Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell... Southern Belles and Patron Saints to Guide Us

(Writer's Note: This is a journal entry I made in late 2001. I ran across it over the weekend and thought it worth sharing. I hope you enjoy.)

“And they themselves were a part of the confluence. Their own joint act of faith had brought them here at the very moment and matched its occurrence, and proceeded as it proceeded.” from The Optimist’s Daughter, by Eudora Welty

My Grandmamma was Hattie Ross Mitchell. My nanny was an African American by the name of Annie Bell, Annie Bell O’Bannon. They were both of the same generation, born in the first decade of the 1900’s. They were both from the back roads of Mississippi. Both of them were Southern Belles.

Annie Bell was barely removed from the institution of slavery; yet the unpainted shack of the cotton field where she was born and raised, the dependence on white landowners, and a life never existing above the poverty line sustained a different form of slavery. She was in her sixties before she ever had the right to vote. And she lived in a place that flew a flag that had flown over the people who enslaved her ancestors, the Stars and Bars. A flag that stood for a heritage that was hard, disenfranchising and racist.

Mamma Hattie grew up in the home of a sharecropper. She also spent her life under the poverty line, and under the same flag that represented Annie Bell. She was white so her family voted and could get jobs that paid marginally better than black jobs. She grew up picking cotton by hand and washing clothes in a tub in the yard. Mamma Hattie, by thousands of standards, had a hard life. There was no moonlight and magnolias in her heritage. Mamma Hattie’s front porch wasn’t for Mint Julep sipping. Her heritage was not glossed over in myth; it was one of hard work and meager means.

I was present during the confluence of their lives. Maybe I was the reason for this confluence. Annie Bell came on as my nanny in 1969 when I was three years old. We lived on Third Street in Grenada, Mississippi. My father was a cotton planter and the county Sheriff. I called him what everyone else did, Big Daddy. My mamma ran my father’s office. Mamma Hattie lived next door to our home, in a house also owned by Big Daddy.

So there I was growing up with a nanny and a Grandmamma at my convenience. My heritage comes from their existence.

Annie Bell and Mamma Hattie read their Bibles feverishly. Their faith led them to pray whenever storm clouds came near.

Their literal view of the Bible gave me a simple lineage dating back to Adam.

I shelled peas at their feet during thick August afternoons from the front porch. Annie Bell taught me how to clean a fish with a spoon and Mamma Hattie coached me on how to play baseball. She always told me that my grandfather would have been a professional baseball player had the opportunity existed out in Beat 4, Grenada County during the 20’s and 30’s. I have no reason to doubt her to this day.

For purposes of correction when I did wrong, like sneaking off to the train tracks two blocks to the east to watch the massive Illinois Central trains rumble past, Mamma Hattie used the basic switch cut from a bush. Annie Bell used a hairbrush on the up-turned palm of my hand. She believed a young boy’s kidneys could be injured by traditional spanking methods. Annie Bell would hold my hand still and pop it a time or two while the rest of my body danced and twirled, trying to gain freedom.

In the mornings, by the time I was usually roused from sleep, Mamma Hattie and my mamma would be out in the yard watering flowers and looking at blossoms in the cool of the early hours. Annie Bell and Big Daddy would be in the kitchen. Annie Bell still cooking breakfast, Big Daddy eating and both of them having a shared morning Bible-study. If the Bible said the moon turned to blood, well, for Annie Bell, it did! Big Daddy would laugh and tease Annie Bell. And Annie Bell: “Now Sheriff Strider, that’s just what the Holy Bible says.” They always prayed before Big Daddy headed off to fight crime and look at his cotton.

Mamma Hattie came from a huge family. The Ross family dominated our corner of Grenada County in population where our family’s farm was located. I got to know Uncle JD and Aunt Sarah Lee, and Aunt Ruby and Uncle Tom James and countless others by often traveling out to the country. Mamma Hattie never drove a car, but mamma would take her, I would ride in the back seat. Mamma Hattie wore a big, floppy straw hat and plastic shades affixed over her regular eyeglasses.

Annie Bell lived on the other side of town. Sometimes I would ride with my mom real early in the mornings to pick her up. The houses would turn from large, painted show places to dingy unpainted shacks. Annie Bell was always on the front porch of her shack, waiting. The lady who lived next door to her was Magnolia. I couldn’t understand Magnolia to save my life. I would look at her as only a little boy could, with turned head and big eyes. I thought she spoke a foreign language. I would mimic her sometimes with a quick retort of sounds and noises.

Annie Bell would throw her head back and laugh so loud some dog off on the side walk would bark.

Whenever I cut myself, or a bee stung me or I fell from a tree I would run to the nearest one of the two for help, Mamma Hattie or Annie Bell. Either would do because their open arms were full of love and care. Their soft words were full of comfort and ease. They were saints and I had all their patronage. Once, I fell through the front door window because I was playing where I had been told not to. I was so startled and upset that Annie Bell hugged me and said all would be fine; she didn’t even reach for the hairbrush. And she called my mom and told her it was an accident. Mamma Hattie loved to clip the end off Aloe Vera plants whenever I burned myself. She would coat the burn and soothe my cries.

Mamma Hattie died in 1984 when I was a senior in High School. She had had a stroke several months before and even though Annie Bell had been retired for a few years she came everyday and sat in a bedroom of our home we had fixed up for Mamma Hattie... she couldn’t get out of the bed; she couldn’t talk. Annie Bell would read her the Bible and sit calmly and tell her stories. She’d hold Mamma Hattie’s hand and pray.

They were friends in their twilight. The confluence of their lives created a bond and a familiarity that is rarely encountered. Their experiences were much more common than different. They prayed, they planted the same vegetables, they both knew that if you killed a snake with your garden ho make sure you don’t leave it belly-up or it would come back to life at sundown; that’s what they told me. Nothing really made them different from one another. I can’t imagine anyone trying to tell me one should matter more because of skin color.

Annie Bell looked like the singer Leontyne Price and Mamma Hattie look like Miss Clara on Andy Griffith. Mamma Hattie made the best biscuits and gravy, while Annie Bell made the best-fried chicken. Annie Bell was partial to the soap opera called Dark Shadows and Mamma Hattie watched General Hospital.

They both knew God and God knew each one of them, by name.

Being present during the confluence of their lives forever convinced me that skin color doesn’t matter. A great hoax has been played on way too many people; a great hoax that says skin pigment defines people. It doesn’t. I have Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell to prove any such argument blatantly without merit.

When debates arise over symbols and heritage and identification I am infuriated that the great hoax seems so alive. We can’t have one nation when we embrace symbols that reflect a tense and asymmetrical heritage. It’s a false heritage we seek to elevate when our symbols divide rather than include. Our energy and spirits are washed down into the gutter when we fight to uphold a heritage that seeks to alienate rather than embrace. Some of our heritage belongs in museums. We have plenty of nobility and decency to embrace and stand on, stand on together without the insecurities and ignorance of racism.

Annie Bell passed away in 2001. I was driving down Connecticut Avenue in Washington, DC when I got the news over my cell phone. I was headed home from my job on Capitol Hill. Annie Bell never drove down Connecticut Avenue or visited Capitol Hill.

I’ve worked with many great leaders, elected Members of Congress and the Senate being a few. Anne Bell never met a Congressman or Senator.

But when Annie Bell died, I knew that I would never again meet a person as great.

When Annie Bell died I knew that the confluence of two great saints had once again occurred. Mamma Hattie and Annie Bell were once again somewhere on a front porch shelling peas, and talking about the flowers, and the windows that needed washing and maybe doing a little grocery shopping later in the day. When Annie Bell died I cried a river of tears because the last of my two saints had crossed over Jordan to their place in Glory.

Everyone needs an Annie Bell and a Mamma Hattie. Everyone needs a heritage that is real, and true and personal; for me, it was the confluence of Southern Belles – my patron Saints.

Happy Veterans Day

Click Here to View:
REMEMBER ME Tribute to Our Troops and Veterans (Youtube)

Two years ago 15 year-old Lizzie Palmer from Columbus, Ohio, felt compelled to do her part to remind people of our troops and veterans… and the sacrifices they make.

To date, more than 25 million people have viewed "Remember Me" on YouTube with its haunting music and moving images of Americans at war.

Regardless of where one stands on the war, Lizzie Palmer has reminded us to always remember and to never forget our troops and veterans.

Happy Veterans Day.

Happy Birthday, Miss Eudora

The Eudora Welty Foundation has put together a bang up year of concerts, parties, showings and tributes memorializing and remembering Miss Welty on the centenial year of her birth (1909.)

From her photography on display in New York City to Mary Chapin Carpenter and others in concert in Jackson to "Mississippi Reads" taking place in classrooms everywhere there is something for all lovers and would-be lovers of Miss Welty.

Events officially kicked off on November 6 with a literary symposium in NYC featuring Richard Ford, Robert MacNeil, Reynolds Price and Suzanne Marrs.

But, the fun will continue throughout 2009. Visit http://www.eudorawelty.org/ for a full rundown of events.

One of my earlier postings, here at Pea Ridge Confidential, will put you in the mood: Miss Welty Speaks ... YOU MUST HEAR MISS WELTY TELLING HER OWN STORIES! If you do, you may try to attend everything on the centenial celebration calendar.

Talking Pea Ridge at Princeton

I recently gave a lecture at Princeton University (the Woodrow Wilson School.)

The lecture was on the current state of affairs concerning faith, values and politics in the 2008 election cycle. But, I found several minutes at the beginning to share with the students and faculty of Princeton some stories about Pea Ridge and Grenada, Co.

I even talked about shelling purple hull black-eyed peas on the front porch with Grandma Essie and Mamma Hattie (Rogers Bell would be mighty proud.)

I hope you enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRAQxP5jMAA&feature=channel

Spiritus Ferminti... Nothing Like Taking a Stand and Sticking with It!

I woke up on this fine Election Day thinking about Judge "Soggy" Sweat and his famous comments on the legal status of whiskey in Mississippi back in the 1950's.

I've heard many a politician in Mississippi (usually with a few shots of whiskey in them) take to the floor of a deer camp or the bed of a trailer at a fish fry and dramatically recite Judge Soggy's stand on whiskey to great laughter and applause.

Why was I thinking about it this morning... on this Election Day... I'm not sure... I suppose a moral in the Judge's remarks is certainly about perspective.

This is a good day for perspective.

I hope you enjoy.

Judge Noah S. “Soggy” Sweat, Jr., in the Mississippi Legislature, 1952 (circa.) His views on spiritus ferminti:

You have asked me how I feel about whiskey; well, Brother, here's how I stand.If by whiskey you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that
topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.

However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this
nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it.

This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle.

Halloween...

We had a successful All Hallow's Eve and day here in DC (2008.) My boys, Will and Pete, brought in quite the load... so much candy (alot of it chocolate, not just hard candies)... it will be around for several weeks... probably lasting right up to Thanksgiving... which will be just in time for the next load of trans-fats.

Will and Pete were both dressed as Batman... its what they wanted. They and 4 of their friends roamed together with us parents walking along, nearby. We are all "helicopter" parents... meaning we always closely hover -- watching, protecting, intertmingling in their lives.

Our neighborhood, in Northwest DC, is full of children and the streets this year were packed with kiddies running from door to door collecting their treats... many of the parents dress up, too. Families sit outside on their lawns with drinks and snacks... waving and talking to those going door to door... frankly, a lot like Election Day at my home on Third Street in Grenada... that was always our biggest and busiest "Holiday," in the Strider household.

But, Halloween... Grenada...



Halloweens were something else in Grenada... does anyone remember Shanebergs (it was a store in the Grady Green Shopping Center.) When I was a pre-schooler and maybe into elementary school that's where mamma would take me for getting a costume... Ms. Bonnie Carroll (Ramie's grandma and the wife of Grady Carroll who was a deputy sheriff) worked there... near the back if I remember right.

It seems like I chose to be a skeleton more often than not.

Trick or Treating in downtown Grenada (in the 70's) would start, for me, down Kershaw Street to Donna Tartt's home (Donna is now one of our nation's finest novelist with "The Secret History" and "Little Friend" under her hat and another book on the way) and then to Cas Heath's... The Heath home -- a huge, brooding Victorian structure -- had 3 generations of Cas' living in it... Cas I, Cas II and Cas III (my age)... Cas I had been the proprietor of Heath Brothers Fine Clothing on the square (later Hankins and Penn) and Cas II was with the Grenada Banking System. Little Cas (my age) is now a doctor. They'd always have kool-aid on the front porch... I often spilled mine and cried.

We'd work our way up to Main Street... the Spains and Lillys (where the Dattels later lived), Ms. Angevine and the Hardys... then back down 3rd stopping at the Gulledges (my first grade teacher) and the Haltoms... once we'd worked that area my mom would drive me out to the Jones Road area to join my cousins (Vicki, Melanie and Keith Mitchell). This neighborhood was loaded with kids and we would work the area diligently -- it was like a job, a good job.

There were no hovering, "helicopter" parents back then. They'd stay in the house, drinking coffee and visiting -- they didn't even sit out on the lawns and watch the passersby -- we were left to figure things out on our own... I wonder if its fear for security that has us hovering today... or just changing demographics and how we do things, how we see raising kids that's different?

I learned a lot roaming Grenada on those nights... and I had a lot of fun.

*That's a photo of Will and Pete I snapped this past Friday night (Oct. 31, 2008) outside our home in DC... somewhere in my mom's photo collection is a picture of me on the Heath front porch crying because I spilled my kool-aid.