Momma's Olive Branch: A True Story

By Elizabeth Tisdale Armstrong

Mommas Olive Branch is a
true story about a
familys struggle with illness and death. The author tells the tale through her
own eyes about how cancer and diabetes take the lives of
her parents, leaving her and two younger brothers to cope
with life on their own. The story is full of rich descriptions
and details as it takes readers on a young girls journey to
adulthood, with all the trials and tribulations she must face.
The story is fi lled with messages of hope and inspiration
for readers, that death is not a fi nal ending, and love can
help anyone through difficult times.

For more info see elizabethtisdalearmstrong.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 10, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469103518

Elizabeth Tisdale Armstrong

About the Author Elizabeth Tisdale Armstrong lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her husband, their two children, and a black Scottie dog named Tucker. She has been an elementary schoolteacher for twenty-one years. She also mentors newly certified elementary school teachers.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Imagine growing up in a place where time seems to stand still, a place where history and tradition hover like a blanket over a town, creating a feeling of comfort and importance. In the heart of town, large gnarled but graceful old trees grow along the cobblestone-lined streets. Beside frame houses, there are white picket fences surrounding gardens full of brightly colored flowers. Birds twitter high up in the trees. The skies are not always so clear, but often are a vivid blue with ball-like white cotton clouds. Often there is a faint smell of wood smoke in the air from a working fire. Sometimes there is a smell of fresh gingerbread, or the spicy smell of curing meat. Along with the birds, the sounds of metal carriage wheels mixed with the clop clop of horse hooves can be heard moving along the streets. Voices, cheerful and excited, echo through the streets as groups of people move about the town—looking, imagining, learning about an era gone by in most other parts of our country. But here it still seems to continue, bringing with it a sort of magic message. The past is important to the future, it whispers to those who are willing to listen. I, as a child, listened and learned.

The town I grew up in is Williamsburg, Virginia. The restored area, started by men named Rockefeller and Godwin some twenty years prior to my birth, was in its prime in the 1960s, when I was a little girl. Archeology played a larger role then than it does now. So many things were still being unearthed and discovered. The town had such a tingling, excited feeling all the time. It was like we all had this huge diamond mine and wanted to share a little piece of it to every visitor who came in town.

My father worked for the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. He was an audio-visual engineer and worked on films and recordings that documented both the history of the town and the archeological findings of the foundation. I especially remember when excavation work was going on to restore the old Weatherburn’s Tavern. Some old wine bottles had been found in an archeological dig behind the building, and some of the bottles still had cherry wine in them! It was such an exciting time for everyone who worked for the foundation. We were like one big family, and each new discovery was felt as a success for us all.

There were other things that made this town important to me. From the time I was very little, my mother would take me on walks through the many flower gardens and down to the duck pond behind the Governor’s Palace. I was drawn to flowers before I was even able to walk and talk! So many of my baby pictures show me holding a flower in my fist. My father participated in the demonstrations of how soldiers used muskets and would parade down the main street with the fife and drum corps. I vividly remember the loud beating of the drums in my ears and how it felt like my heartbeat echoed the drum’s pounding in the middle of my chest. My brothers and I used to go for bike rides down the main street, called the Duke of Gloucester Street, and dodge in and out of groups of tourists. Perhaps most important of all, our family attended church in the old historic Bruton Parish, which has always been a living church since the 1700s, steeped in tradition and pride in its history. That was my favorite spot in the whole town. I knew every inch of the graveyard and what parts of the building were original and which were restored. I always was fascinated by the supposed place where Thomas Jefferson carved his name in the balcony as a young man attending the College of William and Mary.

My mother encouraged my brothers and me to sing in the church choir, which we did from second through twelfth grades, and my mother sang in the adult choir. Daddy would have loved to have been a part of a choir, but as he always put it, he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. He was content to watch and listen, and he contributed his time and talents to the Sunday school department. Sitting up in the choir stalls, close to the altar, I always felt closer to God. With the huge brass chandelier full of glowing candles hanging overhead, there was such a sense of majesty and holiness. It made me tingle at the thought of being a part of that.

So for me growing up, history and tradition were a way of life in family and business. My father didn’t make a huge living, but he was the best at what he did, and many admired his work. As an audio-visual engineer for the foundation, he helped make the recordings for educational films about eighteenth-century life, and he made the many records about various eighteenth-century music that the foundation put out each year. I always thought he should have been paid more, but we were comfortable, and we were very rich in love. I have vivid memories of what Daddy was like at work—very focused as he listened for any imperfections in a recording. Lines like Testing, one, two, three always make me think of him. He had no tolerance for a poor recording, and he would expound upon the subject quite openly and fiercely.

He didn’t like for anyone to eat a microphone. A little went a long way, he said. But when a recording went well for him, he swelled with pride. He would do that funny little whistle between his teeth and tap his foot in time to the music. That’s how I remember him the most.

As a child, I loved to hear the story of how my parents had met almost as much as my father enjoyed telling it. Daddy would always get a sparkle in his blue eyes as he related the facts. Momma would listen quietly, smiling, and only interrupt to correct him every once in a while. It began in the spring of 1956. Momma had moved to the big city of Richmond, Virginia, to teach. She worked at Highland Springs High School in Henrico County and taught English, French, and journalism. She was very well liked by her students. She shared an apartment with a fellow teacher named Frances. Frances began dating a young man she had met at the local radio station, WRVA. His name was Irby Hollins, and he loved telling the girls stories of the things that went on down at the radio station. Irby frequently would tell my mother that she should meet one of his coworkers, Dick Tisdale. Irby said he was a real swell guy with a great sense of humor. My mother declined, but eventually, Irby and Frances cooked up a way for the two of them to meet. Irby scheduled a tour of the radio station for both my mother and Frances. While there, my father caught a glimpse of my mother from down the hall and immediately wanted to know who she was. That is the woman I plan to marry! he boasted. Irby made sure the two met, and eventually they began dating. After a few months, my father asked my mother to marry him, but she refused, saying they needed to get to know one another better. Daddy continued asking her from time to time, but always she refused. Secretly, she was waiting for him to propose to her on Valentine’s Day. When he did, she at last said the yes he was waiting to hear. They were married a little over a year later in April of 1958.

It wasn’t especially unusual that my parents developed such a close-knit family. My mother came from a very close family, and when she married my father, they took him in as though he had always been a part of it. Daddy was an only child, and his mother doted on him. I never was able to really know my paternal grandparents. He died two months after I was born, which sent my grandmother into a depressive state. I was about four and a half when she died; I have a very shadowy image of her in my mind, but I never developed a real relationship with her. Losing his parents hurt my father deeply. Daddy didn’t cry often, but the few times I remember him crying were because he missed his parents. It was usually at Christmas when he missed them the most. Daddy loved Christmas better than anyone I have ever known. His excitement about the holiday was so catching, and to see him suddenly break down and cry at such a happy time made quite an impression on me as a young child. I remember once telling him that I never wanted to be like him in that one way, missing my parents at Christmastime. How ironic.

But my mother’s family provided so much love and caring, it never bothered me that I only had one set of living grandparents. I remember taking those long trips to the mountains of Virginia to visit them. The trip seemed to take forever as we would wind along state roads heading for the mountains of Virginia. We would always get a more excited feeling as the tops of the mountains began to come into view near Charlottesville. You could begin to see their bluish purple outlines, and the road began to wind more. We always broke up the trip by taking a picnic lunch to eat at the top of Afton Mountain. We used a picnic area designed for travelers near the top of the mountain. The benches were a bit rustic and stained, and you could hear the rush of traffic as cars continued on their journeys. But the air smelled sweeter and felt cooler there. The view below to the valley was like a peek at the world from heaven. You could see specks of tiny white houses nestled among masses of green trees, sloping down the mountain into the valley. But Daddy wouldn’t let us linger too long. Anxious to continue on, he would usher us all back to the car after eating.

From that point, the trip had about three more hours left before we would arrive in Christiansburg, Virginia, where my grandparents lived. Christiansburg is a small town nestled near the top of a small mountain, appropriately named Christiansburg Mountain. It is about thirty minutes past Roanoke and uphill all the way. As the car would begin its climb up Christiansburg Mountain, an excited feeling would fill the whole car. Momma and Daddy were just as anxious to arrive as we children were! We’re almost there, my mother would sing out. Finally, we would exit the highway and drive into the little town. The house sat perched on the side of a slope right beside the town hall. We could hardly contain ourselves as Daddy pulled into the driveway. He always tooted the horn to signal our arrival, but it wasn’t always necessary. My grandparents were usually waiting up on the front porch, waving hello. We couldn’t wait to jump out of the car and bound up the steps to those open arms.

Times at my grandparents’ house were filled with laughter and lots of visiting. Friends of the family and distant cousins would drop by when they heard we were there. We would fill the hours with talking and catching up on what had happened since the last visit. Food was another thing there was always plenty of. I remember fresh tomatoes, both yellow and red; fried chicken; homemade ice cream; and homemade chocolate syrup, the kind that gets chewy when it hits that cold ice cream! And fresh homemade bread. No one could make bread or rolls like my grandmother, and she always had fresh breads either coming out of or going into the oven, with more on the counter, rising. The delicious smells coming from the kitchen always filled the whole house. She also made all kinds of jams and pimento cheese spread and pound cake to die for. She canned yellow cherries she picked from a tree in her backyard, and they were my favorite. She always seemed to have an apron on, and she always smelled so good, like rising bread. She often whistled or hummed a tune as she worked in the kitchen. I’ve never known anyone else who had a merry twinkle in their eyes like my grandmother’s. She had a deep, stubborn determination too. She waged a war against Japanese beetles that ate her prize roses. She would carry an old tin can of scalding, hot water to the garden each morning, pick the beetles off the blossoms, and throw them in the tin can. The beetles wiggled and struggled, thrashing about in the hot water. Then she would carry them into the house and flush them down the toilet! She also hated crows and blackbirds eating seeds in her yard. She thought they frightened off other birds like robins, cardinals, and bluebirds, which she loved watching. She had a big black cap gun she would shoot off in the backyard, and she would shout, Go away, you old grackles! It was quite a sight to see—this small-framed older woman with a gentle, lovely face and brown hair with few silver streaks twisted into a bun on her head, wielding a cap pistol at a bunch of birds. But it seemed to work.

My grandfather was a quiet man in contrast to my grandmother. But they complemented each other so well. He never raised his voice, but still commanded respect and admiration. He was held in high regard by all that knew him in the town of Christiansburg. He was a man of honor and integrity, who could be counted on in both good and tough times. He too had a sweet face that almost always wore a smile. His dark eyes held the look of wisdom and kindness. He often puffed on a stump of a cigar, and he had a little chuckle that shook his plump tummy when he laughed. My grandparents had a very strong bond of love, which showed in every aspect of how they lived their lives. They passed it on to friends and strangers, but most especially to their four children.

My mother had two brothers and one sister. Uncle B., as he was called by his nieces and nephews, was the eldest, eleven years older than my mother.