published History of Cherokee County, 1932, “drew the confidence of leading business men of the community.” He formed a partnership with W. A. Teasley. When Teasley died in 1907, he brought his son, Roy Crisler into the partnership. In time, our great, great uncle became “one of the organizers of the First Bank of Canton and one of the organizers of the Canton Cotton Mills. He also actually helped with the handling of Canton’s finances.” Benjamin Franklin Crisler was married to Mary Maxwell Teasley who died when she was 23 years old. Later, he married Georgia Emma McClure.

Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler’s son was Grandfather Isham Franklin Crisler. Grandfather Isham, Daddy’s father, married Dora Anne Evans, a part-Cherokee Indian descendant of Southeastern American Indians known as the Mound Builders who lived in the Pied- mont area of Georgia, in 1776. The Creeks however, who came from the North, had built the Etowah Mounds in Carters- ville, Georgia, many, many years before the arrival of the Cherokees. After war-like clashes with whites and other Indians, the Creeks were pushed across the Chattahoochee River. According to the government document “Cherokee Research, Decatur, Tennessee. Wash- ington D.C. Archives record, Miller Applications 1906: CRISLER, DORA C., GA.; 18797, and EV - ANS, MINNIE, GA.; 39909,” Grandmother Dora, who I called “Mama Doe,” and Minnie (Evans), her sister, received the last Cherokee remunerated checks from the United States Government. “So could that be the origin of my high cheek bones, love of the earth, inner dancing drum, pride in granddaughter’s clay pottery gifts, collection of handmade rugs and stone fetish, and my attraction to Anasazi Indian cliff-side homes of Mesa Verde?” I ask myself. “And is my concern for ‘the modern-day waning of close bonds, mutual helpfulness, and clan-like spirit’ similar to the concern of Great Uncle Joseph Julius Crisler?” Born in Alpharetta in Milton County on February 10, 1867, it was his concern when I was still a toddler.” Viewing the situation then and possessed with a deep desire to renew and keep alive that spirit of love and devotion to one’s kinsmen so characteristic of his forefathers, he conceived a plan not only to revive, but also to perpetuate the spirit of the Crisler clan. One Sunday afternoon in 1933, Great Uncle Joe talked to some relatives about the possibility of getting the clan together once each year. Those at his home that day were his wife, Louvinie Gillispie Crisler; brother-in-law and sister, Mr. and Mrs. W. A. Webb (Uncle Will and Aunt Angie Catista Crisler) and two of his daughters, Lala Crisler Selman and Annie Crisler Morris. Of course I don’t remember the Willis Mills reunion location. But I can still visually visit the Shallow Ford home of Mr. and Mrs. Homer Morris, on the Atlanta to Buford highway, in Chamblee, with the five-foot-high neatly cropped privet hedge-fence all the way around the big yard, the long, -per

218 manent wooden outside table extending from each end of the two-story house, and the black iron boiling pot full of steaming Brunswick Stew. The spirit of Crisler Clan Chief, Great Uncle Joseph Julius Crisler, merges with my spirit and I hope, with all clan descendants when we read again a paragraph of his 1942 letter to Crislers in History of the Crisler Family in America, 1736-1940:

“I sincerely hope that this reunion shall never die. I pray that we may love each other and fight for each other so long as our conduct shall meet the approval of our Heavenly Father, our country, and the consciousness of duty well done. If the time should ever come when we are not good citizens, then—and not until then—we shall deserve to be forgotten.” Joseph Julius Crisler

A Crisler Reunion, July 21, 1979 As recorded by Eleanor Crisler Babcock

The facilities of the YMCA Camp Latimer and the property donated for the use and enjoyment of children were excellent for our gathering at 9:00 AM Saturday, July 21, 1979. Fifty-six family members were in attendance. Crisler House, Joann and their four children came for the first time, as did Norman and Eugene Eidson. Simmy and Billy brought their brides, and Sandi and Debra brought friends. Covered dish foods were delicious and plentiful. A smiling face, drawn on the bottom of a child’s plate and an adult plate, entitled the hold- ers to receive lucky prizes. Todd Wade won a Hallmark picture album, and Crisler House received the centerpiece plants: a Thanksgiving cactus, and a plant with little shells. Shells, driftwood, and living plants symbolize the eco-system, our earth home and its importance. Thoughts of love were expressed for those who couldn’t be present. Three innings of serious softball and competent umpiring show us why our Joel Crisler is playing triple-A hardball in Salt Lake City, Utah, for the Los Angeles Angels. Don and Martha Caroline came in first in the canoe race, with Todd and me, last. The volleyball games proved to be cousins’ delight, and are only postponed until next year. The quote of the year has to be from Crisler’s toddler daughter, Eliz- abeth House, when asked, “Why are you crying, darling?” She answered through inconsolable tears, “I want to play bolleyball.” Last year’s reunion album received lots of attention. Thanks to brother, Thomas, for his creativity, care, and keeping of all albums. Thanks to Billy, oldest son of Thomas, our photographer again this year. Thomas reminded us that insurance is his business. A suffragette, possibly reincarnated, appeared with an Equal Rights Amendment button on her blouse. The Crisler Balance Sheet confirmed that covered-dish dinners ensure reunion financial stability. May the growth of love and peace, so real to us this year, increase and impact our world.

219 A letter sent to me, from Susan Crisler Donnally, Nanticoke, Pennsylvania:

March 7, 1993

Dearest Bob and Eleanor, In going through my mother’s archives, I’ve discovered some amazing stuff. I thought you would be interested in this letter from my brother to my parents dated 1953. I couldn’t bear to part with the original. Write soon. Love, Susan

S/SGT P. F. Crisler 1126736/2260 Marine Corps Rifle & Pistol Team Rifle Rank-Parris Island, S.C. Mon., June 8

Dear Mom and Dad and Susan, How you all, fine I reckon. I’m fine here, the weather is terrific. Now and then, it cools down to about 85 degrees in the shade, but mostly it’s up around 95 degrees. I got a bad sun burn last week but I’m getting over it and starting to get tan. Everything is running smoothly here. I went to Atlanta Fri. It’s a seven hour drive from here. I got there about 11:00 PM. I checked into the YMCA. I had lost the address you gave me so I didn’t know how to get in touch with Grandma. I called Uncle Abe at 11:00 PM, and he thought somebody was playing a trick on him. After I finally convinced him, he came and got me and made me stay with him over the weekend. We stayed up ′til about 2:30 AM, talking . . . Aunt Mary, him, and me, and Uncle Abe just couldn’t get over how big I was. Next morning we got up at 6:00 A.M., because he had to take Uncle John— he’s our new Step Granddad—to work. Well, we got there about 6:30 AM. I went to the door and Uncle Abe told me to look for Smith, but Uncle John, (that’s what everybody calls him) came to the door instead. So Uncle Abe came up . . . he was kidding . . . and led the way into the kitchen. And was Grandma surprised! Uncle Paul was there too, he stays with Grandma. I had breakfast there then we went downtown. Uncle Abe had to stop in at work for a while—he works for a wholesale grocery concern. Then we went to see Uncle Will Webb and Aunt Angie Webb. Uncle Sam was there. Uncle Sam is more or less a salesman for him. Then we went back and had dinner with Grandma, what a meal! That afternoon I met Uncle Joe and Aunt Lou Crisler, and his two girls. It’s amazing—he’s 86, she’s 82—married 66 years, and they are ardent baseball fans. Aunt Lou is in a wheel chair, but they still look good for their age. Were they surprised!

220 We went back and had supper with Aunt Mary and the kids. Uncle Abe’s Mary Ann Crisler is 13, Roger Crisler is eight, and are they good looking! That night we went to see the Crackers and Chattanooga play. Atlanta won four to two. Next day, I went to Sunday school at 10:00 AM with Uncle Abe, we then went to see Grandma again and saw Aunt Hattie and Uncle Jim, we went to see Aunt Pearl and Aunt Olmie before dinner and they are all fine. After dinner, went to see Aunt Ida—she is 89 and just as spry and chipper as a jay bird, as she says. Then we went to see Paul’s kids, but only Eleanor and Sara were home. Eleanor is 21 and Sara is 16. I didn’t know I had such good looking cousins. Tom is expected home any day now. After that, there wasn’t much time left. We came back to Grandma’s, had some watermelon, went back to Uncle Abe’s, packed my bag, and left at 6:00 PM. Uncle Abe took me to the meeting place. I told them I’d get back and see them first chance I got. Uncles Moses Seaborn, Tom, and Joe live in Albany, and I didn’t get to see them . . . maybe next time. They all asked about you—expect you to drop in at any and all times. Grandma picked her guitar for me and sang, and I was surprised. After dinner, Sunday, we had a regular hoedown. I had never even seen that square dance they do. Grandma and Sara, Paul’s girl, tried to teach me, boy are they good. All in all every one’s fine down here. We all miss you a lot. These are mighty fine people here, and I can’t wait to get home and tell you all about it. I’ll never forget it or them, and I couldn’t begin to put it all on paper. Well so long for now, Paul

“Dear Cousin Eleanor,” Susan Crisler Donnelly wrote, “I have a few letters that I want you to have. They are kind of remarkable in the fact they have survived all these years. Reading them almost transports you back in time.”

It was not at all unusual for men, young and old, to take pen or pencil in hand and write letters to a brother, an uncle, or a family living in a distant city or state. In 1931, 78 years ago and four months before I was born, Uncle Moses wrote a letter to his older brother, and Susan’s father, Robert Crisler, in Detroit, Michigan:

Alpharetta, Ga. July 11, 1931

Dear Robert & all, I guess you think I wasn’t going to write you, I have been busy working in the field, and when night comes I am too tired to write. How is everybody getting along, especially Paul Franklin and your wife? Surely would like to see all of you. …sorry you couldn’t come to see us this summer.

221 Father left last Tuesday for Lakeland, Florida, and told me to tell you to write him. I don’t guess you know about Tom Crisler training to be an aviator, and in 3 years, He will have his own plane. I guess business is pretty dull up there, isn’t it? It’s sure is dull down here, robbery going on all the time. Abram is cutting meat in Atlanta with A & P. Russ Rucker asked me the other day if you were still in Detroit. I told him, yes. Sam is going off to college pretty soon, and it won’t be long ‘till I will be right behind him. Just three more years, Joe is in the tenth grade. Wish I could come up and stay a couple weeks with you and your wife. Well guess I had better close, everybody said hello, hope you get to come this summer. Love Moses Crisler

I am reminded that some of the brothers lived with second cousin Cassie House in Al- pharetta when Grandfather Isham and Dora divorced. Moses speaks of Joe, so I believe the two of them were living with Cassie in Alpharetta, at this time. They were the youngest sons.

A cousin writes to a cousin:

Eleanor Crisler Babcock Kennesaw, Georgia 30144 Friday, October 28, 1994

Dear Cousin Paul and Laverne, It’s 6:20 A M, still dark, and the temperature outside is in the 40s. Fall has hastily, silently, and beautifully crashed in on us. As usual, we are very busy. Each day seems to pull me closer to our earth home and family heritage. Much renovation is going on here with our house. On Wednesday all new efficient windows were put in. Yesterday, a contractor and many workers began taking down 14 tall pines in the front and back yards. We are paying extra to mini- mize the damage to other trees and plants there because each is so special . . . like ancestors, themselves: a beech tree from Mother’s yard while she was alive, two maples brought from Nashville before Bob’s mother died, one gingko given to Bob, hydrangea bushes from sister Sara, and several older dogwoods inherited upon purchase of our property. It’s painful to watch this operation and the pines will be missed. For 30 years their trunks added balance to the seasonal changes and background for paintings and photos. Trying not to watch, I raked leaves and planted some pansies. Around 7:00 PM, Bob and I were exhausted and hungry. We went to Kroger’s little cafeteria for supper, took a hot shower, and relaxed in front of the warm fire - place. We had videotaped the six-hour Native Indian History documentary, as told by the Indians, and decided to watch it. The documentary inspired a gamut of emotions.

222 For the first time, I paused long enough to understand the true nature of some European settlers, the true nature of the Native Americans, and the devasta- tion that resulted. At the same time that I empathized with my native ancestors and raged against the settlers, there was in me the acknowledgment and the strange predicament of being ancestrally made up of both groups—not totally innocent or totally guilty. Sleep was restful and refreshing and I dreamed. In the dream, there was a journey, and other people with indistinguishable faces. At least two times, Paul, you and I warmly hugged as cousins do. It was so real and yet a dream. Cousin Paul, we are of the same ancestral clay through Grandma Mama Dora. (Your) Uncle Paul and Aunt Ophie’s kids are approaching a reunion soon. Could this dream not have been a dream at all, but a subliminal message? Throw caution and commitments to the wind. You and Laverne drive, fly, or walk to our reunion party. Be our surprise to the family. We have room for you. It will be fun. Love, Eleanor Hope

“Well, that’s how it used to be.” With other families, the Crislers were settlers in Crabapple and had an agricultural life. Daddy knew carpentry. Daddy knew farming. Farming was an inbred trait, and farming fed his wife and six children during the Great Depression years. Crislers visited each other, abandoned any differences, shared the generosity of meals, and the annual reunion meal. We gave thanks and remembered the “first fruits” of our time and bounty. It gets harder and harder to connect with the farming world and to find the eternal touch in the soil. It’s time for another Chief of the Clan to be elected. It’s time we annually give thanks and remember the “first fruits” of our time to each other, to share our bounty. In her first volume of Days Gone by in Alpharetta and Roswell, Georgia, Mrs. Caroline Dillman wrote, “The Crisler’s were one of the pioneer families of North Fulton, of Crabapple, and spilling over into Roswell. Also, there are so many other pioneer families connected to the Crisler’s through marriage.” One glance at Daddy and Mother’s personal North American clan—ninth through 12th generations—is a realization we are consecrating our inheritance from them and from past generations: all 45 of their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, and still counting. One has to wonder what John Jacob Crisler and Andreas Garr—the heads of the two southern American families—would say about modern 2009 Crisler families. Would they understand and be patient with the occasional droughts between Crisler reunions, droughts that make strangers of kinfolk? Shall we honor the sincere hope of Great Uncle Joseph Julius Crisler that “this reunion shall never die”?

223 “Hail to posterity! Hail future men of Gemanopolis!

“Let the young generations yet to be Look kindly upon this

“Think how your fathers left their native land— Dear German-land! O sacred hearths and homes! And, where the wild beast roams,

“In patience planned New forest-homes beyond the mighty sea; There, undisturbed and free, To live as brothers of one family.

“What pains and cares befell— What trials and what fears—

“Remember, and, wherein we have done well Follow our footsteps, men of coming years.

“Where we have failed to do Aright or wisely live,

“Be warned by us—the better way pursue;

“And knowing we were human, even as you, Pity us and forgive!

“Farewell, posterity! Farewell, dear Germany!— Forevermore, farewell!” —Francis Daniel Pastorius, (1651–1719) Founder of Germantown, Pennsylvania

224 Mrs. Ida Florence Crisler Haygood, 101 on Wednesday, August 18, 1965, was born, oldest of nine children in Milton County, which is now part of Fulton. She celebrated with relatives and friends on the front lawn of her old Ansley Park home that her husband, Robert Edward Lee Haygood, built 50 years earlier.

Mrs. Haygood, at the time, had never been in a hospital, not even to give birth to eight children. She had 12 grandchildren and 23 great-grand children. Tom Srok, Matthew Babcock, David Babcock, Robert Babcock, Sr. Nyle Srok, Rebecca Babcock, Michelle Babcock, Jonathan Babcock, Eleanor Babcock

Certified Fireman, Matthew Christopher Babcock Robert, Sr. (Bob), and Eleanor Babcock

Rugby Player, Michelle Elizabeth Babcock Bride and Groom (March 1st 2008) Parents, David Crisler Babcock and Rebecca Srok Babcock Jonathan Michael Babcock, Lindsey Black Babcock 11th GENERATIoN BABCoCkS Michelle Samuel David with Eagle Scouts: Matthew Jonathan Lisa Cordes, Lynne Cordes Cole, Eleanor Babcock, Rebecca Babcock, Elizabeth (Betty) Babcock Cordes

Elizabeth (Bonnie) Babcock, Lisa and William Mitchell Babcock (Bill) Lynne with Mom Elizabeth 1930’s Babcock Cordes

Robert Babcock, Sr. with Father and Mother, William Mitchell and Elizabeth Schneider Babcock Part XII

TRUE ESSENCE BEQUEATHED

The Men in My Life

Yellow Topaz Polished

Chapter 33 The Men in My Life While doing laundry in the basement, restlessness draws me outside to look at the sky. An army of cotton-ball-shaped clouds are rapidly marching by. I sense the presence of saints—ancestors from the past going forward in lock step. Spirits in the clouds seem to be saying, “I see you, Eleanor.” I have read that in Africa, identity with family, group, culture, or heritage comes before an individual’s identity. The “I” means many people have been paving the way for one meeting the other. In the way of African culture, my answer is, “I am here. I know my ‘I’ means I am linked to all families, villages and tribes. Innumerable ancestors have shaped me.” Just as I’m ready to yell the final hurrahs and hand over my historical memoir, I have an epiphany: Daddy has not received his due in this book, from me, his gem child. “Much obliged. Much obliged,” he said many times. “Yes, sir,” and ‘”No, sir,” his six children answered. Thomas Paul Crisler taught us respect for elders and others. In our separated, struggling times, Daddy telephoned and asked, “Sis, do you ever think of me?” “Yes,” I said, “when we don’t have anything to eat.” It was a hateful answer. I really didn’t mean to be unkind. Immaturity, blaming his addiction and inherited scars—dating back at least four generations—have been superseded by understanding and pride. With his advanced stages of emphysema and other complications, Daddy’s room upstairs in the Ponce de Leon boarding house in Atlanta seemed like a prison. “Much obliged, Daddy, for writing to me, when I was in Augusta, before your death in 1959 at 55 years. The small stack of letters revealed your true self. I just wish we could have had more daddy-to-daughter talk.” Growing up with brother Thomas Gilmer caused my bent reed to lean toward our father, Thomas Paul (called “Paul”), Grandfather Isham Franklin, and Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler. A notation I recently made to myself: read every night and day. The green post-it marks Psalms 139 in The New Oxford Annotated Bible (NRSV). According to the printed annotation, this Psalm is a prayer for deliverance from personal enemies. I remember back when Thomas said, “Sister, don’t give me any more of that trashy unbelieving stuff. It’s just not clear to you yet; be grateful to Mother and Daddy.” “Clear as clear can be, Thomas, my mental illness was a time of searching, being known and tested. God loved me in conception through intentioned parents, Thomas Paul and Carolyn Ophelia, and His reflected light diminishes personal imperfections and perceived darkness. “Daddy and I have worn the topaz of November births, the hardest of stones to cut. Even so, long since the early 1950s when Divine Providence spoke to Soul about color changing—from pink to red and petals falling—this Scorpio daughter of the Great Depression is learning and practicing emotional modulation. Highs or lows give sway to the in-between reactions.” Husband Bob retires from UNISYS in 1987. Fifty-six years young, he begins participating in Cobb County’s senior-game competition and Hobgood Park softball. Playing tennis, he con- founds opponents with his unique spin. Bob still accepts Hershey Kisses, and prefers dark chocolate, reads funny papers, and plays AARP The Magazine’s “Word Search” puzzle, and computer FreeCell Game with high scores. “And how would you explain your feelings about your Fart Machine, Bob?” I ask. “Well, it keeps me close to Nature,” he responds. “And I would say, when you relinquished the original one to my brother, Don, you en- deared yourself to him forever.” “Don,” I say, “everyone knows how many laughs the family had and how courageous and positive you were with the transplantation of your aorta, but tell me how your Fart Machine affected the Emory University Hospital staff.” “You mean in 50 words or less?” Don pauses, and continues. “I tell you there were nurses out in the hall just to get a dose of it, to get in the room with me to get cheered up! That Fart Ma- chine is a true ice-breaker. Pardon the pun.” Donald’s recuperation at home is expedited daily with his prized gift. I can’t help wondering how Mother might have responded to these uncouth sounds and conversations! Doctor Joyce Brothers was right. As a matter of fact, Bob is characteristically similar to Mother; loved and respected by everyone, mostly quiet and non-talkative. Mother saved her nicest drinking glasses for visitors, and she saved her best nightgowns in case of hospitalization. Bob ac- cumulates hoards of scrap wood, metal and tools for eventual fix-ups. (Some psychologists blame this behavior on too much potty training.) Crislers and Babcock’s want that sweet tea, and Bob brews the best. Oldest son, Robert William, Jr. (Bobby), also has the knack for sweet tea-making down pat, whether at a campsite or for family dinners. As an eight-year-old, he wrote this letter to his parents:

Bells Ferry Dec. 16, 1964

Dear Mom and Dad, For my Christmas gift to you I want to tell you that I love you. I am proud to be your child. I promise to be a good child and a good helper. I promise to take a bath and brush my teeth without being told. I promise to pick up my things, empty trash, hang clothes, and any other things I can do to make our home happy. Merry Christmas, Robert

“Well, Son, you always aim high, but the reality of having been our firstborn is traumatic for you at best and makes hitting the target pretty difficult. Coping with our own aims and inabili- ties for a time must be a challenge.”

Middle and High school writings reveal true character:

I am thankful for friends and not enemies. I’m thankful for a pinecone to throw at a dog when he gets into our garbage can. I’m thankful for a chance to prove myself. Robert Babcock, Jr.

A collection of Sprayberry High School poems, drawings and humorous writing reminds us of extraordinary talent and creativity:

232 Quiet Have you ever had a dog factory working in your own backyard? I have and do! My next-door neighbors raise Great Danes, and they are noisy. The noise always seems to follow me, too. For example: I watch some TV for a while and then go to bed, but I don’t sleep. The second I hit the hay, they start barking. So you see I am sure happiness is quiet because I never have any.

There are Many Different Types of Students in an Average High School 1. There are many smart people at high school. 2. But there are more dumb people. 3. Some are hippies. 4. Some are straight. 5. But I am in a class of my own.

Robert Babcock Typing I, I0-5 My name is Robert Babcock I am 15 years old. I have two brothers and two parents. My hobbies are girls, arrowheads, and any other thing I happen to be doing. I have never had typing before. Sprayberry is great. () This is a recording) That wasn’t, enough to say so I said this much more.

Glad you like Sprayberry. I hope you enjoy this class and learn much about typing. Mrs. Hill

“You will have your 50th birthday this January 2, 2005,” I say, “and you are still Bobby to most.’ “What was it like to have had three close calls in the Kirk-Rudy airplanes?” I ask our son. “I reasoned them to be a measure of proof in the word, ‘lucky.’ I’ve considered myself lucky for a long time. It was like the spice-of-life thing—exciting. The adrenaline pump made me younger. That’s the way I look at the crash and other malfunctions.” “You have been almost a co-parent to your son Sam’s friend, Jordan. How has that figured into the overall scheme of things?” “Well, personally I like the kid. I get a lot of pleasure out of doing things for someone who doesn’t have others around to do them. Jordan is a good friend of Sam’s, and I hope he is around for a long time.” “What about your leisure life; fishing, gambling?” “These days, the priority in my life is to have my feet propped up as much as possible. Fish- ing happens when it happens. Gambling has turned out to be something fun and convenient that Cathy and I like to do together. The word really shouldn’t be gambling it should be entertainment, because that’s what we get out of it.” “Tell me,” I say, “what do you consider the most significant occurrences or milestone since you so perceptively wrote your poem, The Rose of Life, the one about ‘thorns and beauty’?” “As far as that question goes, every day is a milestone with me. Keeping an open mind, thinking positive makes every day good. I don’t remember the poem.”

233 “You compared a rose bush with its thorns to life.” “I don’t remember the poem,” Bobby repeats. “Your prototype design talents and work skills have always been amazing and a source of pride to your dad and me.” “Well, I don’t have any real talents that way. If you go about thinking, why do something if you’re not going to do it right, that goes a long way. And I have a word that I use in the business that not too many people use. It’s called ‘imagineering.’ Imagineering is basically being able to look at something and figure out what to do to make it work right.” “When you say ‘imagineering,’ do you mean something akin to engineering? So is that a new coined word?” “I’ve been using it for years. You won’t find it in the dictionary, but I have been using it for years.” “I remember when you first brought Cathy to meet us. You two are a great match, aren’t you?” “Cathy has always been a go-getter,” Bobby says. “She can’t sit still, although she likes to sleep and lie around a lot; that’s not the same thing. She’s very intelligent. In 1999, she received a Master of Education Degree at Brenau University, Gainesville, Georgia. Since she has been around, I have not had any problems with anything, legal or illegal.” In the ten-minute conversation with my six-foot-tall first-born son, I begin to feel nestled in confident, contagious words and sparkling glances, becoming the trusting newborn and Robert William Babcock, Jr., the parent. Bobby accepts leftover marinated beef and vegetable shish kabobs for his lunch tomorrow, and I await Wesley’s impending arrival. I expect a stellar-like experience when my second-born son’s infrequently spoken words allow his gift of silent stamina and courage to shine on me.

Rich green treetops, mostly void of Thalo green splotches, frame 44 acres of Jasper, Geor- gia mountain land. None of the horses that in-between son Wesley Mitchell once requested for his eighth birthday present, but forest animals may be seen from his and Marjorie’s built-to-personal- preference home with a special room for Griffith and Babcock heirlooms and a basement for Wes- ley’s machinery. “Wesley, you were seven years old when you started down the basement steps to sharpen your pencil.” “There was no handrail and you went tumbling down 12 steps, hitting your head on the steel upright. I recall, after so many years, how next-door neighbor, Pat Kilby and I frantically lifted you on to a pillow and took you to Doctor Sessions’ office. That was the first of several child - hood concussions to occur in our family.” “I really don’t remember a lot of my early childhood,” Wesley says. “I was in first grade then. School always seemed to be a struggle for me, but I’m more a hands-on kind of person anyway. “My working life is in the machining-manufacturing world where I seem to be a natural. I’ve made parts for the Space Shuttle and for one of the three Stealth Bombers. I worked on the Hellfire Missile Controls.” “Wesley, I’m astonished, I didn’t know that.” “I also have a patent on a tool I created for the industry. It removes a rough edge or area remaining on material such as metal, after it has been cast, cut, or drilled.”

234 “Hasn’t Marjorie always wanted you to start your own business?” I ask our son, who will celebrate his 49th birthday September 16, 2006. “Yes, and who knows, maybe someday I will,” Wesley answers. “I love being able to take an idea and make it into a reality. If it can be imaged, it can be created.” “Bob, what do you remember most about Wesley?” I ask his father. “His funny side,” Bob says, “always comical, kidding and joking around.” “Whoa! Wesley is remarkably similar to you, Bob, it just dawned on me.” “Yes, Dad, I love to have fun and be silly. My inner child is very much alive. I think I enjoy my childhood now more than I did when I was young.” Wesley seems to swell with personal pride and continues. “Kids enjoy being around me, they trust me, see me as their friend, and I can be sillier than them. I’ve had more practice! People tell me I’m ‘everyone’s favorite uncle.’ They say, ‘90% of communication is listening,’ and this, I do.” “You bring wonderful surprises into your parents′ lives, Wesley, and we marvel at your common sense as you deal with some of life’s physical setbacks and constant pain,” I say. “I really miss not being able to water ski or snow ski like I used to, but am grateful for all the fun we had as kids. Dad, you were and still are THE GREATEST! Because of you—even if things weren’t all that good in your life—we always had such good times; camping, swimming, boating, and motorcycle riding. You spent more time with us than most fathers, and as we grew into men, your love and support were always there. Next to my wife, you are the most important person to me on this planet.” Wife, Marjorie recognizes and writes about the difference everyone can make in others′ lives with just a simple act of kindness and caring. The difference was made when, as headlined in the Jasper, Georgia, Pickens County Progress, “Quick Work of Good Samaritan Opens Road in Time for Ambulance”:

On Saturday afternoon, a tree had fallen completely across Cove Road, (just before the bad curves at the top of the marble quarry.) Wesley Babcock was on his way to the convenience store when he alerted the police. He went home, put his chain saw in the bucket of his tractor, and headed to the scene. Two police officers arrived as Wesley cut the tree and proceeded to remove all debris with his tractor as traffic rapidly backed up. Once he was finished and heading for home, traffic quickly started moving back to normal. A moment later a siren came up Cove Road, it was an ambulance on an emergency call. We hope everyone realizes they can make a tremendous difference in others′ lives with just a simple act of kindness and caring.

“Wesley, like your father, you have deep thoughts,” I say. “You and Marjorie have been ‘best friends’ as a married couple for 25 years. What has given you two the most pleasure over the years?” No time lapse here, the answer is quick and inspiring. “When I met Marjorie I knew my life would never be the same. It was love at first sight for both of us. I asked her to marry me three weeks later. We have had our share of ups and downs, but have stood the test of time, and recently celebrated our anniversary in Hawaii. “We both know what we have is very special and are grateful to have found one another at such a young age. We almost lost each other in that 1969 Orange Camaro car accident in 1983, and since then have always kept one another close.”

235 “Tell about life in Jasper surrounded by green space, rustling brooks and fresh air. What was it like for you and Marjorie to plan and oversee the building of your dream house? And aren’t you beloved by nearby mother and father-in-law, Arnold and Margie Griffith?” “Marjorie’s parents, Arnold and Margie, have been very good to me, making me feel like an important member of their family, being easy to talk to and interested in everything I do, always showing me love. “Mom and Dad Griffith gave us the most beautiful property to build on. Only two miles from the town of Jasper, it’s everything we ever wanted. There’s a 50-foot waterfall just a couple minutes behind our house and we love spending time there. It’s so relaxing and easy to forget there is an outside world. “There are hiking trails through our woods, cliffs to sit on and day dream, dozens of ash and black gum trees, and so many birds. You know we feed the turkeys, deer and an occasional bear. It’s fun on our four-wheeler and motorcycle,” Wesley says stroking his thick curly hair and beard as he tells of a life better than he could have hoped, of enjoyment of life more and more. “What have been favorite places you and Marjorie have visited? Where and when do you ride your motorcycle? Do you still do some kayaking?” I ask. “It’s hard to remember all the many things we have done together and the fun we’ve had. Our favorite vacation was probably driving out to Yellowstone National Park a few years back. We promised to drive back out west again. “We do things our way and don’t worry what others think. We got married in blue jeans because that’s who we are (It was a small family wedding that this mother remembers well), and we live life the way we want to.”

I didn’t verbally express my deep love to the infant Wesley, but my heart and soul healthy- eye contact spoke for me then and now, this day, December 1, 2005. In the vernacular of a machine-manufacturing trade world, my memories and words mesh like gear teeth with those of our Advent-conceived son. “Wesley Mitchell Babcock,” I say, “remember, it is that nourishment sustained between two pieces of life-bread that makes an in-between brother so valuable to this family and to the world around us.” And with that thought, I look up and to the left from my vantage in the Tea House. It is the brightness of a new age. The tall border tree trunks stand rigid. The leaves on their highest limbs delicately wave in the Spirit of the wind. Nature’s green colors say hello to the promise of the moment.

Soon Bob and I will hang new valences in our small bedroom-turned-office with itsIBM computer and many books. Named Mexicana for their bright blue, green, red, yellow, white, and beige stripes, the valences could easily symbolize “The Color of Threads” first visualized when David Crisler Babcock was born. It seemed then, that Nature’s panorama of beauty had woven three sons into a coat to be worn by Bob and me.

236 This Advent early dawn, an e-mail arrives from Mrs. Claus:

Sent Friday, December 23rd, 2005, 12:29pm Subject: Santa Arrived on a Bike Santa came early for David—he is in HOG heaven (pun intended!)

So, David is having a cobalt blue “HOG” Christmas! Two photograph attachments to Becky’s e-mail are great. I like that 43-year-old boyish grin appearing from the helmet. I can’t wait to ride on the back of the Harley up a Lake Arrowhead hill, just let me walk back down.

Having had conversations with Robert and Wesley, and now with David, is akin to opening a trunk in the attic of time, moving my fingers backward while brushing away the dust and untying ribbons of thoughts, connecting with each son’s past to the present. “It was your fate, David, to spend precious early years cradled and cared for—as did your brothers—by your grandmother Bonnie during difficult periods of my postpartum complications and mental health years. Not only did you survive my illness, but did so wearing hand-me-down clothes often too large for you. You were in Wesley’s outgrown shoes that day at Little River. Do you remember when your Dad took you to Webster’s cliff above Lake Allatoona near the Little River Bridge? Bob was skipping rocks across the surface of the lake below. You stumbled down, rock over rock, to the water below.” “I do remember going to the lake with Dad, and how much fun it was to just hang out and see what treasures we could find. All I remember is walking along the top, how cool it was to be so high up and—as a normal young guy would do—seeing how close I could get to the edge. Dad told me not to.” “Bob, in heavy winter clothing, miraculously reached your face-down floating body and managed to get you over to lower terrain and back to the car,” I tell David. “Badly bruised on face and body, but otherwise no broken bones,” the doctor said. “Oddly enough, I do remember walking into the hospital to get checked out, and going home . . . weird!”

“I thank God for Bob who saved your life, and for Elizabeth—known as Bonnie to us—as we read letters of July and early August 1974, from our home on Parkwood Drive and Staples Camp in Canada. You were 12 years old.”

Staples Camp, Canada, July 24, 1974

Dear Babcock’s, David has just come in. He was with Scott and his brother, and they spend a lot of time together. Scott has a Z50 Honda and needless to say, David spends a lot of time on it and in Scott’s boat. Edward lets David take the little motor boat out alone when he asks. He has, so far, not taken advantage of the trust we have placed in him. He asked to go with the boys across the lake to dive from the rocks, and I said “no!”

237 David does have such a good disposition and takes “no” without pouting or complaining. And what fun he does get out of life! Since we are only three now, (Geigers, Gladys, Martha, Ben and Clark, Sha- ron Flint, Fred Flint, and four children came and went) we all go to the upper cabin together, to sleep—David on the porch—until 9:00 A.M. each morning. What a life! Love to all, Bonnie and Uncle Edward

Dear Mom and Dad, I am having a great time. Aunt Aurabelle Vincent arrived yesterday. I have just run out of money. I bought three lures. One was a Jitterbug and two were Hul- lapoppers. I sure hope Charlie is all right. How are Jeff and Greg? Got a new TV for camp, I have read one book an inch thick and starting on another one. Everyone is just fine, and playing games all the time. We get juice, tarts, and cakes all the time. I will send you a post card next time. Bonnie is forever writing letters. Your son, David

Mom, I was up at the bus stop and somebody said do you want to lie out? Then Greg said I will if you will, then I said I will if you will. So Greg and I took off for the woods. Jeff almost came but he said he was a chicken. Greg and I stayed out all day. We both were bored and cold. My punishment was a week of restriction. I learned a lot from this and I’ll never do it again. David Babcock 11/14/74 J. Jones 11/14/74 Mr. & Mrs. R. W. Babcock

Mom, Have some coffee on me. Your cup is already out. If you get up before the coffee maker has started just push the switch at the bottom to on and wait. Love, David Thanks David, it was great & just what I needed! Mom

Before YOU leave in the morning I need to discuss the money that you have set aside for my clothes account. I saw just what I am looking for at Kmart. I will be getting up around 8:00 A.M. so if you need to wake me, Please do so. Love, David

238 “I was keenly aware of your growing personal financial needs, but had little ability at the time to satisfy them. You didn’t make any fuss about it, though. Other than that, what was life like on Parkwood Drive?” “I feel extremely fortunate to have grown up in the same place where you and Dad still live. That is a tie most kids don’t get,” David says. “Parkwood Drive is one of those ‘Mayberry-type’ situations; small, approximately 50 houses. As kids, we were able to go into the houses of most anybody we knew, and get a drink of water at any time. Nobody locked their doors. That was a benefit to us.” “That’s right, David, we never locked our doors.”

“During that time you were attending J. J. Daniell Middle School, my prime concerns were providing nutritious meals and adequate clean clothes. I was privileged to have a visit with Mr. J. J. Daniell at Hillhaven Convalescent Center in Marietta. He was 95 and a-half as he sat in a wheel chair and finished writing his thoughts for that morning.”

The Important Thing The most important matter to be considered by each individual person in all of life is having a satisfactory relationship with the Lord.” (St. John 3:16, Romans 10.9-10, Matt. 6. 9–15) (KJV) Then one can have a definite purpose in life. Can enjoy activities for which there will be no regrets. And whether this portion of life, the portion spent here on earth is to be long or short, one will have made a worthwhile contribution here and will be prepared for that “everlasting life.” Among the many brief and forceful sayings of the Rev. Peter Marshall is this: The measure of a life, after all is not its duration, but its donation. J.J. Daniell

It was unexpected. Mr. Daniell gave his devotional writing to me, and it seems appropriate to share it with my sons. “David, you have a good grasp of dates and places about education and work. Refresh my memory. I have a feeling you will intersperse some philosophy and give credit to Becky and her influence.” “Work is not a priority for me, never has been from the standpoint of the most important thing I do. It has always been a means to facilitate family, stability, security, and savings for the future.” “My first work experience at age 15—I had to get a special ‘parent permission work slip’— was with the United States Youth Conservation Corps at Kennesaw Mountain. “We cut trails and cleared earthworks from the Civil War. Without going into details, I got into a bit of trouble. I’m sure you and Dad remember. Chalk that up to a lesson learned and a good work experience.” “Yes, David, and I have a copy of my letter of gratitude to the man in charge for his gra- cious handling of the matter.” “I worked at McDonald’s and later roofed houses for a gentleman across the street.

239 “Every kid that comes up through high school should work in a fast food type environment for a couple of reasons: it teaches discipline, some organization, and expectation of showing up on time. Roofing is a hot job and it doesn’t pay well. Again, lessons were learned, but I wanted neither for a career. “I graduated from Sprayberry High School in 1980, started at Southern Polytechnic that same year, studying Mechanical Engineering. Two years later in 1982—while still in college—I got married to Rebecca Lynn Srok, and we moved into our first house. It was the right thing to do; putting money in a house. The price was right, but looking back, most 19-year-olds didn’t buy a house that early. It was a good deal; the right thing to do. “A year into college, I started co-opting, going to school a semester and working a semester to help make money, and to learn technology for after-college work.” “Actually, Becky was co-opting too, wasn’t she?” I ask. “Yes. I did gopher work, learning drafting and computer design for Simons-Eastern, a paper mill company. The economy took a turn in ‘82 or ‘83. Simons-Eastern laid everybody off, and here I was with a house payment, going to college, and with no job.” “My goodness, David,” I say. I’m beginning to wonder why I wasn’t in tune with the up- heaval in this young couple’s life. “What on earth did you do?” I asked. “I went to the college career office and put my resume into the hands of every company representative that walked in the door. I interviewed with International Business Machines, told them I knew all about computers—although drafting design was not much about computers—and used Simons-Eastern as my reference. Luckily, I got the job, co-opted for two to three years. I received a full job offer from IBM and for the last 21 years have been working for this good company.” “Bob and I were so proud in 1985, when you graduated from Southern Polytechnic State University with a Bachelor of Mechanical Engineering Technology degree, and, on the same day, Becky was graduating from Kennesaw College with a Bachelor of Business degree with top honors.” “In 1986, Jonathan was born.” David continues. “In 1988, Matthew was born. “In 1990, we moved to Cary, North Carolina, and I worked for IBM at The Research Tri- angle. That same year, Michelle was born. In her first year in kindergarten, her teacher called us to say she didn’t realize Michelle was from Canada. All of her children were asked where they were born. We found it interesting to find out where Michelle wanted to have been born!” “Was it the family’s choice to move back to Georgia in 1997?” I ask. “Yes, we wanted to get back to family we appreciated much more after being gone for seven years. We didn’t realize when we left how much we would miss them.” “David, it’s obvious that your ‘people person’ characteristics are a plus for IBM. As a member of the World Wide Network Architecture and Design team, you have received the IBM Global Services, “Pulling Together” team award and the IBM “Technical Achievement” award in recognition of the significant contributions by this team. According to your professional profile, you are ‘the lead architect for IBM’s deployment of Network Intrusion Prevent Systems (NIPS) and provide World Wide architectural direction and product selection.’ I would say your work history equates with your philosophy about work.” “You know, if someone is going to pay you, you need to do a good job and do right by them. I learned from you and Dad to do the job, do it right, and don’t try to slack off and get paid

240 for doing nothing. That is the quality that has been handed to me, and I hope I am handing it to my kids. So far they are hard workers. Jonathan and Matthew work for Chick-fil-A Inc., and I get repeated and continuous feedback from the owner. He is ‘absolutely thrilled’ with their work, and says what good kids they are. Michelle is lining up, wanting to work. I tell her to do hard work and good things will happen. You will not have to ask for raises, you’ll be judged on the value you add.” “We all know both you and Becky have business offices in your home. You travel some for IBM, and Becky works—with her employees—as an ERA Real Estate Representative. Yet family interaction is a priority. Am I right?” “Family is second only to God. I work to enable family; my spare time goes to family. After all, what else is there?” “You, Becky and the children exemplify family life of the future. I just have to ask, what’s it like to be on the cutting edge in today’s world? As compared to Bob’s and mine, help our generation to fathom it.” “Being on the cutting edge in 2005 is really no different than being on the cutting edge in the 1960s. I’m sure your parents, Bonnie and Ophie, were completely amazed with black and white TVs, then color TVs. Or, maybe the rotary telephone in every house, then pulse, then cord- less.” “Well, same for today. We have computers, cell phones, Internet, e-mail, etc. When you are living it, you really don’t see it as futuristic or high tech. In a nut shell, to be in the middle of technology today probably felt just like it did 20 or 40 years ago.” With binary watches, iPods and global positioning systems, no way, I’m thinking. “It is amazing, fun, and overwhelming all at the same time!” Big Blue—parked on the driveway—is on David’s mind, but I want him to talk about Becky. “You know, Son, I take credit for you inviting Becky to our 1982, St. Paul Church Christ- mas Banquet, and hearing Becky say, ‘We consider that date to be our anniversary.”’ “I’m truly lucky to have met Becky, fall in love, get married and live our lives together. I think the world of her capabilities; excelling in everything she does. She made one B in all of elementary, junior and high school! That one B was made during the quarter we started dating. Technically, you can blame me. Her parents did for a while.” “And Bob and I noticed that your grades went up that quarter!” “Becky was heavily into sports in high school, playing softball, basketball, tennis, and cross country running. She participated all four years in all four sports, and was the team captain for each sport all four years, definitely a leader!” “And I know, David, while serving three years on the local Cherokee County school board, she improved its image and function to better serve parents and kids. Her real estate accomplishments are over the top! “In 1956, Bob and I bought our first little motorboat in Ilion, New York. Camping and waterskiing became our affordable family recreation. You, Becky and the kids have a boat and are wake boarding,” my conversation with David continues. “Is there some correlation between the now Staples-Geiger Camp in Canada and your recently purchased Babcock Lake House in Waleska, Georgia, possibly a complementary parallel?” “The obvious answer is, yes, not trying to copycat the Camp on Moore Lake, but trying to set aside a place that can evolve into significant memories. Being at Camp in Canada at a fairly young age had all the charm a young boy would want: fishing, near camping-sleeping conditions

241 in a cabin, lake water, waterskiing, freedom to explore in a wilderness setting. Honestly, it goes deeper than that. Going up there with family, Bonnie, and Uncle Edward, the real value was to see other geography, experience other cultures, manners and preferred foods.” “There’s a great saying: ‘Let’s make some good old days!’ For me, every day is a chance to make a good old day. “As Camp in Canada represents ‘good old days,’ so have family camping weekends in Georgia at Blue Ridge, and Lake Allatoona. Yes, Babcock Lake House has relevance to Camp in Canada; a tradition for our kids.” “As your mom, David, I instinctively called you an earthling. You are a beige-type conservative in dress and home decor, a devoted father. Your quiet generosity and willingness to always be helpful touches many lives.” Vroom, vroom, vroom, Big Blue’s motor is revved. Earthling David rides home.

When Crisler Clan historian Mrs. McDuffie wrote and published History of the Crisler Family in America 1736–40, time and place became personal realities. Time and place is where family thrives. Daniel T. Howell wrote about Time, Place, and Promise in The Upper Room Disciplines 2002, “A promise stands on the floor of the past and helps build a home for a relationship. Even when a promise exists for a limited term, it appropriates history to hold up today’s furniture and the future’s roof of assurance.” Time and place converge with promise in a Crisler, Babcock, Griffith, Srok, Johnson, and Staples family miracle. In 1993, father, mother, and three sons with their wives celebrate a near century of time, place, and promise in the life of Reverend Doctor Edward D. Staples—Uncle Edward to us. Born January 4, 1903, he receives our praise, pictures, and cards for his Memory Book on his 90th birthday:

UNCLE EDWARD, a.k.a. Dad, is a person whose WORLD is totally ex- plored through extensive travel, voluminous reading, and knowledgeable enjoyment of music. To know him is to experience with him. Our family visits to Nashville were special. First Bob, then Eleanor was asked for Elizabeth’s hand in marriage, after the death of Aunt Ethlyne. We celebrate their mature love, our closer kinship, and Dad’s enduring loyalty and patience throughout Mom’s long illness. Bob and Eleanor

242 Hoping that this birthday Is your nicest one by far, For no grandfather anywhere Is loved more Than you are! Happy Birthday Love always, Bobby, Cathy and Sam

A grandfather’s love is something You carry in your heart Warmed by all the memories Of which it is a part

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Marjorie and Wesley

MEMORIES Memories . . . they number in the hundreds, from before Bonnie and Uncle Edward were married in Stone Mountain, to as recent as our family’s summer trip to Camp in 1992. Among the many memories, two stand out most in my mind: The numerous Thanksgivings spent with Uncle Edward defined the Holiday, and the traditions and adventures experienced at Camp will forever be with me. My first recollection of Thanksgiving was at Bonnie’s house in Stone Moun- tain where the highlight was Uncle Edward carving the biggest bird I had ever seen. Many Thanksgivings were also spent in Nashville, Tennessee with Uncle Edward getting up before dawn to prepare the turkey, which would later become the centerpiece of a wonderful meal (several). One could always count on a large bowl of mashed potatoes and Mary’s biscuits—possibly the best in the world. Look- ing back at the Thanksgivings spent with Uncle Edward, I remember the endless number of card games he sat through with Bonnie and me. I will never know how he maintained the stamina to keep a smile on his face. Indeed, Thanksgivings are wonderful with Uncle Edward! Canada, is a place to reflect and forget your troubles, only if it is for a few weeks . . . as a kid, it was a place of new adventures and long-standing traditions. As a parent, Camp was a place I could tell my children about and take them there to enjoy all the wonders that are Camp. Through all the years that I have gone to Camp, Uncle Edward remained consistently generous and never seemed to let the sometimes overwhelming number of people and varying opinions waiver his calm reassuring nature; a feat I have never seen duplicated. Uncle Edward has truly given me the treasure of memories! David Babcock, December 30, 1992

243 Thomas Carlyle wrote about there being a best path for every man: “This path, to find this path, and walk in it, is the one thing needful for him.”

244 News of Jonathan’s baby brother’s birth Amy Srok, David Crisler Babcock, Jonathan Michael Babcock, Eleanor Crisler Babcock

Robert William Babcock, Jr. with son, Samuel Mitchell Babcock Samuel, Matthew, and Michelle Babcock Climbing, Climbing Papaw, Robert Babcock, Sr. Steadies the Ladder

Samuel and Michelle Babcock ride. Jonathan Babcock observes Uncle Wesley Babcock pushes the tire swing High and Fast Following the Wesley Woods Memorial Service for Reverend Doctor Edward D. Staples

Wesley Babcock, Dan Staples with Brent, Robert Babcock, Sr., Robert and David Geiger, Robert Babcock, Jr. Betty Cordes, Marjorie Babcock, Margaret Geiger, Edward Geiger, Donald Staples, Douglas Staples Lisa Cordes, David Babcock, Dana Staples, Eleanor Babcock, Rebecca Geiger, Kris Staples, Cris Staples

Chapter 34 Yellow Topaz Polished A decade ago, creative-writing teacher Cynthia Mortus asked, “Can you write?” I truly had my doubts, but challenged to draw my life in 15 minutes with eight crayons, it just seemed natural to depict then-current interests. I met the time limit with appropriate colors The page was full. My blue United States is now depicted, by some, as “blue” and “red” states. The Clark yard sign and John Kerry poster have been relegated to the basement. Sylvia Browne’s book, Prophecy, What the Future Holds for You, interests me because several years ago, I made a prophecy of my own: America will mature and be all that it can be when president and vice president, a man and a woman (not husband and wife) are elected, as in the way of the Cherokee Indian tribes. After organizing the first Lake Allatoona cleanup and becoming a member of the Georgia Conservancy in 1971, my “life page” began to include active participation in water issues and environment education: as member of Georgia Environmental Action Network, Cobb Federation of Democratic Women, League of Women Voters, Sierra Club, and as computer participant of PIRG (Public Interest Research Group). In September, 2005, along with more than 400 citizens, including Governor Sonny Perdue, Amory Lovins, and Paul Hawken, I attend the Georgia Conservancy conference at Emory Univer- sity in Atlanta, seeking “Georgia’s Common Ground.” Governor Sonny Perdue announces the acquisition of a 24,000-acre plantation in the Red Hills area of Southwest Georgia. In Winning the Oil Endgame, sustainable business expert, author, and Rocky Mountain Institute CEO Amory Lovins offers a coherent strategy for ending U.S. oil dependence by 2025. What, there will be oil, but no market for it? Can it be true, we can buy a car in a box, to assemble ourselves? Mr. Paul Hawken is described by Esquire magazine as one of the 100 most important people of his generation. As our keynote speaker, he tells of indisputable hope. The environmen- talist, entrepreneur, and author shares his belief that the environmental movement is the largest movement in the history of mankind. It is global, classless, without a central leader, and comprised of over two-million organizations. “It’s the movement that doesn’t know it’s a movement, and its power is in its powerlessness,” he explains. It is as if cool, clear refreshing water is washing over a mesmerized audience. Mr. Hawken illustrates the reality of his belief with a continuous rolling list—on two super- sized screens—of world environment organizations that, if timed, would require every minute from afternoon, September 9, 2005, to midnight, October 31, 2005. Take hope, Mother Earth. It hurts to know Mother Earth is being abused. “Don’t mess with Mother,” Anna Quindlen writes in Newsweek, September 2005. She had observed our disappearing wetlands, mindless growth, European cities filled with small compact cars versus the American SUV. But there is hope. Bob, Sara, and I drive to Little Rock, Arkansas. We visit the William Jefferson Clinton Presidential Center. This ultra-modern structure is the centerpiece, clutching the past. The old railroad bridge on its right is destined to allow safe passage across the Arkansas River to a green-space park. On its left, the Center wraps around the old red Railroad Station, housing the first and only school giving academic credit in Public Service. From the gift shop on Clinton Street, I purchase a Pocket Heart, created by Thomas Mann, and inspired by President Clinton at the time of his heart surgery. The letters HOPE are formed to make an elongated heart shape. The William Jefferson Clinton Center is “The Bridge to the Future,” to the 21st century, and for me, hope. On the current “life-page,” Sisterhood remains emphasized in purple. It blossomed in the eighties: up to 50 new friends singing barbershop harmony with Georgia Harmony Chorus, and later, up to 100, with Song of Atlanta Show Chorus. Performances took place in Atlanta, Hunts- ville, Birmingham, and Nashville; placed 8th in world, Chattanooga, and Orlando; placed 10th in world, New Orleans, Salt Lake City, and Indianapolis. After 18 wonderful years and many medals, my resignation from the chorus allows more time for other commitments. A lunch-bunch group of barbershop friends meets regularly to celebrate lasting friendship and birthdays. And there are continuous sisterhood ties to Georgia women with whom I marched and lobbied Georgia House Majority Leader Tom Murphy in the 1980s, during our fight for passage of the Equal Rights Amendment. As one of 40 early founders of the Georgia Women’s Movement Project, 1995–98, 90% of my Equal Rights Amendment activist’s memorabilia is in The Women’s Collection in the Georgia State University Library. Biography and interview—describing my experience to secure a credit card and independent credit record—are in the Special Collections and Archives and the Georgia Women’s Movement Oral History Project. Best of all, there is sibling sisterhood. What a concept; a sister can seem to be similarly myself and very much not myself. Sister Sara lives in her little house in Marietta. She and I have shared faith discernment and concern for the seemingly non-transparent George W. Bush Administration. “Some of our favorite times together are on the telephone solving the world’s problems,” Sara says. As children of an alcoholic father, Sara—five years younger—and I took on different roles when Daddy was drinking alcohol and a family evening turned into chaos. “I thought if I just disappeared, I would be all right,” Sara tells me. “And I was Mother’s protector,” I tell her. Once, not living near other playmates, we older kids of Paul and Ophie went across Cooks Crossing Road, down a winding dirt road to a cow pasture, and played baseball, avoiding the fresh and plentiful cow dung, of course. Sara would disappear to ramble through the meadow, daydream, and become integrated with the world of Nature. She would have been about five years old. Later, after a difficult time with a failed marriage and a leaning toward the ministry, Sara penned this poetic prose:

250 COME INTO THE MEADOW OF MY MIND

To run, to skip, to play, lightens the weight releases The urgency of today and allows the spirit to absorb The warmth of the sun and to feel an oneness with Green meadows and daisies

A meadow without ones’ presence is void, but once you Enter there, you become a part and are surrounded By a moving, creative world of its very own.

At first, there is a sense of aloneness, how sweet this Is, me here, really me a part of and together with God’s Creation, it is difficult to feel the grass beneath My feet, for I am lifted up laughing and singing Singing and laughing oh sweet childhood Of the mind

In a meadow green and bright does my heart a great delight All at once I am alive, and yes I want to Share at first with only someone special to say With all my heart, I love you, see what I see Feel what I feel. It is ours, mine because It is yours, yours because it is mine.

Oh warm sun, green meadows running brook, and daisies What do you impart? Brightness of the day in the Midst of the storm, laughter and gladness with The presence of tears, child likeness in the Face of reason, simple trust among volumes Of knowledge, emptiness instead of Anger ...... Being filled with renewed senses, becoming with the Beautiful butterflies, transformed from here to There, as by the very hand of God. Then, to all the World you can say again, come into the meadow Of my mind.

Sara Crisler Cobb 1/8/77

251 Sara always expresses gratitude to Bob and me for our moral support in her effort to go back to school for entry into the ministry. “First, I completed a General Education Exam to obtain a GED,” my sister explains. “I left a very good job with the Federal Government to attend school full time. While doing undergradu- ate work, I managed to get along on little money and studied 24/7. You and Bob helped to make my faith journey possible.” At Kennesaw College in Marietta, Sara’s thesis expressed her deepest feeling for ministry. She wrote, “Religious Ritual in a Social Context.” June 11, 1982, she became the second of Paul and Ophelia’s six children to graduate—cum laude—with a Bachelor of Arts, History degree. While working on her Master of Divinity degree at Candler’s School of Theology in At- lanta, Sara served as Associate Minister of Hapeville United Methodist Church. December 26, 1982, Bob and I visited the church to hear her first sermon: “Presence, Promise, Praise.” Sara’s January birthstone is the Garnet from the Latin word “Garnatus,” meaning seed. Her horoscope, Capricorn, symbolizes steadfastness; faithfulness, the condition or quality of being constant; changeless. Her tree is the Willow; her season spring. “I’m satisfied life has been good to me,” Sara says. “My three children are independent, and I’m continually reminded that being a mother is my most rewarding contribution to making the world a better place. “Sharing my home with two beagles, Mac and Mollie, gives me great pleasure,” She says. The traditional Crisler reunion has been in drought mode, but thanks to Sara—who hosts a gathering at her home in Marietta, Georgia—tenth generation sons, daughters, nieces and nephews meet and plan our July 31, 2010 Crisler Reunion. At the reunion, Sara and her daughter, Debbie, introduce the newly formed historic CRISLER COUSIN’S CLUB assuring future reunions. The drought is over. Children of aunts and uncles descended from a common Crisler ancestor are subject to their parents’ relationships to extended family. Residing at great distance from one another presents problems, but makes contacts extra special. Reunions can be a conduit for introductions to growing numbers of cousins, and “cousins once removed,” as second cousin, Ann Smith Nelson, repeated many times. Mutual, two-way effort is certain to nourish closeness and net rich rewards. “How would a cousin be depicted on a ‘life page’? Yours . . . mine?” Not limited to “15 minutes,” one page and eight crayons, I climb up the abstract family tree to Great Grandfather Thomas Jackson Crisler. It begins to feel like scanning the ocean depths for a special seashell large enough to house two Crisler cousins. Jo Carole Crisler Driskell and I have the same great grandfather: Thomas Jackson Crisler. His sons, our grandfathers, were brothers: William Simpson Crisler and Isham Franklin Crisler. Their sons were our fathers, and first cousins: Thomas Nelson Crisler (Jo Carole’s daddy) and Thomas Paul Crisler (my daddy). For many years two second cousins exist in the super-sized shell: myself in Atlanta, Col- lege Park, West End, Jonesboro, Cumming, Alpharetta, Roswell, Austell, Martinez, Decatur, and Kennesaw—all Georgia cities; travels to England, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, Holland, France, China, Greece, Turkey, Spain, Portugal, Gibraltar, and Morocco, North Africa. Jo Carole, in Sumter, South Carolina; Nahunta, Brunswick, Albany, Savannah, and At- lanta—all Georgia cities; Beaufort, South Carolina (where she met husband, Jim) and Northern Virginia; Albany, Georgia (Jim in Vietnam); Barstow, California; Japan—she “became Asian,” she

252 says—and traveled to Korea, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Okinawa; Virginia, Tacoma, Washington (retired). Bob and I visit Jo and Jim for the first time in Gig Harbor, Washington. I concede it was a leap of kinship-faith with strangers meeting strangers. We sleep in their daughters Amy and Erin’s room, gaze out a dormer window at seals sunning themselves, eat Red Delicious apples grown in Jim’s father’s orchard next door, and marvel at the couple’s intellect and ingenuity. “It was a great house we built there,” Jo says with pride, “but quite a challenge. If you can build a model airplane, you can build a house.” On several occasions the Driskells come to visit Bob and me in Kennesaw. We take two subsequent trips to Tacoma, Washington. Jo Carole and I conclude that both our fathers—possibly the entire Crisler Clan—may have some of the silent, destructive gene of alcoholism. Time together has allowed comparisons of early family life; of difficult and disappointing times. Any one of several certain bivalve mollusks, when experiencing an irritating grain of sand, will produce layers of secretion that, in time, forms a beautiful gem; a pearl. It has taken time and perseverance, as daughters, wives, and mothers in our unique shells, for the abrasive grains of life to cut, polish, and reveal core values and cherished family treasures. Jo Carole and Jim’s home in Tacoma has large windows and double doors that open to calm and gentle green trees and foliage, and to her Tea House, surrounded by luscious dahlias, interesting potted plants, and raspberry vines. On a side yard, I stand by a huge Cedar of Lebanon tree. Depicting the 2005 visit to Tacoma on a page requires a selection of crayons: medium blue, deep blue, black, yellow, brown, green, shell-beige, and pearl-white for drawings of Blue Willow china, wall art, jewelry-making tools, two cats, (Baby and Ruby), two pearls in a shell, and two butterflies in flight. All crayons are gifted with sensuousness. Palates are soothed with chowders, fresh salmon, lasagna, grits, biscuits, cane syrup, bacon, scrambled eggs, and coffee. Chief chef, Jim, is Networking Manager at The University of Puget Sound. Born in Washington, he knows every quaint and beautiful area within driving distance or ferry. He chauffeurs Jo, Bob, and me in the Toyota sedan to indescribable places like Gorst, on the shores of Puget Sound, where we visit the Elandan Gardens Collections, said to be a place where time stands still. We see hundreds of ancient Bonsai trees—some over 1,000 years old—among rhododendrons, Japanese maples, and family-created rock sculptures. High-cheek-bone to high-cheek-bone, two second-cousins pose for a picture. “Cheese,” Jo says. “Cheese,” I say. Flash

It is interesting that in ancient times birthstones were thought to bring good luck to their wearers, influencing personality and traits such as courage, sincerity, and loyalty. During the Middle Ages, people were encouraged to select a gem for each month to enable them to escape harm. Modern beliefs about gemstones are said to have originated in Poland in the 1700s, spreading to other European countries and to the United States. Most people now do not believe birthstones affect the wearer’s life. Topaz, from the Greek word “Topazious,” means to seek.

253 Well, the fact is I don’t remember when, where, or why I bought my Yellow Topaz birthstone ring. It’s a blur. Large and gold encased, its real value is in what it represents. It represents the things I sought; it represents an improved self-image; and, although my Yellow Topaz ring is worn infrequently, it represents self-love. As with me, the ring has been sized, and it continues to be polished. Somewhere on the Color Wheel between least personally aesthetic orange and green is yellow. One of the subtractive primaries and one of the psychological primary hues, yellow evokes in the human observer radiant energy with wavelengths of approximately 570–90 nanometers. The radiant energy of yellow ribbons are reminders to clean up Lake Allatoona litter; yellow daffodils memorialize friends, Nancy and later David; a worn yellow cotton dress represents times of em- ployment, and pre-mental health shopping; yellow wings belong on an Oriental tea cup; a yellow Topaz birthstone ring is chosen; a single yellow jonquil is gifted. My longtime friend Jewell lost one son before I knew her. Then the terrible accident took both another son and a grandson. Shortly thereafter, she lost her husband. I was attempting to write my memoir, and suggested that she write for therapy. It was in early spring. Jewell scotch-taped a pressed Jonquil on stationery and drew a few horizontal lines to represent black dirt. She writes and gives to me her written metaphor; an “object flower,” and a life:

“March 1, 1999 “As I look out my window, I see one jonquil, a beautiful yellow that I can see. The perfect shape looks as if it had not been blown by strong winter wind. There it is in all of its beauty as it was meant to be when the bulb, which had been in the ground all winter, first felt the movement of life and begun to come from far under the black dirt. We have had much hard wind and rain, but it did not affect the plant—so withstanding all the elements (storms of life)—it has continued to grow, first the

254 plant then the flower, as perfect as the first Jonquil to bring love and yellow,Yellow , because of so much black dirt. God says, “This is where I need to put all this yellow.” As the bright yellow jonquil came into view in front of my window, a whole lifetime of the flowers came to my realization! The flower and its long narrow leaves had nothing for protection so the wind blew it back and forth, and rain fell so hard that an ordinary object would be gone. Not this one. Maybe it took an extra amount of strength from the Creator to come through, to become strong and beautiful as any object flower or human! Maybe it could be the way God makes things to grow strong, through life’s storms. Staying in the house most all day, I look out. There is my bright yellow Jonquil. Jonquils have always made me glad. They make me think of life, the resurrection. When we buried my son—so young—Jonquils were everywhere, as if God was saying, “Look here everyone, I have put this beauty for us to realize it is Eter- nal Life. When they finish beautifying the roadside, the cemetery, and gladden our hearts, they go to the eternal place—and the fragrance, you know, comes from Paradise.”

In early October 2005, soft rain bathes the three-level assisted living Center Home in North Georgia. Jewell is expecting Bob and me to visit. There she is, donned in yellow slacks and jacket, a delicate blouse, and chain necklace with pearls. As always, her hair has been rolled and combed. If I can just possess her sense of aesthetic discipline in my old age! Bob decides to lie on the bed while Jewell and I—breathing highs and lows inspiration—listen to Joshua Bell’s CD, Romance of the Violin. In the highest definition of sisterhood, I kiss my friend, we say our good-byes, and anticipate our next visit when we will read again some of her writing.

I met you God in those who know you best; in gratitude deep in my heart and soul; in the Autumn leaves and inch worm; in the eyes and purity of a baby; in the wind and rain, and sunshine; in Mother, Daddy, Bob, our loved ones and friends; in Central State Hospital; on Chastain Lake paths; in the still dawn of black and blue. I do not have happier times than when I sit at my antique yellow desk, drink in God’s presence with 16 ounces of fresh water, feel the chill of his encompassing Spirit, look up and out the window, and say, “Hello God, Thank You.” Eleanor Hope Crisler Babcock

True spiritual gratitude embraces all of our past. The good as well as the bad events, the joyful as well as the sorrowful moments . . . we want to remember all of it as part of God’s guidance. That does not mean that all that happened in the past was good, but it does mean that even the bad didn’t happen outside the loving presence of God. HENRI J. M. NOUWEN (1932-1996) ROMAN CATHOLIC PRIEST, Spiritual Writer

255

Sara’s dogs, Mac and Mollie

Grandmother, Sara Crisler Cobb and granddaughter, Marnie Pacean Curbow COUSINS

Susan Crisler Nancy J. Cressee, III, Paul, Colleen, Christopher, and Laverne Crisler Donnelly Eleanor

Mary Ann Crisler Wade, Eleanor Jo Carole Crisler Driskell, Eleanor

Robert Babcock, Elizabeth Babcock Cordes, Donald Staples Margaret Staples Geiger, Nancy Brewster Drescher, Jane Vincent Caruso, Barbara Vincent Sealand

Sara Cobb and Marnie Curbow and Deborah Bailey Sara Cobb Becky Babcock

2010 NEWLY FORMED COUSIN’S CLUB

W. P. “Billy” Crisler, Robert Babcock, Jr., Wesley Babcock, James Crisler, Kirk Crisler David Crisler Babcock, John Cobb, Amy Crisler Stoeckl Beverly Crisler, Sandra Cobb Curbow, Kimberly Crisler, Deborah Bailey, Carol Crisler Rothman James Crisler, Jr. Simeon Crisler and James Crisler, Sr. Samuel Crisler

FISH, HUSBPUPPIES, AND GRITS

Madeline Joy Rothman, Carole Crisler Rothman, John Cobb, Maxwell David Rothman CRISLER BROTHERS AND SISTERS Samuel, Eleanor, James, Sara, Donald, Thomas Donald, deceased is represented by his wife, Felicia Crisler Thomas, deceased is represented by his son, William P. Crisler

Michael Wade, Eleanor Babcock, Ann Wade, Roger Crisler, Ann Wade, Lois Crisler, Eleanor Babcock, Angie Young Todd Wade with picture album

Teagan Elliott with Grandmother, Sandra Curbow

Felicia Crisler, Donna Griswold, W. P. “Billy” Crisler, Eleanor C. Babcock, Elaine M. Crisler

AFTERWORD

On January 20, 2009, the oath of office to the 44th president of the United States is soon to be taken. In bitter cold weather, almost two million hopeful Americans await—with countless others via media—the entrance of President-elect Barack H. Obama with his soon to be “Mother in-chief,” Michelle, and daughters Malia, ten, and Sasha, seven. Michelle Obama, high of stature and dressed in lemon-grass yellow, evokes brilliant brightness and pride to me, a daughter, mother, and grandmother. “Just call Hillary ‘Madam Secretary,’” Bill Press—host of a nationally syndicated radio show—says. Hillary Rodham Clinton, who gave women “18 million cracks in the hardest glass ceiling,” becomes newly appointed Secretary of State of the United States of America. Historic News! Sonia Sotomayor becomes first Hispanic Supreme Court Justice, August, 2009. Elena Kagan becomes fourth named Supreme Court Justice, August 5, 2010. I recall the words of Martha Ezzard in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution (AJC, May 6, 2003), “Women need amendment despite gains.” These days, I question young and old women alike to see if they know they are not covered in the United States Constitution. Not one is aware of it. In fact, responses border on shock and dismay. In 1919, although the 36 U.S. states necessary for ratification approved the women’s suf- frage (19th) amendment, Georgia became the first of ten states (nine of which were in the South), to vote against it. Georgia did not actually pass the 19th amendment until 1970. In 1923, the Equal Rights Amendment was first introduced to the U.S. Congress; it took almost 50 years to get the amendment out of Congress the first time. In 1972, the U.S. Senate passed the ERA 84 to 8; thus the U.S. Congress passed the Equal Rights Amendment and submitted it to the 50 states for ratification. Both the Democratic and Republican party platforms endorsed the ERA. In 1974, 1975, 1980, and 1982, Georgia defeated the ERA. In 1982, the ERA fell three votes short of ratification. Naturally, Georgia and other South- ern States refused to vote for it, after all, just think how many years it took Georgia to ratify a woman’s right to vote! In 2009, prospects for the ERA are improving!

On September 18, 2010, the Lake Allatoona Preservation Authority will host the 25th An- nual, The Great Lake Allatoona Cleanup.

A not so surprising federal judgment: Atlanta, Georgia, after 20 years’ dispute with Ala- bama and Florida, has no drinking water rights from Lake Lanier. Three years to settle.

The Babcock families’ 55-gallon barrels attached to house corner downspouts that fill to capacity during hot summer rains, low-flow commodes, and compact fluorescent lights conserve resources, but are of little consequence when reality points to a possible less-than-ten-year environmental challenge! OF SPECIAL NOTE

Elzie Crisler Segar (1894-1938) was the “Popeye the Sailor Man” cartoonist.

J. Lemon Smith held the city of Acworth, Georgia’s superintendent of lights and water job for 43 years. His wife—the mother of Ann Louise Smith Nelson—was Monnie Azzilee Brown Turner Smith. Her rock collections included a rock from Hitler’s home and one from Stalin’s grave.

In 1987, Paul Franklin Crisler, a veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps, was appointed as deputy superintendent for treatment at the new State Correctional Institution at Retreat in Luzerne County, Pennsylvania. Responsibilities included “all program functions, counseling and psychological services, inmate programs and activities, medical care and religious programs.”

In 1994, William Paul “Billy” Crisler went to the Air Force Flight Test Center at Edwards Air Force Base as Program Manager for the X-31 Enhanced Fighter Maneuverability Program. X-31 was the first-ever international X-plane program, and its partners included NASA, DARPA, USN, USAF, and the German Luftwaffe. It was one of the most successful X-plane programs in NASA history and broke virtually every record for flight test productivity. In 2001, Lieutenant Colonel William P. Crisler retired and was awarded Air Force Meritori- ous Service Medal. “I’m grateful that my mother and brother are with me today . . . My father taught me to value education highly and pointed me to a military career. The Air Force sent me to school three times, and I wish he were here to see me today.”

Becky Babcock, real estate professional and former full time Cherokee County School Board Member, 1999–2002, received YWCA of Northwest Georgia’s 2003 Women of Achieve- ment Tribute.

Jonathan Michael Babcock was selected as one of only five high school students in Georgia to received the “Kids Who Care” award and an $1,100.00 scholarship from the Junior League of Atlanta and WXIA-TV Alive for his commitment to volunteer work, for cooking breakfast and participating in church services with New Hope Ministries homeless outreach, doing a bread ministry, and homeless ministry. He has been on mission trips to Mexico and Kentucky.

On December 12, 2009, as Marietta’s 175th anniversary celebration drew to a close, the Friends of Brown Park, the Marietta Confederate Cemetery Foundation, and the City of Marietta made history and celebrated in Joseph E. Brown Park. They presented the citizens of Marietta with the historic benches, sculptures, and memorial wall honoring the men and women whose sacrifice was being recognized.

266 A DEFINITION OF PEACE

Peace is having the unmatchable gift of thanksgiving. Peace is my being a link to past and future generations. Peace is my knowing who I am and whose I am. Peace is love of truth. Peace is being sad and disgusted with a people and country that claims to be peace- ful and lawful, but isn’t; that points the finger to everyone except itself . Peace is my loving the questions. Peace is playing keys on the piano and feeling fully their response to me. Peace is having family and friends. Peace is word integrated with beautiful nature scenes. Peace is the Word made flesh. Peace, I believe, is the Way.

Violence: It speaks for itself. —Eleanor Hope Crisler Babcock

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Bibliography

Babcock, Marjorie. “Quick Work of Good Samaritan Opens Road for Ambulance,” Pickens County Progress, member NNA, Publisher John R. Pool, Editor, John R. Pool, Managing Editor William Pool. All Rights Reserved Bugbee, Faith Elaine Kay. Cobb County Is a Tough Row To Hoe, 2009. Permission granted. Cobb, Sara Crisler. Come into the Meadow of My Mind, 1977 Crisler, Paul Franklin. Letter to Lillian Ranovich Crisler, 1953. Crisler, William Paul. 2001 Retirement, Air Force Meritorious Service Medal, 2009. Permission granted. Crisler, Julia Rucker. Opinion, Excerpt of Letter, in The Revue, Editor, Publisher, Ray Appen, Newspapers Alpharetta, Georgia, 1994. All rights reserved. Daniell, J. J. The Important Thing, Devotional Thoughts. Permission by Joe H. Daniell. David, John H., Jr. Opinion, Excerpt of Letter, in The Revue, Editor, Publisher, Ray Appen Newspapers Alpharetta, Georgia, 1994. Dillman, Caroline Matheny. Days Gone By in Alpharetta and Roswell, Georgia, Volume I, Chapter 42. Roswell, Ga.: Chattahoochee Press,1992. All Rights Reserved. Ezzard, Martha, EDITORIAL, GROUP FLEXES MUSCLE, The Atlanta Journal, November 30, 1998, With Author’s Permission. Ezzard, Martha, Women need amendment, despite gains, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, May 6, 2003, With Author’s Permission. Ferguson, Leslie.: Cobb County Is a Tough Row To Hoe, 2009. Permission granted. Frankel, Lois P., PhD. Women, Anger & Depression: Strategies for Self Empowerment, Health Communications, Inc., 1992. Howell, Daniel T. Time, Place, and Promise THE UPPER ROOM DISCIPLINES 2002, copyright by Upper Room Books. 2001 Greene, Jewell. “Women at Work: Eleanor Crisler, Atlanta,” in AIM Magazine (1953). Editors: Harry Anderson, As- sociate Editor, Dorothy G. Pinkney, Assistant Editors, Jim Leatherby and Ed Bush. Julie Justice, for Allstate Insurance Company Stellmach, Candice. A Testimonial, Writer, P.O. Box 178, Hampton, NH 93843. 2006 Yunuba, Penelope S. An Account re Moore Lake, Canada Families: Staples Camp Papers, 1890–1910

Reference

1. History of the Crisler Family in America, 1736-1940, by Mrs. J. R. McDuffie 2. The History of Cherokee County, 1932, by Rev. Lloyd G. Marlin 3. Rupp’s Collection: Thirty Thousand Names of German Emigrants to Pennsylvania. 4. Strobel’s History of the Salzburgers. 5. Howe’s Colonial Virginia. 6. Records of Germantown, Pa. (Philadelphia County). 7. Court Records of Spottsylvania, Madison, Orange, and Culpepper Counties, Virginia. 8. The Gaar Genealogy, by John Calhoun Gaar.

269 Article References

By chapter location

Marjorie Babcock, “Quick Work of Good Samaritan Opens Road in Time for Ambulance,” in Pickens County Progress (Jasper, Ga.) John H. David, Jr., “Opinion,” in Alpharetta Roswell Revue and News, (July 1, 1994), 24 Caroline Matheny Dillman, Days Gone By in Alpharetta and Roswell, Georgia (Roswell, Ga.: Chattahoochee Press, 1995), 32 Editor, Insert- Microfilm-1Ai7, 1872, “Good Word for Local Papers” Marietta Daily Journal (1875), 22 Marietta Daily Journal (1975), 22 Newsday News Service, “Most Women Fail to Take Advantage of Credit Law,” in Atlanta Journal-Constitution (1978), 22 Martha Ezzard, GROUP FLEXES MUSCLE, The Atlanta Journal, November 30, 1998 Martha Ezzard, With Permission Martha Ezzard, Women Need Amendment Despite Gains, in Atlanta Journal-Constitution (2003) Martha Ezzard, With Permission Galloway, Jim, “Secret agreement a year ago paved way for compromise” The Atlanta Constitution, January 25, 2001, A1, 27 Guttenfelder/Associated Press, Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi, Vietnam Photograph, in Atlanta Journal-Constitution (2000), 28 Bill Hendrick, Health Study/Academy of pediatrics, in Atlanta Constitution (1994), 23 Julia Rucker, “Opinion,” in Alpharetta Roswell Revue and News (July 1, 1994), 24 Anna Quindlen, “Don’t Mess With Mother,” in Newsweek (September 19, 2006), 76, 34

270 In Memory Crisler, Donald Eugene (1939-2010) Crisler, Julia Rucker (1913–2007) Nelson, Ann Louise Smith (1932–2004) Crisler, Pamela (1953–2002) Bulman, Martha Brewster Ambrose Barry (1929–2000) Hill, Mahala Amanda Crisler (1946–2000) Crisler, Abram Franklin (1909–1998) Crisler, Thomas Gilmer (1931–1996) Crisler, Thomas Nelson (1910–1996) Staples, Edward Daniel (1903–1996) Crisler, Mary Lee Bates (1913–1995) House, Cassie Crisler (1908–1995) Crisler, Lillian Ranovich. (1907–1993) Crisler, Samuel Isham (1912–1992) Rucker, Johnny Joel (1917–1985) Crisler, Moses Seaborn (1918–1985) Smith, Monnie Azzilee Turner (1891–1983) Babcock, Elizabeth Schneider (1909–1980) Crisler, Agnes (1912–1978) Crisler, Carolyn Ophelia Smith (1905–1975) Staples, Ethlyne Brewster (1908–1970) Crisler, Ada Maye Stewart (1908–1970) Rucker, George “Nap” (1884–1970) Crisler, Joseph Coronel (1917–1968) Babcock, William Mitchell (1904–1962) Crisler, Thomas Paul (1903–1959) Crisler, Dora Evans (1885–1954) Crisler, Joseph Julius (1867–1954) Smith, Brown (1903–1951) Smith, Mary Brown (1868–1942) Crisler, Isham Franklin (1881–1941) Smith, James Lemon (1881–1935) Smith, Enoch Franklin (1859–1933) Turner, Eugenia “Jeanie” Brown (1875–1932) Smith, Claude (1900–1930) Crisler, Benjamin Franklin (1844–1900) Brown, John (1837–1914) Crisler, Thomas Jackson (1838–1914) Brown, Joseph Emerson (1821–1894) Brown, Nancy Green (1836–1889) Crisler, Julius (1767–1883) Crisler, Abel (1808–1881) Crisler, Anna Maxwell (1808–1868) Crisler, Simeon Germany ( ?–1862) Crisler, Elizabeth Souther (1774–1854)

271 A FAMILY RECORD TEUTONIC RACE, GERMAN OF PALATINE, FRANCONIA, KINGDOM OF BAVARIA MATTHIAS KREISLER Barbara Von Schellenberrger AMERICAN FAMILY TREE OF THOMAS PAUL CRISLER AND CAROLYN OPHELIA SMITH 1736–2009

1. John Jacob Crisler 2. Theobold Fawatt Crisler Rosina Garr 3. John George Crisler Anna Magdalene Smith 4. Julius Crisler Elizabeth Souther 5. Abel Crisler Anna Maxwell 6. Thomas Jackson Crisler Amanda Ruth Manning 7. Isham Franklin Crisler Dora Anne Evans

8. Thomas Paul Crisler Carolyn Ophelia Smith 9. Thomas Gilmer Crisler Shirley Jacquelyn Wyatt 10. William Paul Crisler Ramona Gail Pineda 11. Shirley Elizabeth 11. Michael Thomas 11. Rebecca Marie 2nd Lt. Mark J. Allerdt 11. William David 11. Daniel Stewart 11. Robert Joel 10. Joel Thomas Crisler Karen Williams 11. Jessica Ansley 11. Madeline Brooke 9. Eleanor Hope Crisler Robert William Babcock 10. Robert William Babcock, Jr. Catherine Lynn Johnson 11. Samuel Mitchell Babcock 10. Wesley Mitchell Babcock Marjorie Lee Griffith

272 10. David Crisler Babcock Rebecca Lynn Srok 11. Jonathan Michael Babcock Lindsey Blystone Black 11. Matthew Christopher Babcock 11. Michelle Elizabeth Babcock 9. James Franklin Crisler Beverly Elaine Martin 10. James Franklin Crisler, Jr. Karen King 11. Mary Carol 11. Daniel Travis 10. Kimberly Anne Crisler 9. Sara Carolyn Crisler Hugh Candler Cobb 10. Sandra Cobb James Edward Curbow 11. Marnie Pacean Bryan P. Elliott 12. Teagan Wren 11. Stacy Magee 11. Hunter Mackensie 10. Deborah Cobb Bailey 10. John Stanley Cobb Carrie Pruitt Cole Pruitt Power 9. Donald Eugene Crisler Barbara Felicia Mclendon 10. Martha Caroline Crisler Marshall Rothman 11. Madeline Joy 11. Maxwell David 9. Samuel Lamar Crisler Donna Ruth Griswold 10. Amy Lynn Crisler Mark Anthony Stockl 11. Alexandria Frances 11. Darian Sage 11. Marlee Sky 10. Kirk Lamar Crisler Alisa Michelle Pripodo 11. Daniel Dean 11. Luke Daniel

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