MountainMornings

Cali girl, Wendy, brought The Help to my Ivy Farm book club’s attention. It was over a year ago, and I remember feeling like maybe I shouldn’t be reading this book, with its stereotypical  Black maids and Southern tinge of racial superiority. Then I got into it, and I got it, and the whole book club loved it.  Race is still, such a trap for this country; think about certain politicians threatening to take back our country. I always wonder where exactly they think we all went? This surprisingly nuanced little book captured those watershed civil rights years so well, from a safer angle, one we could all relate to, the homefront.

A few of us Farmers got together to see the movie. What a gem. A movie that holds its own weight next to the book, I was alternately teary and laughing. The music was incredible. One woman swore her Mother had that exact same green stripped shirtwaist dress. Another wanted to hug the large Black family that was sitting in front of us. We decided to continue the night and lingered over dinner, not wanting to let the glow of something real end. I talked about going to MN after my own Mother, the Flapper died, and wanting to keep her letters with me. My older sister, Kay, helped me clean out her desk. She kept every letter and every newspaper article I’d ever written. One letter, in particular, stood out to me.

I was 19 and in college. Postmarked April 6, 1968, it was a small orange envelope with white ink – the return address, 271 Beacon Street, Boston.  At the top of the dramatic orange letter dated the day before, April 5, I wrote: “It is truly a sad day in Boston. I just got back from a march downtown in honor of a great man who died last night in Memphis. We all wore black bands and marched arm in arm and spoke of things like truth and justice and equality…” I never mentioned MLK or race, but I had turned some mysterious corner into adulthood that day. The National Memorial to Dr Martin Luther King, Jr will be dedicated on August 28th. It took awhile, but I think our children grew up in a better world. Michelle Obama most likely had a maid in her ancestry; as did I when my Irish immigrants first got off the boat. We stand on their sacrifice.

I just pulled out a small orange card Mother placed in the envelope  dated 1-9-84. I never saw this card before. In her distinct handwriting she has given me one last admonition; “Save this letter for Jessica. Some day she will appreciate.”