Ten Million Kisses

By RC White

Les and Lois’s chance meeting at a party during their first week on campus seems destined. Though from vastly different backgrounds, the attraction is instant. While both had been reared in the Christian faith, Lois’s fundamentalist beliefs are a radical change for him.  Still, he is eager to learn and promises to attend her chu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth C. White
• Release date: Feb 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578444802

RC White

Through the years that she taught literature at the high school level, RC (Ruth) White fell under the spell of the writers she studied and dreamed of creating stories like them. Finally, with a successful career behind her, she took a first step and wrote a simple story. Now, armed with a character named Queenie, she was on her way. For the first time in her life, Ruth learned that she didn't have to search for stories; they would find her. A drive down the Natchez Trace Parkway revealed tales from every bend in the roadway, and a stop at a country store yielded secrets lurking in its darkened corners. People's stories were everywhere in her native Deep South, even in a dream that resulted in her first novel. Once the stories appeared, she turned to writers' conferences for help in telling them. It was there that she came face-to-face with the basis of all good writers. Putting the pen to paper or the hands on the keyboard is the first and most important step in the thousands to come. Today the impetus remains the same...for someone else to read and hopefully understand what the writer is saying about the human condition. For Ruth, that process had begun many years before when she first picked up a book by a fellow named Charles Dickens. Throughout her formal education, Ruth sought out those with different backgrounds and with different stories, learning as much as possible about the human spirit. From day one, she fell in love with ordinary people doing extraordinary things, and that concept has lured her like a siren perched on a rock in the Rhine. This concept remains a theme in her work today. Interpreting life through stories has supplied Ruth with the most wonderful friends on the planet--writers. Although very few become famous, all are special. She believes that writers, along with other artists, have that rare ability to see beneath the surface of human behavior and into our very hearts.

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Ten Million Kisses

A True Story

RC White

Copyright © 2019 Ruth White

All rights reserved.

ISBN 9780578443829

ISBN 13 978-0-578-44382-9

Disclaimer

This work is classified as creative nonfiction and is based entirely on a true story with real people and real events. What this means to the reader and what the reader must acknowledge is that some of the events, places, and characters have been embellished in order to present them in a light representative of family and friends who knew them. To the best of the writer’s knowledge, information contained herein is correct.

While the writer had no way of being present for actualization of events and conversations, known facts about the characters presented by those who knew them make the scenes not only possible but probable. The author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book is correct and does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Introduction

My family has always been big on preserving our past. Perhaps it’s because my father’s life was cut short by war, or perhaps it’s simply part of our genetic makeup. Whatever the reason, there I was. The oldest child, the first born, the junior, with my role reversed. I had become my mother’s caregiver.

She won’t live a week if you take her out of that house, my brother had warned.

With his admonition still ringing in my ears, I drove south anyway, toward the house that Mother deemed holy ground. After having lived in military quarters, college housing, and then a series of rental homes, she thought their new house in Florence a godsend, and those feelings had only deepened through later years. Thus, when my mother’s health prevented her from living alone any longer, we siblings took turns caring for her until we had to face the facts. Mother needed permanent care that none of us alone could provide.

As the eldest, the job had fallen to me. I found a place near my own home, close enough to visit her every day, and the more I visited, the more I learned to listen. Day by day, this remarkable woman took me by the hand and led me deeper into my parents’ lives until I could witness their successes and their failures, their strengths and their weaknesses. And for the very first time, I could walk in their shoes.

Perhaps like most children, I had taken for granted the love of my parents and their presence in my young life. Shortly before my tenth birthday, however, my life changed in ways I could never before have imagined. As I tried to comprehend what had happened, the world I had always known blurred into a single, meaningless motion. Somehow, I and my family got through those awful times, but now the simplest events took on new meaning. The letters my father and mother had written became treasures, stories of their accomplishments turned into legacy, and my mother’s care of all of us children evolved into the stuff of legends.

Thus, when on her ninetieth birthday we had all gathered for the celebration, one fact hit me with the impact of an exploding bomb. That birthday might very well be her last. I had prepared myself for her death, but what I had not foreseen was that she would take with her a cornucopia of information that she alone possessed.

The very next day, I began to ask questions. And with each new one, my mother produced another amazing story until, bit by bit, the picture of their heroic lives emerged. For the first time, because I had finally thought to ask, the forces that had created my parents, had motivated their actions, had drawn them together for eternity crystallized into a meaningful pattern for me. Finally, I could see my parents as the human beings that they were, imperfect as are we all, but vastly more complex and interesting than I could ever have imagined.

When I entered her room on that last birthday, Mother was sitting in her chair by the window, gazing out on an early spring. She heard my voice and turned to give me that special smile saved for her children. In her lap, frail hands gripped several narrow, yellowed sheets of paper, the kind folks once used for letter-writing.

*

Here, son, she said, holding them out to me. I found something you might want to see.

Recognizing familiar tracings of my father’s penmanship, I began to read. After eight months in a German camp, he was coming home. Throughout most of the letter, he praised his crew while skipping over the all-too-cruel facts of imprisonment. But Lois’s husband, the father who had then never seen me, his child, was coming home. That was all that mattered to him.

My eyes lingered over each word, as if by staring longer, his face might appear. Finally, I asked, But why, Mom? Why haven’t you ever shown us this before?

Her chin curled up into a smile. I saved it for last, she said. To show you how he signed it.

My dutiful eyes returned to the phrase that had already emblazoned itself in my brain. Ten million kisses, I read aloud. Did he ever say that to you again?

Oh, Mother said with her little chuckle, Oh, ‘bout ten million times. I always thought you’d like to know that.

*

STARS COLLIDE

The most important events in our lives often occur as if preordained, inexplicably but as surely as the master’s strokes on canvas. No explanation can or should be given. A chance meeting on the street changes the heart of a would-be-criminal, a kind deed on a subway alters thoughts of suicide, and a teacher’s words propel the overlooked student into greatness.

When our weary world perches yet again on the precipice of disaster, we know not who will lead us or whether this time we might fall back into the primordial abyss. Only one fact remains. The human spirit, damaged and daunted, remains the greatest power on earth, capable of once again lifting the human race over our shameful past and into a future of goodness.

The skies over rural Alabama gazed down on a little girl, alone save for her visions of making her world better; those over industrial New Jersey brought visions of flight to a boy harboring his own dreams. How they found each other seems less a mystery and more like two elements destined from the beginning to be joined as one.

Les and Lois’s story, although not unique, should be shared. It is the story of life in America.

CHAPTER ONE

It is in the heart that the values lie…without it intellect is poverty. Mark Twain

Mama! the little dark-haired girl cried as she burst through the kitchen door. Her normally placid brown eyes sparkled with excitement, and she let the screen door slam in her wake. Louder now, Lois pled, Mama, come quick. You gotta see this!

Rhoda turned from away from the sink, where mounds of yellow squash waited on the drain board to be washed and sliced. See what, Lois? I’m kinda busy.

More determined, the child tugged at the flour sack apron across her mother’s stomach, pulling her away from the sink. There’s a bullfrog in the garden.

Rhoda’s eyes searched her daughter’s face. A bullfrog? What does it look like?

Lois’s hands reached out in both directions. It’s this long, Mama, she sputtered. And it’s crawlin’ all over the beans.

Rhoda’s heart fluttered, and she turned away from the sink, wiping her hands on the apron. Thanks for tellin’ me, sugar. Would you like for me to go out there and take a look?

Lois nodded agreement and asked, Want me to go with you?

Oh, I don’t think so, sweetie. I think I can handle the bullfrog all by myself. Is that okay?

With a pensive frown, Lois asked, Are you sure you don’t need me?

No, baby. You stay here and take care of the house, and I’ll go chase the bullfrog away so it won’t scare you any more. Okay?

I wasn’t scared, Mama. I wanted you to see it is all.

Well, thanks for tellin’ me, honey. I’m proud of you, but I really need you to stay here. Will you do that for me?

The child agreed, and as her siblings joined her in the kitchen, asking all sorts of questions, little Lois felt like the champion of children everywhere. As the youngest of five, she rarely had that opportunity and savored the moment. Somewhere along the line she’d heard that a bullfrog was a big critter, and the thing that now menaced their garden was one big critter. Mama would scare it off, though, and life on their little farm would be safe again.

Of course, Daddy usually assumed the role of protector, but he was down in the mines, where he went every day. He’d left before it got daylight and he’d come home after it was dark all over again; still he was their protector. He’d come home all dirty and tired, but he’d always come home, even last week when Mama looked scared.

They’d been sitting around the old wooden table in the kitchen. Mama had made cookies, and she was on the way over to the table with the plate when the siren down at the mine went off. Lois put her hands over her ears, and all the kids looked at each other with wide eyes. Mama stopped in her tracks, halfway to the table, gripping the plate with both hands. The cookies were still hot and smelled like sugar and butter, heaven on a plate. But while she stood there, Mama’s face drained of color, and the plate slipped out of her hands, more like she just let go, and it crashed onto the kitchen floor.

Mamie, being the oldest, jumped up and took charge in her usual way. Mama, sit down, she commanded, and as the younger siblings looked on in confusion, she directed their mother to her place at the end of the table and began picking up pieces of the shattered plate.

What’s wrong, Mama? Hoyt asked, searching the other faces around the table.

Met only by shrugs from the other children, he asked, Mama, are you okay?

Rhoda drew in air and forced a smile. Through drawn lips, she announced, I’m fine. Of course, I’m fine. But staring down at the shards of her mother’s favorite rose pattern plate strewn with cookie bits all over the floor, she didn’t look fine. That siren just shook me up.

Nodding agreement, Mamie said, I hate that thing.

We all do, Mama said softly, turning her attention back to her children. But guess what! If you all think you can wait a few more minutes, I made some extra dough.

One by one, they nodded their answer, and even Hoyt got into the act by offering to get more wood for the stove. But as Mamie continued picking up the pieces of their afternoon treat, she watched her mother more closely.

Still in charge, she ordered, Lois, you get to help Mama this time. And I think we should have some pecans in ‘em. I’ll chop ‘em up. Hoyt, get started with that wood.

With the suggestion, Lois jumped up, glad for the chance to help, which didn’t come her way all that often, while the others went into action. With their assigned duties, the accident was temporarily forgotten, but when Daddy came in that night, Mama met him on the front porch, and she kissed him, coal dust and all, right there on the porch. He kissed her back. Then he said something to her and shook his head. Mama looked sad, but they put their arms around each other as they came into the kitchen, where Mamie had busied herself with the biscuits. Hoyt and Florence were outside fussing about whether Inez had struck out or not.

Lois witnessed it all. Later, she wanted to ask Mama about it, but later didn’t come for many years, and so Lois learned to live with certain mysteries, ones that she would someday know from the inside out.

Services for the three fallen miners took place two days later at the Big Ridge Church of Christ, a plain, wooden structure on the banks of Lost Mine Creek. A gravel road, created from rocks gathered from that very stream, led up to a one-lane, wooden bridge that emptied into an open area serving as the church’s parking lot. In winter, rushing waters of the creek swelled from months of rain and mud but slowed in summertime, clearing the water and revealing every limestone pebble beneath the surface. Its rocky banks made the perfect setting for Sunday dinners on the ground. A wide, rough plank nailed between two oaks served as a table, where each family’s dishes were set out to share, and once plates had been filled, folks found their familiar rocks that doubled as a table and a sitting place.

On occasion, some singing might take place, either spontaneously when a strong voice got filled with the spirit, or, less often, when a visiting group entertained with some well-known gospel songs. At those times, everybody, even the teenagers, joined in. Some of those young folks shared secret smiles as they glanced up at the arched bridge, tales of daring jumps still fresh in their minds.

Lois’s first memories of the church made her feel warm all over. It was a happy place, a place where everybody knew her and her family, but on that afternoon when the entire community had gathered for the funeral, the usual happiness was absent. In its place hung a sadness that permeated every plank of the pine floors, drifted in through every open window. It sat heavy on the shoulders of all its members, from the youngest shined up in their Sunday best to the old folks who’d already lived through too much that had drawn their faces into heavy lines.

Once the church was packed, the preacher took his place behind the pulpit and gazed down on familiar faces. Brothers and sisters, he began, focusing his steely blue eyes on the front row. Women, men, and children, uniform in their black, nondescript clothing, slumped forward as if the entire weight of the building pushed them downward, as if they could go lower than the day had already taken them. Women dabbed at their eyes, and men looked down at their hands, anywhere but at the women or the children.

A keening began on the front row, soft at first, then louder and shriller as it passed over the heads of the congregation. Somebody had to do it. The men who had died could be any one of them, so they moaned for the grieving family, for the loss to the community, and for the deep-grained knowledge that lived within every mining family’s heart, that the next siren could be for them.

When the preacher finally finished his sentence, Lois began to practice what she had learned from her short lifetime on that very pew. As the sound passed over her head, she turned to the nearest window, wide open on a summer day, where she spotted a tiny brown bird perched in the tree. Its head was tilted upward as it proudly held aloft a captured insect.

Go, little bird, Lois willed. Feed your babies. They’re waiting on you.

As if by command, the bird once more surveyed its surroundings before sweeping upward and disappearing into the dense foliage of the blossomed tulip poplar. She placed her index finger over her lips and whispered so quietly, Good for you, little bird.

Hearing something, Rhoda looked down at her daughter, who offered up only a smile for her mother. Lois had always been like that. Some people called her a strange child; Rhoda said she cared too much. But whatever the case, Lois’s instincts would serve her well in the years to come.

CHAPTER TWO

Courage, sacrifice, determination, commitment, toughness, heart, talent, guts. That’s what little girls are made of.

Bethany Hamilton

Lois started first grade the very next year. Although there were nineteen first graders that year, Lois stood out, and before long, reports of Lois’s achievements followed her home by way of notes.

"Dear Mrs. Cochran,

I’m delighted to inform you that Lois has made perfect scores on her arithmetic, her spelling, and her reading. The work seems to come quite easily for her and leaves her with extra time while the other students are finishing their work.

So I hope you don’t mind if I ask her to help with some of the classroom chores like cleaning the chalk boards and straightening up the cloak room. If this is not satisfactory with you, please let me know.

Thank you for sharing your lovely daughter with me this year.

Yours truly, Grace Jenkins

At first, Rhoda was thrilled, but as the notes continued to follow her child home and her duties multiplied, she became puzzled, and then a little angry. She talked it over with A.B., and they decided they needed to talk with Miss Jenkins. However, before Rhoda could make the appointment, another note arrived. This time, Miss Jenkins was a bit more enigmatic and simply asked for a conference. How Rhoda wished A.B. didn’t have to be down in the mine that day, but she could handle it. Whatever Miss Jenkins had in mind, Rhoda was ready for it.

However, she was not prepared for what Lois’s teacher had to say. Miss Jenkins, the daughter of the town’s longtime mayor, had been the first grade teacher for as long as anybody could remember, but what nobody could remember was whether or not she had ever attended college. Rhoda had ammunition if things should get dicey.

As she arrived on foot at the schoolhouse, children had just been dismissed for the day, and a stream of children, boisterous sixth graders first, then progressively smaller ones, cascaded down the wooden steps as Rhoda stood waiting. Her stomach churned with anticipation. Why wasn’t Lois out yet?

Hey Ms. Cochran, Randy Pitts said as he threw up his hand and gave her a smile, pushing a recalcitrant strand of hair off his eyes. For a moment, Rhoda’s heart warmed as she returned Randy’s hello, but her attention turned back to the doorway. The last child out the door, and he left, too, to join the other children who filled the dusty street in front of the school and headed to their homes.

Rhoda stood up straighter. Although she’d waited in the shade, she was plenty hot. What was Miss Jenkins doing? Of all days, why was Lois being kept behind? This had to stop.

Finally, Lois appeared from the shadowed hallway, and her face lit up when she spotted her mother. Running toward her, Lois exclaimed, Mama, you’re here!

Of course, I’m here, Rhoda said, climbing the well-worn steps. She reached down to tuck Lois’s white blouse into her navy skirt and then asked, Lois, how was your day?

Good, Mama. But Miss Jenkins is waitin’ to see you.

I know, Rhoda assured her daughter, faking her best smile. Would you like to walk on home with your sisters?

Yes, Ma’am, Lois said, casting a longing glance their way.

Well, then, go on. I’ll see you at home.

Lois gave her mother a final grin and skipped off toward Inez and Florence who were laughing about something with Emily, who lived closest to their house and was probably their best friend. Usually, she had to walk home with Hoyt because he always stayed behind to shoot that darn basketball in the hoop nailed up on the side of the schoolhouse. She knew she wasn’t supposed to walk home by herself, what with her being the youngest, but she still didn’t understand why. Hoyt was so boring, such a boy.

Satisfied that all of her children were out of earshot, Rhoda entered the dark hallway. As part of a mining town, the school heated with coal furnaces, much of which had settled in the form of smoke on the building’s once sparkling white walls and gave it the appearance of an old lady too long in the sun. Arranged much like a dog trot, the building had classrooms on either side of a wide, dark hallway that reeked of pine oil.

She knew from previous visits that Lois’s class occupied the first room on the left, and as she turned the creaky brass knob to Miss Jenkins’ classroom, Rhoda held her breath. But the teacher’s smile only widened as she stood up to welcome Rhoda and motion for her to sit in the chair placed directly in front of her desk.

Rhoda sat stiffly in the straight back chair and took a deep breath. You said you wanted to see me, she began. I do hope that you’re not having any problems with Lois.

The teacher’s smile faded. "Problems