Stories that Celebrate

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Upon reading this story, Betty’s son Jack wrote:

Joseph, even though the story is fictional in nature, you truly grasped the essence of my Mother. I am fight back tears as I type this. This story gave me the opportunity to visualize my mother in a way that I never had before. I could see her experiences as a youth which shaped the person she became. I could see her vulnerabilities and not just her strengths as a mother if 6 children who was forced into survival mode from the moment she received the call informing her that she was now a widow.

Stories that Celebrate are portraits of souls.

January, 1940

Eight-year-old Betty looks up and sees the house. It is only a few hundred feet away, but it might as well be a thousand miles. Betty’s tiny fingers are numb and the chill in the air is completely beyond the capability of her threadbare canvas dress to resist. She’s freezing. The fact is, she can’t go on. Not yet.

Reluctantly, Betty sets the small crate she’s carrying down on the wet and muddy road. It will mean more work for her later, and maybe worse. But there’s nothing she can do about it. She imagines the little sacks of flour and sugar gently slumping against one other as they rest on the ground. Betty wonders if they’re comfortable. For a delicious moment, she wonders whether sugar can feel cold; but then she dismisses the thought as simply too silly for serious consideration.

Unburdened for the moment, Betty takes a few seconds to look around. The road is lined by a forest of red maple and sweetgum trees. In the summer, their leaves form a dense mass, like G-d has created a beautiful avenue just for this road. But in the winter? In the winter, the trees are not only bare – they seem to despair, pulling inside of themselves and trying to survive reality itself.

Betty can understand that feeling.

Betty breathes out, watching her breath fog in front of her. She’s been doing this for three weeks now. Every day, after school, she’s been delivering groceries for people who don’t want to go out in the cold. She’s been earning 20 cents a week for her labors. She can feel the six dimes in her pocket, her own little fortune. But it isn’t enough of a fortune.

Somehow, it never seems to be quite enough of a fortune.

Betty sighs deeply and then, in the midst of cold winter fog – a blanket of chill that seems to press down on her – she begins her jumping jacks. The cold water and mud that pocket the gravel road splash on her dress. Betty hates the mud. Things ought to be kept properly. Valued. But there’s nothing to do about it now, she’ll just have to clean her dress later. It isn’t like anybody else is going to notice a little mud on a little black girl like her. Even if they do notice, nobody, absolutely nobody, is going to care about it.

Well, except for her Ma – of course.

After a minute, Betty is warm enough under the dress. But the thin sheen of sweat she’s worked up threatens to make her colder not so far into the future. She’ll have to make this delivery and then get home as quickly as she can. Betty takes another minute rubbing her hands together as vigorously as she can manage. Her little routine complete – probably for the 10th time that day – she leans down and lifts the crate again.

It isn’t overwhelmingly heavy, but even as an eight-year-old Betty knows that the longer you have to hold things, the heavier they get.

A few minutes and a few hundred feet later, Betty climbs the front porch of the house. The house itself is just about the nicest she’s ever seen. It is painted a bright yellow, like it is trying to burst out through the fog and overcome winter itself. It is so overwhelmingly cheerful that it seems like it could almost pull it off. Betty doesn’t know if sugar can feel the cold, but she knows this house can. Like her, it feels the cold; unlike her, it’s tough enough to pretend the cold doesn't bother it. It is probably even warm inside.

Betty’s own house isn’t warm. Her father is a sharecropper. He has the right to live in his ‘house’, and he gets some food and a few other supplies. All of it is in return for farming for the man whose land he lives on. Of course, the food comes at a price, and the price comes with interest. Her daddy is never going to be free of that landowner – it’s all just slavery of another kind and everybody knows it. To make matters worse, the house they live in is barely a house at all. A few concrete pillars have been set in the ground with wood beams laid between them. A thin layer of wood planks lays across the beams, providing what passes for a floor. The wind comes through the floor. Of course, it also comes through the gaps in the clapboard walls and the holes in the tarpaper roof. The fact is, Betty hasn’t been warm in months. They don’t even properly heat her segregated school – instead, the teachers keep the students somewhat warm by having them run up and down the halls every 20 minutes. It is where Betty learned to do the jumping jacks.

Betty reaches up to the solid oak door and knocks. The oak seems so thick that it’s hard to imagine her knuckles being able to make any noise at all in the interior of the house. Nonetheless, just a few seconds later, the door opens. Betty looks up and is surprised to see a white woman standing there; she’d expected a black maid or maybe a butler. But no, it seems the lady of house herself has answered the door.

The woman looks down at eight-year-old Betty and says, “Can you help you, young lady?”

It is immediately clear from the woman’s accent that she isn’t from anywhere near Walnut Cove. She’s a Yankee.

Betty lowers her eyes, “Yes, ma’am,” she says.

“And how can I help you?” asks the woman.

“I have your flour… and your sugar.”

The woman looks temporarily stunned. Betty hears her mutter, “That lazy bastard, he can’t even bring me his groceries.” The last word seems to bump up in pitch, providing an unmistakable sense of righteous southern indignation. It sounds a bit funny, coming from a Yankee.

Betty allows herself the tiniest of smiles.

The woman opens the door wider. “Well, come on in,” she says.

“You sure, ma’am?” asks Betty. She doesn’t feel like she belongs in this house.

The woman looks Betty up and down, taking in her canvas dress. Betty waits for her to change her mind. But she doesn’t. “Little girl, you are clearly freezing. Come inside.”

Betty skitters into the house, looking in wonder at the wooden staircase, the art, the knickknacks, even the piano in a carpeted room. Most impressive, though, are the plaster walls. No wind comes through a plaster wall.

Standing there with the flour and sugar still in her hands, something comes over Betty. Maybe it’s the woman’s kindness? Maybe it is the simple experience of warmth. Whatever it is, she begins to cry. She tries to hold it back; she doesn’t want to be embarrassed in front of this woman. But it doesn’t matter, the tears just begin to rush out of her – overcoming any resistance she might have.

The woman gently leans over and takes the crate from little Betty’s hands.

“My name is Eleanor. Why don’t you come to the kitchen?”

Eleanor’s voice is kind, soft, welcoming.

Betty follows Eleanor into the kitchen, the tears being replaced by wonder at the house itself. Eleanor lays the crate on the table, dirt and water and all. Betty is more than a little shocked.

But Betty doesn’t have much time to object. It seems like mere moments later, she’s sitting in a chair at the small table in the kitchen with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of her. Eleanor sits opposite her, a tea in hand, and then asks, “So how long have you been working for my husband?”

“Your husband, ma’am.”

“I’m Eleanor Jones. Bill Jones – or William as he called himself when courting me – is the proprietor of the General Store. I assume he’s got you out delivering groceries and other assorted general goods all over town, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, how long have you been doing it?”

“Three weeks, ma’am.”

“Three weeks….” Eleanor’s voice trails off. “And how much has that cheap bastard paid you?”

Betty’s more than a little shocked at the casual use of a word such as ‘bastard’. This is the second time Eleanor’s said it – and this time she meant to be heard.

Betty’s afraid to answer the question. She can’t imagine any good outcome – no matter what she says.

“Uh, 60 cents,” she says.

“Huh,” says Eleanor, clearly surprised, “60 cents isn’t so unreasonable. A grown man starts at 85.”

Betty just nods.

“Are you still going to school?”

Betty nods.

“Good. 60 cents a day and still going to school. I didn’t think he had it in him.”

It isn’t 60 cents a day, though. It has been 60 cents for all three weeks, combined. Betty decides to focus on her hot chocolate instead of pointing out this discrepancy. Causing marital discord doesn’t seem like a good idea.

Eleanor cocks her head. “What aren’t you telling me?” she demands, softly.

“I’d rather not say,” says Betty.

“Well, I know that,” says Eleanor, a bit of a lilt in her voice.

Betty says nothing.

Eleanor watches her, appraising, judging, knowing more than she should. Then she asks, “What’s your name, young lady?”

“Betty.”

“Full name?”

“Betty Carter.”

“Betty Carter, what aren’t you telling me?”

The woman speaks with such authority that Betty can’t stop herself from answering.

“It isn’t 60 cents a day, ma’am.”

“60 cents a week?” says the woman, a bit of color coming to her already animated face.

“No, ma’am.”

“60 cents for THREE WEEKS?!?” asks the woman, incredulous.

Betty just nods.

“Unbelievable.” Eleanor just lets that word hang in the air. “That son of a bitch.”

Betty shirks away from the word. She takes another nervous sip of hot chocolate.

She hopes they can stop talking.

“What did you want so badly you’re willing to work this hard for it?”

“What, ma’am?”

“If it was sharecropping debt, or food or something else like that, there must be 10 men who would do you a better deal than my husband would. He hates you people. So, what does he have that you want?”

Betty sips her chocolate before deciding to answer. “Strings,” she says.

“For sewing?”

“No, ma’am. Guitar strings.”

“You’re working your tail off, delivering groceries in this weather and in that dress. For guitar strings?”

Betty nods.

“But you don’t play, do you?”

Betty shakes her head, “No, ma’am.” Her curiosity gets the better of her, “How did you know?”

“You barely noticed my piano. So, who are the strings for, and why? And I want full sentences from you – not head nods and one-word answers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Full sentences!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Speak!”

“There’s a boy on my street—“

Eleanor cuts her off, “You’re a little young to be in love with a boy, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no, I’m not in love with him, ma’am.”

“That’s a relief. Okay, go on.”

Suddenly, Betty feels herself releasing an avalanche of words, “Well, about a month ago his mother – she’s a domestic – she got a hand-me-down guitar from the woman she works for. It, uh, it is missing all the strings but one. And that one isn’t in great shape. But that boy loves it. And even from two houses away, and with the one string and all, I can tell he’s really good with that guitar. Everybody can tell he’s really good.”

“You’re buying that boy strings. Pardon me if I say that I don’t believe you. You’re working far too hard just to hear a bit of music from a boy you don’t love who lives down the road.”

“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. I, uh, I don’t want to hear him play. I mean I’d love to hear him play, but that isn’t it.”

“So, what is?”

“A door, ma’am.”

“Full sentences, girl.”

“The music is a door. His door out of here, out of this reality. His momma opened it for him, with that guitar. We all see it. Everybody who knows him sees it. He sees it. But that door isn’t very open – and pretty soon it’s gonna close. That one string is gonna break.”

Eleanor just stares at her.

“You’ve done all this work… just to keep that boy’s door open.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Betty. She lowers her eyes, unsure if Eleanor thinks she should be proud or ashamed; and uncertain why she cares what Eleanor thinks.

The woman takes in a deep breath. Then she asks, “And how much do the strings cost?”

“Well, they were 60 cents, ma’am.”

“They were?”

“They’re more now. Mr. Jones said there was something called ‘inflation’. I think it must be something like the interest they charge sharecroppers. He said the strings are now 70 cents.”

“So, you’re working another week. And you know there’s a chance they’ll be 90 cents before you have a chance to buy them.”

“Well… yes, ma’am.”

“The gall of that man.” Eleanor’s voice is still, calm. Dangerous.

Betty doesn’t say anything.

Eleanor takes a long and thoughtful sip of her tea.

“You’ve worked hard for these strings. I respect that.”

Betty doesn’t even nod.

“So, I’m going to let you in on a secret.”

“I don’t think I want to know any secrets, ma’am.”

“Well, you’re going to learn one today.”

Betty just sits there, like she’s a fairytale girl who’s been trapped in this magical, dangerous, house. Everything would have been better if this woman had never learned what her husband had been doing.

“Betty Carter. The secret is this. There are three things my husband hates. Negros. Me. And the Sears Roebuck Catalog.”

Betty tips her head to the side, confused.

“Little lady, you give me your 60 cents and I’ll buy you those strings. Not from William Jones, Proprietor of the Walnut Cove General Store. But from Sears.”

Betty looks at Eleanor carefully. She appraises her, carefully. She’s worked hard for her 60 cents.

Then, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the six dimes.

Betty Carter was born in 1932 in Walnut Cove, North Carolina. She was the daughter of a sharecropper. When she was 17, she met the love of her life – James France. He was a man for whom every door seemed open. Twelve years later – six children later – he was killed in a traffic accident. From that day on, Betty devoted every moment of her life to keeping her own childrens' doors open.

She succeeded.