The Soul of Hattie Taylor

By Scott Stancell-Condron

The American Century serves as the back drop for The Soul of Hattie Taylor . The actions of past generations, family legends and rivalries cloud the current reality. Taylor Alexander searches for truth, family and closure. His grandmother, Hattie Taylor never searches beyond her own front door as she holds on to old ideas and clings to the reality she has created. The collision of generational sins and religion and race drive this tale of a gay Southerner who searches for his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Stancell-Condron
• Release date: Aug 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452454856

Scott Stancell-Condron

Scott Stancell-Condron was born in Knoxville, Tennessee and grew up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. He attended the University Of Tennessee, Knoxville and holds a BA in History from the Chattanooga campus. He and his husband, Tim, live in Boston.

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The Soul of Hattie Taylor

Scott Stancell-Condron

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Scott Stancell-Condron

All rights reserved.

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For Tim and Wendy

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Brian McCutcheon for his reading and re-reading of the manuscript. Great appreciation to Mike Holland and Margaret Wadsworth for their feedback.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1 The Old Crow

2 Sarah

3 White Trash Birthday

4 Melungeon Holiday

5 Cousin Teri

6 Kat Questions

7 The Deer Hunters

8 Finding a Number

9 Hooker Friends

10 Relative

11 No Saving Grace

12 Hippolyte

13 Control

14 Mom’s Curve Ball

15 Crying in the Shower

16 Swab

17 The Feel of the Grave

18 Hand in Hand

19 War Dance

20 They All Know

21 Back to Tennessee

22 True Blood

23 Waiting in Purgatory

24 A Meeting in Charlotte

25 The Smell of Dead Flowers

26 The Old Crow Fly’s

About the Author

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In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future. —Alex Haley

1 The Old Crow

Whispering in disbelief to herself at the face starring back; Harriet Maria Taylor Alexander, Hattie Taylor for short, looked in the mirror as she splashed water on her face, as she had done every morning for as long as she could remember. Her mug was a bit fuzzy; it wasn’t plausible to wear glasses while washing ones face. Still she didn’t recognize the person she saw, she hadn’t recognized the person starring back for a long time. Her face had been ravaged by time and weather, worry and duplicity over ninety years on this earth. Her once brilliant blue eyes had faded to a dull blue that was almost gray. The wavy, some would say curly, raven colored hair had long since lost its color and the natural curl didn’t take near as long to straighten now. Her breast had always been her best feature; no maybe it was her legs. Her once substantial bosom now sagged closer to her waist. Six children, no she meant to say seven, had taken care of her once perky chest. She wondered what happened to Hattie Taylor along the way. She was now a ghost of the women she had been during her full flower. She had been thrown away; all for one moment of youthful enthusiasmher hopes and dreams crushed in the split second it took and for a mere shooting a star.

She remembered the events but not the time that passed; seems like only yesterday she was a little girl living in Monroe County. Vying with Iris for her dad’s attention and always losing. Somehow she had become old without anyone asking her permission; no one ever asked for her permission on things that affected her. She was the same inside; the years hadn’t changed her bitterness. She was a bitter child. She became a bitter teenager and then a bitter old woman. The bitterness lingered; she knew if she expected forgiveness she needed to give it. Unfortunately, it was something she knew she lacked in her heart; besides she didn’t see the use in it all because those she needed to absolve were long since departed. They all died without asking; maybe they were like her and didn’t need to be exonerated.

The aches of her body told her she was old and creaky. Arthritis had set up in most of her joints; making it painful and difficult to get out of bed most days. It was her favorite activity, dancing, which in her youth she had been known far and wide for, that told her most emphatically that she was old. The boys use to flock to watch her gorgeous gams do the Charleston and Fox Trot; to watch her breasts bounce in rhythm to the music. Her long legs, thanks to her then 5 foot 7 inch frame, gave the illusion that they went on for days; in her day she was taller than all the girls. Like everything else to do with her body her stature had faded; but her legs were with out a doubt now her best feature. Now it was an almost impossible task; only in her mind could she dance with out great pain. Sometimes, she would relate her interactions with others to dancing; the verbal give and take of opinionated discourse took on a graceful, fluid air.

At times she had wished her maiden name ended in a vowel, it would have been easier to explain her dark skin. She didn’t really care if the surname was Italian, Spanish or Hispanic but just something to explain. Her stock explanation was, like her father’s before, that she was Cherokee. It didn’t matter what she was; she believed she was an Indian. She would search the mirror looking for the traits that supported belief. When she was young her stepmother would yell at her for being vain; she was vain but it wasn’t the vanity that took all of her mirror time but the search.

The face that stared back in the mirror didn’t show all of the compassion in Hattie’s heart. She found it hard to share. Other than George, her now deceased husband, no one knew about her weekly trips to Oak Ridge Hospital to do good. For twenty years, every Wednesday, she headed over to the new fancily christened Methodist Medical Center to volunteer. She was part of a group called the Grey Ladies. The main mission of the Grey Ladies was to cheer up and bring hope to those who were sick and infirm. She held the hand of those that were dying or those that needed comfort from their pain; no questions asked or judgment rendered. She embraced those in need as God intendedwith love. It was troubling to her that she could muster strength for stranger but not her own kin.

Her volunteer work was her own. She even received an award as volunteer of the year; none of her family knew. She didn’t even allow her husband to attend the ceremony. Until a couple of years ago, she lived for her Wednesday gig; when driving the eight miles got to be to much of a labor she was at the hospital every week without fail. Some how that woman that wanted recognition for everything she did and demanded adoration and respect from her family; didn’t want to be recognized for her good works.

Hattie Taylor prayed three times a day. She asked for forgiveness and the well being of her children. She prayed for the repose of her soul to purgatory rather than hell; she prayed that purgatory existed. She offered a special prayer nightly for her grandsonTaylor, to find peace, to find happiness and to quit being so damn confrontational and to learn to pick his battles.

All of Hattie’s living children, her 22 grandchildren, her 40 great grandchildren and a couple of great-great grandchildren would soon begin to arrive from all corners of the country. What differences they all had with each other, and there were many, they pulled together for weddings, funerals and milestone birthdays. Today was the latter. It would be family only, as her husband and what friends she had managed to keep were long departed. In-laws and siblings had gone to their rewards. If any cousins remained it was news to her, as she had lost touch years agoeither by choice over some disagreement or out of ambivalence. As the matriarch of the clan, she insisted on loyalty and obedience some gave to her willingly, others questioned her authority. Hattie never had time for her nieces and nephewsnot even to write an occasional Christmas card. She always thought death was easier than life and she thought she was being punished to live such a long time. At least most of her friends had lost their minds before they passed, the small details of her life had faded but the major debacles and triumphs were crystal clear. She was confronted by the choices she made in the past; especially those that altered her life and those of the ones she loved.

Hattie went about her morning routine: one cup of coffee, a piece of toast, a nibble of fruit, soaking her dentures then taking her shower, dressing and reading a chapter from her mother’s bible. If it wasn’t a poly-cotton blend she didn’t wear it. Her mother’s bible was different from hers—it had a few extra books. She then tidied up the den and swept the kitchen. Hattie made her bednot normally one of her habits.

Hattie didn’t feel that today was momentous. Her children insisted. She felt more melancholic than anything. One last time to have the family together as a unitwhat was left of it. She hoped she got useful presents. Then she changed her mind, she hoped she only got cash but a check would be fine too.

Someone will be here to set up a big tent, tables and chairs to accommodate her family. Matt had been by a couple of days earlier with two men to show them where and how he wanted it set up. Matt was such a good son, always has been.

The men returned at 8 AM just like they had said. They had another five or six people with them. In no time flat, they had the tent up and began setting up tables and chairs. Matt had them put up the tent in the old vegetable garden, if you wanted to call it a tentit had no sides -like a funeral tents. It only took the crew about an hour to do the whole set up. She worried that Matt had probably paid them too much money for what they did.

Soon her family would start to arrive. Some of the smaller ones she may never have met and of course there would be newer in-laws that she hadn’t set eyes on. She wanted to have everyone there, even the departed ones. Maybe she would bring out a couple of photos. The caterer would be arriving at noon or so Kat had told her. She was happy that Kat was rejoining the family for the celebration.

She muttered to herself as she went out to check the mail. She couldn’t remember the last time she had checked her mail. She didn’t want anyone to think she had forgotten. A neighborhood kid rode his bike past, nodding as he said, Good Morning Mrs. Alexander. She just waved, having no idea of his name. As she turned back to her house, the call of crow broke the stillness of the April morning. She turned in the direction of the noise to see a large black crow starring at her as it perched on the chain-link fence that surrounds her property. She stepped closer. The crow did not move. She became mesmerized as she starred into the crows eyes. The same thing had happened last week. It happened before that but she could not remember when; could have been a dream. A passing car ruffled the bird and it flew off, calling out as it went out of sight. Hattie Taylor again turned towards her house.

2 Sarah

Taylor stood in the cemetery guffawed with disbelief. He hacked his way through heavy under growth to find the old family burial plot—that had long since been abandoned and fallen into a state of ruin. It was right where Sarah had said it would be on TVA land less then fifty feet for the Shore of Tellico Lake. Right in front of his eyes he saw his great grand mother’s grave. Plain as day the tombstone read Elizabeth Gehagan Taylor born June 3, 1889, Died May 2, 1918. Is this a mistake? Taylor said out loud as if some one was listening. Right next to her was a smaller marker that read Joseph Taylor May 1, 1918, Died May 2, 1918. He thought about going back to Sarah for an explanation but he didn’t think he could find the words. She must have known what he would find. She had to know that he knew his great grandmother and his uncle. He had been to both of their funerals. Both are buried in Chattanooga. He remembered he didn’t go to the funerals, only the receiving of friends at the funeral home. Besides he still wanted to make it to the courthouse to search for old records and this gave him one more thing to research.

Taylor had been trying to trace his family roots. He felt disconnected from his family; both of his parents had died when he was young. He and his sister had been split up after his mother’s death. He went to live with his father’s parents and his sister went to live with their maternal grandparents. Many details were sketchy at best. He was told most memories were to painful to recall. Specific requests for information from his grandmother, Hattie Taylor as she preferred to be called by everyone, went unfilled, sidestepped or just didn’t add up.

The quest that Taylor had embarked upon was two foldto see who and what he was and to learn about his father. Hattie also put his dad on a pedestal. Sometimes with death, people become saints or martyrs, his dad became both. Hattie was a one woman PR firm when it came to her youngest son. He wanted to know who his father was; what made him tick. Taylor felt as though he couldn’t live up to the legacy that was left him. Taylor wanted to end the haunting gnawing feeling that crept into his thoughts when he was alone.

He had some names and dates from Hattie and Hattie’s Bible. He would ask her questions but Hattie always tried to explain things away that were difficult. You could see the pain in her face when she was asked about such unpleasant things. Hattie liked to tell stories at her choosing and from her point of view. When he was younger and would sit at her feet, mesmerized by the stories of her growing up on the farm in Monroe County, Tennessee. How the house she grew up in didn’t have indoor plumbing or electricity. How she almost died at the age of 7 in a fire. The first train trip she took to visit relatives up north. She never talked about her mother much.

He had searched the Internet and used various genealogy search sites to piece together names, dates, and places. Taylor had returned to Tennessee for Hattie’s 90th birthday. He arrived a couple of days early to poke around Tellico and Vonore and the courthouses in Madisonville and Cleveland for records that would provide some clues to his families past. When he told stories to people about Cleveland; they assumed he was talking about Ohio not the smaller town in Tennessee. He also had run across the names of a couple of Hattie’s cousins. One of her cousins, Sarah Taylor Ellis, still lived in Tellico Plains. The search turned up her number and address. He couldn’t decide whether to call her or just show up.

Taylor had driven down from Philly; normally he would have flown into Knoxville, rented a car and drove down to Cleveland. Instead, he spent the night with friends in Knoxville before driving to Cleveland. He would then take at route north to all of the places he wanted to go or need to go before heading to Clinchside on Saturday. He had driven east from Cleveland on Highway 64 before turning north on state road 68, finally turning on to Scott Street. He drove past the Stokley Van Camp processing plant. Someone like Quaker Oats had bought the company back in early 80’s, he thought he remembered. It looked to be shuttered. No cars in the parking lot. He drove on past looking for the house he remembered from his childhood. At the far end of Scott Street, on the left hand side stood the quaint old Victorian. The bright colors on the gingerbread were faded but the yard was still immaculate. The white picket fence around the house looked as though it had been freshly painted.

Taylor had met Sarah many times when he was younger but it had been at least thirty years since he had seen her. Sarah had been short, svelte and impeccably stylish last time he had laid eyes on her. She was fair and had chiseled features. Taylor felt uneasy about just dropping in and drove on by. He stopped at a pay phone but could find the number. He got back in his car, conflicted about what to do. Maybe she couldn’t help or didn’t want to help. Perhaps this should be a get acquainted meeting and collect some general information about the Taylor’s. Most of what she would tell him this time would be old news. After thirty minutes of driving around the metropolis of Tellico Plains, he stopped. He could see someone peering out of the window as he opened the gate. He rang the buzzer. The woman her remembered opened the door—a little older perhaps but still the same, tall, thin and fair. At first, when he told her his name, she didn’t remember him. He was filled with disappointment before he realized she must be in her mid-eighties and time has a way of stopping even the sharpest mind. She stared at him in an uneasy way as if her were there to perform an act of fraud of just plain rob her. After a few awkward moments, he blurted out, Hattie Taylor’s grandson—the one she raised. Sarah opened the screen door wider and said, Why didn’t you say that in the first place. She stepped to the side as to let him know it was OK to enter. He crossed the threshold and waited for her to lock the door behind them. She led him into the parlor, filled with antiques by bygone days and the smells of time.

Is Hattie still living?

Yes, ma’am. I’m actually going to her 90th birthday on Saturday.

Lordy, I haven’t seen her since you’re my mother passed in 74? Or was it 75? her face showed the strain of trying to remember.

I think it was 1976, Taylor remembered because it was around the 4th of Julyit was the bicentennial and papaw George stopped out by the interstate to let him by some firework. It was the first, last and only time this happened because it was the bicentennial and it would only come once in a lifetime.

Time sure gets away from you. Hattie Taylor was more like a big sister to me. You know she lived with us for a while don’t you? Sarah had an East Tennessee twang to her words but it didn’t have a raw uneducated sound to it. You could tell she was educated by her choice of words. The diphthongs were not too drawn out—too country. Taylor seemed to remember she was a schoolteacher and her husband was a doctor. He thought for a minute and changed his mind—he was dentist. Everyone called him Doc. You know people just drift away. You have your own family and it becomes your priority. Sometimes cousins fall by the wayside. Sometimes they come back into your life. I did try to reconnect with Hattie Taylor after George died. I wrote her a long letter but I never heard from her. I suppose too much water had gone over the dam and she was too busy grieving. I bet she liked having you around to look after. It must have made her later years a joy

Sarah talked for a long time; recalling her husbands passing a few years earlier. How her youngest son wanted her to move to Knoxville with him and his wife. That she wanted to stay in Monroe countyshe was born here and wanted to die here. She just hoped that she held up and didn’t have to move the big city. Taylor guessed in her mind Knoxville was a big city. How her daughter and son-in-law had moved to Arizona to be closer to their daughter. Her oldest son she said lived in New York. Finally, she had told him all of her news, What brings you out to this neck of the woods?

Well, he began; I am doing genealogy research and have hit a wall. I’ve been able to piece together a lot of things: names, when and where people were born. But there are a lot of missing pieces of the puzzle. I am basically doing for my sister’s children. They haven’t had much contact with the Alexander side of the family. It wasn’t the truth but he wasn’t sure he could explain this inner drive to find outfind out what he didn’t know. Maybe it was nothing but he couldn’t shake the ache in his heart and the doubt in his head.

Do you have children?

No ma’am, I’ve never married. Then he explained how he had come across her name in his research and looked up her address on the Internet. She didn’t seem surprised that you could do that. He told her some of the things he found. That he was able to trace the Taylor’s back to Irvin, Scotland in Ayrshire. She listened intently, hung on his words. He figured having been a schoolteacher and all she kept up with new thingsnew technologies. He again realized her age and of course she probably didn’t even have a computer. She offered him a coke, which was the generic southern term for soda. As he followed her into the kitchen, he noticed a laptop at a built in desk in the sitting area off to the side.

As Sarah was dropping ice into the glass, she turned her head toward him and said, Hattie couldn’t fill in the blanks for you?

He lied and said, Her memory isn’t what it used to be. Taylor didn’t like to lie but sometimes it could be justified. What if he had told her the truth and said Hattie wouldn’t really answer his questions. If Hattie wouldn’t help why should Sarah?

What have you done up to this point? How can I help?

I searched the Mormon website FamilySearch.org and a website for the Taylor’s that took me back to 1624. The real problem is the Goins side of the family. I can only find one generation back from Mary Katherine Goins Taylor. It showed they were from Bradley County like the Alexander’s. I was at the Bradley County courthouse this morning. But it seems that most of the records I was looking for had burnt up in a fire. They told me the old courthouse had burned down in the 70’s. I had done research before I came down and learned that deeds, birth, marriage and death certificates were kept at the county courthouses in Tennessee before 1950. I was a little disappointed. When I have even searched the Mormon databases but found very little in substance They settled in the sitting area in the kitchen.

Where did you say you lived? Outside of Philadelphia.

"Isn’t that where your mother’s people are from?

Yes, ma’am. Grace, my sister, and her family live there too. So, I get to see a lot of her now.

I tried to tell Hattie not to split the two of you up. I know it was not my place to say but I just thought it was wrong. I think George, I mean your Granddad, thought it was wrong too but you know how headstrong Hattie can be. She thought she was doing what was best at the time I suppose.

Taylor was surprised that Sarah had said Hattie was headstrongit was true now that Sarah had brought it to mind. Yes, Granddad always said she would bust a gut trying to do what couldn’t be done. A wave of memories about George Alexander flooded over him. Taylor’s fear how being beat if he acted up. Of course, he never did. Hattie had regaled him with stories about how his papaw would line up the kids and spank them for no reason at allespecially his father and Uncle Joe. Taylor had been named after his uncle Joe—Joseph Taylor. Joe had died a few years before Taylor was born in Vietnam.

"Anyway, I was able to trace the family all the way back to Ayrshire in Scotland. Once I found records for your grandparents it flowed pretty easily. Samuel and Mary