The Fall of Summer

By Roz Louis

One of my greatest mentors inspired the writing of this book. She used to say, "People need to know who they are and whose they are" So many blindly follow the status quo. But, every once in a while a great man or woman rises up, rejecting the status quo, and presses to correct injustice and to find Truth. That particular person is Sum

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Dec 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781948262828

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The Fall of Summer

The Fall of Summer

Roz Louis

Copyright © 2017 by Roz Louis.

Paperback: 978-1-948262-81-1

eBook: 978-1-948262-82-8

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Part 1. When I was a Child I Spoke as a Child

Chapter 1. A Sharecropper’s Daughter

Chapter 2. Thorn(wood) in the Side

Chapter 3. Injustices and Tradition

Chapter 4. Hypocrisy

Chapter 5. Sunday Morning

Chapter 6. Seasons Change

Part 2. When I grew up

Chapter 7. College Days

Chapter 8. The Hero

Chapter 9. Military Man & Medicine Woman

Chapter 10. Buddha and the Blizzard

Chapter 11. Ms Ruth

Chapter 12. Continued Quest

Part 3. I put away childish things

Chapter 13. What is Truth?

Chapter 14. Acts 2:17

Chapter 15. Faith and Life Tested

Chapter 16. Family

Chapter 17. Essie’s Journey

Chapter 18. Prison: An Arm for an Arm, Tooth for a Tooth

Chapter 19. They Call it Cancer

Forwored: The End???

A Child’s recount

Now is the Time, the book

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In loving memory of Louise

February 15, 1948- January 18, 2007

Love You Mom

Part 1

When I was a Child I Spoke as a Child

Chapter 1

A Sharecropper’s Daughter

She wasn’t just born but sent… sent for a purpose. But she didn’t know how or for what purpose; she just knew she was different, unique, special. It was mid-February when this warm dark skinned baby with unusual fiery red hair came. She reminded her mother of a warm summer day in the midst of this cold winter evening. It was only fitting that she be named Su mmer.

As Summer’s eyes opened for the first time, she looked around at the shack that was her home and at the new people in her life: at the midwife (an elderly woman who lived nearby), at the little faces looking on (her sisters), and finally at her mother. The midwife wrapped Summer in an old torn blanket and, after giving her to her mother, left and soon came back with Summer’s father and brother who had been waiting outside the tiny house during the delivery. Summer’s father, towering well above 6ft, stooped to get through the doorway. And now standing upright next to his wife and new baby his head nearly touched the short ceiling. He, with the rest of the family, looked at baby Summer.

Summer wanted to say something, her mouth formed to speak, but she could not yet, or at least not in a language they understood. She had a message that this family needed to hear but they couldn’t understand. Realizing this, Summer began to cry.

Summer longed for her family to see the truth. For months Summer, strapped to her mother’s back by a satchel carrier made from old hand sewn garments, watched her family work in the fields shackling corn in the spring or picking cotton in the winter or tobacco in the summer. Month after month, year after year she watched her family slave in these fields. There were so many hidden talents stifled.

Summer’s mother was a great seamstress. If she had been born in a different era or from a different family, she could have been a famous fashion designer. Essie, Summer’s mother, was so talented she could make something out of nothing; she would take old torn fabrics and threads and create the most beautiful blouses, skirts, pants, and suits. She was able to sew with such perfection, neighbors swore she used a sewing machine, though all of her work was by hand. She didn’t own a machine nor had she the money to buy one. But today, instead of sewing fashionable garments, this barely 5ft petite black woman stood in the corn field contending with stalks as tall as she.

Summer’s father Grover Cleveland Gram, whose mother named him after a president hoping he would one day rise above the stereotypical slave mentality, was also quite talented and had crafted the crib that Summer, as her brother and sisters before her, slept in. He took old, unwanted wood and used tools outdated even for his time and crafted masterpieces that would last for generations.

Summer’s oldest sister Willomena had a gift for hair design. The only tool she had growing up was an old metal pressing comb with a split wooden handle that had been passed down to her by her mother’s mother. Yet with this pressing comb Willo created styles that lasted longer than any perm, even through rain or sweat.

Summer’s brother Timothy was an athletic contender to all his friends on the rare occasions when he could play sports. He inherited his father’s height and stature, growing into a tall strong man even in his youth. And Joyce and Grace could have been famous cooks, culinary artists even. They were eager to help in the tiny kitchen.

Yes, Summer’s entire family was gifted. But the world would never know; not as long as prejudice and poverty remained united. How sad it was to see such talent held back, stuck working in the fields like slaves for a rich family who would never appreciate. This family worked for less half their wages while the owners collected the profit. Those rich people sat in their big house drinking tea and lemonade while Summer’s family worked in the beaming hot sun and frosty winters depending on the season. And after a long day, the hard working family retired to a one and half bedroom shack with an old dusty blanket nailed to the ceiling separating the parents’ room from the children’s. Summer’s small crib took up half of her parents’ bedroom. The other room, which was about the size of a nook or closet, contained a twin sized mattress without a bed frame. This half room belonged to the oldest child, Willo. The other three siblings slept on the floor in the narrow hallway.

The largest room in the house was a mini- kitchen connected with a small dining room. There was no indoor plumbing in this shack, so the children would take turns going to the well to fill their water buckets for cooking and bathing. Lack of plumbing also meant no bathroom. During the day, the family used an outhouse in the woods to urinate and defecate. Once the outhouse was full, they would dig a hole to bury the stool and move elsewhere. At night, it was too dark to go outside and thus a bucket was placed in the hallway to hold urine and stool that would be disposed of the next day. There was no electricity in the house, so the bucket was hard to see and was sometimes tripped over, leaving urine on the floor to seep through the cracks of the rotting wooden floorboards underneath. It was a wonder the whole house did not reek with stench of bodily excretions.

Summer’s mother and sisters diligently cleaned the house and cooked. Summer’s father and brother chopped and collected wood chips for the wood burning stove. In the winter, this cooking stove also served as the only heater.

Chapter 2

Thorn(wood) in the Side

Years passed and Summer was old enough to talk and walk and was thus old enough to pick cotton and tobacco. She was after all a sharecroppers daughter, the youngest of five children. She didn’t get any special treatment because she was the youngest, even though she was only four years old. She did her share of work and at night when the work was done she slept in the hallway on the floor with her sibl ings.

At age six Summer started school. This was a two fold blessing. First, starting school meant less time in the fields. Second, she had a knack for learning. She was quick and witty, a quality her parents both admired and disapproved of. The downside of the school however was the distance. Every weekday morning, Summer walked the half mile distance with her brother and sisters. She did not understand why they had to walk so far to this run-down school building when there was a newer school much closer. And those children had new books too. It’s because they’re rich and white, was the only reply Summer got. She never understood segregation but learned not to speak about it for fear of the teacher’s paddle or her father’s iron hand. It’s just the way it is.

Summer’s school was a moderate sized overpopulated room. All of the students from first grade through twelfth were in this one room. The children separated themselves by age and then each took a seat on the floor with their respective groups. Timothy and Willomena sat on one side of the room labeled, older age class while Summer, Joyce, and Grace sat in the younger class on the floor. There were only enough chairs for the teacher and the senior students. The teacher, Mrs. Thornwood, was a heavy-set older black woman who spoke in an animated voice to enunciate her emotions. This teacher carried a paddle in her left hand with engraved words, ‘Board of Education.’ She did not hesitate to use this on any child for even the smallest infraction. She always said, Children are incompetent and competence must be beaten in them.

In her right hand, Mrs. Thornwood held a stick of chalk which she clenched so tight when she wrote that it left white marks all over her hands. She would sometimes put the chalk down when frustrated and wipe her gray brow, leaving white streaks on her face. Mrs. Thornwood said her gray hair came from the stress of insolent children. Well this teacher must have had a whole lot of insolent children because she had more gray strands than black.

Summer and her peers were paddled plenty of times by the ‘Board of Education’ over the years. Summer didn’t care. She loved reading and went to school for the books, something she could not get anywhere else since her family did not own books. Summer was grateful to have even the most run-down dusty old book as long as the words were readable. And when she came across pages that had been worn or torn out, she would create the character’s next adventure and imaginatively fill in the blanks.

A few years later and an eight year old Summer sat in the corner of the floor reading about Long John Silver in Treasure Island. Mrs. Thornwood seeing her, walked to her with arms folded and paddle in hand. We are doing math young lady. Reading time is over.

Summer was not trying to be disruptive. She had been quietly reading. She had to find out what happened next in the book. She now whispered to her teacher, I don’t like math. I like words.

Summer saw the gleam in her teacher’s eyes. You are a controversial girl. Do you know what that means?

Summer was great with words, as she read books, dictionaries, anything she could get her hands on at the school. She even read during recess. Summer stood up in her place and said matter-of-factly, Controversial is from the Latin words contra meaning against and verto meaning turn. It means to go against. But it is you who are going against me because I was already reading. You brought into play a new lesson, a controversial lesson.

The teacher was not impressed. She thought this child was trying to be a smart-allic. ‘How dare this child, who couldn’t be more than ten years old,’ Mrs. Thornwood thought to herself while looking at a tall 8year old Summer, ‘stand up and define a word that some of the senior students didn’t even know.’ Mrs. Thornwood raised the paddle peering at the child. Summer knew she was about to be beaten. The other students looked on intently.

Mrs. Thornwood snatched the book out of Summer’s hands and threw it on the floor in the middle of the room. Summer found herself snatched up, flipped upside down dangling by her legs, held by Mrs. Thornwood’s gruesome grip. The Board of Education bore down on Summer. You hate math?! Well all the children will learn to count today. We’ll count the number of lashes you get! Mrs. Thornwood had the children count as she beat Summer.

At number fifteen, a child from the older class stood up. I think she done learned her lesson Teach.

Mrs. Thornwood let Summer go. Her focus had shifted to the student who dared to interrupt her punishment. Who are you to tell me when enough is enough? You will take the rest of the beating for her!

Gladly, the student said, standing from his chair on the other side of the classroom, seated with the older children. He walked to his teacher, staring directly at her as he walked. He then turned around and smiled at the class and then at Summer.

The students under the direction of Mrs. Thornwood continued counting, 16,17…25. Then ‘CRACK.’ The Board of Education split in two. The class was released early as Ms. Thornwood was too frustrated to teach anymore. She rubbed her brow and her face with her chalked hand as she dismissed the class, her brown skin now covered in white. The children left silently but cheered inwardly, their joy building like a volcano. And as they walked out of the school, out of their teacher’s sight, the volcano erupted. They all gathered around the student and cheered, Ervin the Invincible! The students left in their separate directions still chanting, Ervin Invincible! Ervin Invincible!

Summer also went up to Ervin and though she did not