Mamaw was a real pioneer – a poet, song writer and social activist of the most basic kind. She never turned anyone away and never let anyone get by with taking advantage of someone else without a memorable confrontation. A story I remember well I call, “The Wayne County Man’s Bus Rides for Justice.”
My grandmother’s daughter, Margaret June, was the secretary for a lawyer. Margaret June turned away a poor man who did not have money for the lawyer …until my grandmother found a way to bypass her daughter and get legal representation for the man. The story reminds me that sometimes balancing family with justice is not easy – perhaps it will never be.
One summer day, a man got off the bus from town and came toward the house. He was slight, bright and had a worn, soft feeling. But as he got closer, I saw he was worried. I called Mamaw and she came to the front door to greet him. She’d taken her apron off which she always did when we had company. He stood on the sidewalk before coming up the steps to the porch, and told her that a Mr. Ward had referred him to her to help him find a lawyer, but he didn’t have money to pay a lawyer. She asked him in, and, as always, she introduced each of us – as though we were grown up, in routine that varied little.
When she finished, we all said in unison, “Hello.” And those that didn’t heard later that we were not properly welcoming our guests. If the visitor needed something serious Mamaw sent us on our way, out of the way. But usually, we sang around the upright piano, starting with songs she wrote. I always looked into the eyes of the guest. This man’s eyes said he was okay, but he was there for serious advice; so soon, she sent us outside to play.
As the bus passed the house on Madison Avenue, the two came out on the porch. Mamaw had her little black leather change purse with the clasp that she had taken pliers to crimp so that it would not open on its own and spill out the change that made a difference to someone, time and again. She gave him two nickels, as she finished her instructions to him to go to a particular attorney and ask for help, and if he did not get help, to return to her.
She said, “If you return in less than two hours, I’ll know you did not get help, and I’ll go back with you to make sure you do. If you don’t return I’ll know you are alright, so keep the nickel, but write me back on this postcard.” From her apron pocket, she took a postcard, as she always did when someone visited who needed her help. It came from her private stack of postcards, each stamped with our address written in her round, proud teacher-quality handwriting.
The end of this story has great detail. For now, I will only say that the man did return, she did go to the lawyer’s office with him, she held a hymn sing-in in the waiting room of the lawyer, and the lawyer gave in. Needless to say, my Aunt Margaret, his secretary, came home furious that evening. My Papaw was deaf and had worked in the garden all day so he did not know anything about the story until Aunt Margaret came home for a show-down that night. He was worried that we children saw the family conflict, but he also knew that Mamaw was right about whatever had happened, and he said to me the next morning, “You must follow your own sense of what is right and good.”
Anne Montague is the founder and executive director of Thanks! Plain and Simple, Inc., and the main strategist behind the West Virginia Rosie the Riveter Project.
