With God’S Blessing: The Family Legacy of Irving and Jane Smith

By Irving R. Smith Sr. and Jane R.G Smith

The Smith Family's tradition on Sundays was to sit around the dining room table after dinner and hear Daddy and Momma talk about old times. You see, they were African Americans born in Staunton, VA in 1916 and 1918 during difficult times. But they expected that God would make a way! They had so many stories. Sometimes we had a good laugh, many times we would cry and yet other times it was almost unbelievable what they went through in an unfair and unjust society. We were mesmerized and amazed how our parents maneuvered and thrived the 20th Century. We were in awe of how they maintained their dignity and achieved so much in the face of so many obstacles and challenges. But "With God's Blessing" (this is the name they gave to the collection of stories that made up their life experiences), the impossible happened over and over. These life lessons we want our children's children to read and learn. We are also sure that each reader can appreciate and learn something from their life stories. Though there are many celebrated books and articles about the lifestyle of African Americans during the 20th Century, the story of Irving and Jane Smith is interesting and compelling.


Jane Evangeline Brown
Mercedes Decethia Morrison

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503526518

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Irving and Jane Smith.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014922158

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-2652-5

               Softcover        978-1-5035-2653-2

               eBook             978-1-5035-2651-8

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Rev. date: 02/09/2015

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Contents

Preface

Chapter One: Together

Chapter Two: Taking Responsibility

Chapter Three: In the Community

Chapter Four: Always Striving

Chapter Five: Good Times and Bad Times

Chapter Six: Getting By

Chapter Seven: Praising God

Chapter Eight: Yearning to Learn

Chapter Nine: Day by Day

Chapter Ten: New Horizons

Chapter Eleven: Into the World

Chapter Twelve: Taking Care

Chapter Thirteen: High Hopes

Chapter Fourteen: Starting Over

Chapter Fifteen: Making Decisions

Chapter Sixteen: Linking Two Lives

Chapter Seventeen: Laying a Foundation

Chapter Eighteen: Carrying the Load

Chapter Nineteen: Back on Track

Chapter Twenty: Building a Future

Chapter Twenty-One: At Home

Chapter Twenty-Two: Branching Out

Chapter Twenty-Three: Trying New Things

Chapter Twenty-Four: Difficult Times

Chapter Twenty-Five: Seeking Greener Fields

Chapter Twenty-Six: Settling In

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Nurturing and Growing

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Steering a Course

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Out and About

Chapter Thirty: Earning a Living

Chapter Thirty-One: Milestones

Chapter Thirty-Two: Everyday Events

Chapter Thirty-Three: More Changes

Chapter Thirty-Four: More Wedding Bells

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Challenging Child

Chapter Thirty-Six: Inside the System

Chapter Thirty-Seven: She Walks in White

Chapter Thirty-Eight: More Challenges

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Supervising

Chapter Forty: Hospitality

Chapter Forty-One: A Wider World

Chapter Forty-Two: Touching Lives

Afterword

Dedicated to

Henry Lewis Smith,

Queenie Carr Smith,

Stonewall Jackson Goines,

and Fannie Davis Smith Goines

The depth of their love, their passion for life,

their devotion to family, and their abiding faith

are our foundation.

Preface

Chronicling the events and emotions of two intertwined lifetimes is an overwhelming task because it simply isn’t possible to record every detail. In working with Irving and Jane Smith and their family, my goal was to convey a strong sense of who they are and what they’ve done based on the memories and observations that surfaced as we talked. The information in this book was gathered in a series of interviews with the Smiths over a period of several years as well as phone conversations with family members and friends. For easier reading, a multitude of details have been woven together into a single narrative.

One of the challenges was language, most specifically the terms used to describe or label American citizens based on their skin color. When they were young, Irving and Jane Smith were confronted with signs limiting access for colored people—and they undoubtedly heard even cruder racial slurs. As they grew, they found dignity in the term Negro, which over time evolved to Blacks and then African Americans. Perhaps someday any labels based solely on skin color will become irrelevant, but for the purposes of this book, we have tried to use terms appropriate to the time period.

Working with the Smiths has been a joy and a delight. If I have been at all successful in my attempt to convey the depth of their strong, beautiful spirits, then readers will be delighted as I was to meet these extraordinary ordinary folks.

Patricia Lynn Henley

November 2011

Chapter One

Together

Each time Irving and Jane Smith finish telling a story or making an important point, one turns to the other and murmurs, Ain’t that right, Momma? or Ain’t that right, Daddy? They use comfortable phrases straight out of their rural Southern childhoods. Um-hum, the other affirms softly, head bobbing in a slow nod. Meaning, Yes, that’s right. Go on. I’m with you.

With family and friends listening intently, Irving and Jane are retelling their favorite memories. Despite their age—they’re both in their nineties—there’s a clear light in their eyes, warmth in their voices, a thoughtfulness in their words, and something deep within them that draws listeners closer. From time to time as they talk, Irving and Jane link hands gently, hers nestled familiarly in his. Irving’s skin is a smooth milk chocolate brown, his palm is broad, and his fingers are long and strong. Jane’s hand is slightly smaller, and her skin tone is lighter. Their hands fold together with the ease of an old habit.

We hold hands in church and everywhere. We’ve always done that, Jane explains with a chuckle, humor sparkling in her wide brown eyes. I’ve had people ask, ‘Why do you hold his hand?’ I say, ‘I hold it so you or somebody else can’t get him.’

Her laugh is warm and rich, bubbling up from deep within. Irving smiles at his wife of seventy years and chuckles softly. He shifts his fingers slightly so he can gently stroke her hand as he holds it.

They’re here to tell their story and to share what they’ve been through over the years. In doing so, both are quick to give credit where they feel it’s most due.

We just thank the Lord that we made it, says Jane, giving a quick squeeze to Irving’s hand. The Lord was with us in everything we did. He worked it out. She repeats each word slowly, with gentle emphasis. He worked it out.

She settles back in her favorite armchair, next to the fireplace in the home of their youngest daughter, Vanessa. Irving sits on Jane’s left, at one end of a long sofa, close enough so they can reach out and easily clasp hands when they want to.

In February 2008, Jane and Irving came to California from South Carolina for a granddaughter’s San Francisco wedding. They bobbed down the aisle together in time to the music. But unfortunately, they took ill afterward. Since they both require daily care, they accepted an invitation to move in with Vanessa and her husband Keith, in their spacious home in the foothills above Sacramento, California’s capital city. Now Irving and Jane are spending time recalling their past, sharing the anecdotes and insights they’ve gathered over the years. They’re passing along the gifts that were once passed along to them.

Growing up under Christian parents, there were things my dad and mom gave to all of us, Irving explains. They were to be honest, to be dependable, and to put God in front of everything.

His words flow smoothly, giving a sense that he’s repeating a core message, something he may have said many times before; but obviously, it bears repeating. His voice is deep, resonant. Even when he’s speaking quietly, Irving’s rich baritone is easy to hear from any corner of the room. Each word seems carefully chosen.

People would often talk with Daddy a short time and then say, ‘Are you a preacher?’ recalls Vanessa. It was not so much that he would be talking about God, but rather it was his stature, his mannerisms, his word selection, the clarity, confidence, and volume of his voice. I remember when I first really started giving my life to Christ and learning how you’re supposed to emulate Him so people can see the light in you. A lightbulb went off in my head, and I told myself, ‘That was it! That was it!’ Daddy was so devout in his faith and his Christianity that people saw the light of God in him.

As they reminisce, Jane’s clear alto voice complements Irving’s deeper tones. At times their voices blend into almost a spoken duet as they pass the telling of tales back and forth between them. They have a similar phrasing that reveals both their Southern roots and the thought they put into everything they say. Jane speaks a bit faster than Irving, but she has more to say. He’s often content to sit back and listen, nodding his agreement. Yet when he has details to add or a point he wants stressed, Irving slips easily into the thread of her stories. Although they take turns speaking, they are very much telling their tale together, not one at a time.

Every now and then, Jane tries to prompt Irving to speak up.

Say something, Irving, she says.

I’m a good listener, he replies with a slow smile.

And Jane laughs, shakes her head because she knows Irving has his own way of doing things, and goes on with her story.

Raised in the small town of Staunton, Virginia, Irving and Jane grew up in a time and place that put heavy limits on their lives and erected challenges to their hopes and dreams, all because of the color of their skin. They would encounter prejudice and obstacles over and over, and yet with their faith in God to guide them and their mutual love to support them, they were able to achieve much in their long lives.

When they were born—August 14, 1916, for Irving and March 26, 1918, for Jane—Woodrow Wilson was president, and World War I was raging. A majority of homes in the United States did not have electricity or indoor plumbing; and a lot of folks still used horses and wagons to get around, to haul goods, and to farm. Today, Irving and Jane live in a time of cell phones and Internet access. There’s a vast nationwide freeway system clogged with cars, and the blaze of nighttime city lights is routinely visible in satellite photos. Having grown up with public areas signed for whites and coloreds, they watched with rapt interest and deep satisfaction as Barack Obama was sworn in as this country’s first president of African-American descent. They smile and slowly shake their heads when they think about all the changes they’ve seen in their lifetimes.

Having outlived their parents and all of their siblings, Jane and Irving are the last of their generation in their families. Irving was the youngest of twelve children (eight boys and four girls, with ten living to adulthood), and Jane was the youngest of seven (three boys and four girls). They were both just young children when Irving’s second oldest brother, Frank, married Jane’s oldest sister, Florine. For about as long as they can remember, Irving and Jane were like family to each other. It was only after they grew up and after they had somewhat gone their separate ways as young adults that their affection deepened into a stronger connection. They married when Irving was twenty-five and Jane was twenty-three.

Early on in their marriage, they lost twin babies, born prematurely, a boy and a girl. There’s still sorrow in their eyes when they mention the twins. But they went on to raise four children—three daughters, Jane Evangeline (Sister), Mercedes Decethia, and Myrtle Vanessa (known by her middle name, Vanessa); and a son, Irving Russell Smith Jr. (called Russell)—into productive, active adults. Irving and Jane now have fourteen grandchildren, twenty-nine great-grandchildren, and two great-great-grandchildren.

Together, this couple has navigated through losses and joys, overcoming what seemed to be insurmountable challenges thrown in their way, relying always on God to guide them through. Now they’re coping with the indignities of old age. At times, their memories are fuzzy—some details are quite clear, but others are elusive. Jane has COPD and occasionally has trouble breathing. She has problems with her legs, and it’s hard for her to get around. Most days she relies on a walker. Each night, Irving helps Jane into bed. Family members offer to assist, but it’s something Irving wants to do himself.

He gets me into bed, and he covers me up, and we have a prayer, and then we go to sleep, Jane explains. They sleep in adjustable twin beds pushed close together, so they can hold hands while they fall asleep. If needed, Irving gets up during the night to bring Jane a glass of water or to help her walk to the bathroom.

If I even grunt during the night, he’ll ask me, ‘Are you all right? Are you sure you’re all right?’ He’ll get up and rub my legs when they’re bothering me.

Jane glances fondly at her husband, and a broad smile lights up her heart-shaped face. Her short dark hair lies gracefully in tight waves against her head. When she was younger, she was about five feet, five inches, maybe five feet five and a half inches tall. Now she is unsure of her exact height. She just knows she’s shorter. Age has forced her shoulders to slump forward, but she still sits as erect as possible. Her broad bosom accentuates her grandmotherly air. Framed behind glasses, her eyes still sparkle, revealing the spirit of the young woman she once was.

She’s always been a beautiful girl, very attractive, Irving says, speaking slowly and deliberately, with warmth in his voice. She’s always been a beautiful person, very caring, very concerned about the well-being of others, a lot of character, no foolishness.

He smiles broadly at his wife. There’s not a lot of Irving’s hair left, hearing aids are tucked discreetly into both his ears, large glasses frame his warm brown eyes, and one hand rests on the cane he uses to get around. Each day he wrestles a bit more with his memory, and it frustrates him. Still, it’s easy to see the young man he once was. He’s not unusually tall, perhaps five feet seven inches or five feet eight, but it’s clear he’s stood tall all his life and tried to do what was right.

Old age isn’t easy, he admits, but he says he has no complaints. They’ve saved all their lives, so they have some resources now.

I think we have things well under control, Irving says. We are able to pay our own bills, to do what we want when we want to do it. So I have no complaints.

We always said that we wanted to be independent, Jane adds. We know the children will take care of us, but we wanted to be able to contribute. It makes you feel better.

They both had dreams when they were younger, dreams they weren’t able to fulfill, but they have no regrets.

We didn’t get the higher education we both wanted, but we gained a lot of knowledge through experience, Jane says. I thank the Lord for the wisdom that he gave us. We started out with nothing and just gradually kept going until we could get the things that we needed. We didn’t get a chance to give our children everything that we wanted them to have, but we took care of their needs.

We’ve had a good life, a very profitable life, Irving adds. With the help of God, I have no complaints. I’ve never had to ask anybody for money. I’ve never had bills I couldn’t pay or gone bankrupt.

The lights were never cut off, Jane says with a chuckle then remembers a reassuring thought. We’ve always said, no matter what happens, we’ll get through. We can live in just one room as long as we are together. Somehow we always managed.

I was taught early on that you have to manage your time and your money, Irving chimes in.

Asked how he wants to be remembered by his family, Irving is quick to answer.

Well, I’d want them to know that we have tried to live a clean, Christian life. We have tried to carry out our responsibilities as father and mother.

Jane adds, I want them to know that if you just deal with life, you can make it. We’ve had hardships, but we’ve been able to come out of them, and we can see angels in the people around us. It all worked out. Everything—it just worked out, even to this day.

Chapter Two

Taking Responsibility

I was taught from a child up that you don’t waste your time, Irving says slowly, pausing for emphasis, or your money. Always remember there will be a possibility of a rainy day. I still work that way.

Responsibility is something Irving takes seriously and for a good reason. He was in his late teens the night his father took ill.

I never shall forget. It was supper time, and we were at the table. Daddy was telling Mother how nice her supper was, praising her cooking as he often did. All at once, he took sick. It was like he got a cramp or something. We had to take him to the hospital, and he never really recovered.

It was an ulcerated stomach, and they cut part of it out, Jane recalls.

Irving’s father stayed in the hospital for a while and then was sent home. One day, he called Irving into his bedroom. A doctor stood on one side of his bed, a lawyer on the other. Then his father asked nineteen-year-old Irving to make a solemn vow.

On his death bed, Daddy gave me the responsibility of taking care of Mother. That was a major job. Bills had to be paid. Food had to be bought. It was a big job, but I did it. No regrets.

His father died on December 4, 1935. It made sense that Irving, the youngest of their twelve children, was the one his father asked to care for their mother.

When he took sick, I was the only kid left at home, Irving explains.

His parents were Henry Lewis Smith and Queenie Carr Smith. Irving doesn’t know much about their early lives, except that they were both from the Staunton area, that they valued education but were never able to get much schooling, and that they married young. When Irving was born, the large family lived in Pointsville, a small area outside Staunton, in the hill country around Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

The Smith family was well known in the area.

Is there a blacksmith around here? a visitor once asked a man in Staunton.

Up on the hill, there’s a whole host of black Smiths was the joking reply.

Irving describes the family’s small two-story house as a country home on about an acre. Growing in the yard around their home were several trees—a pear, an apple, and a walnut—all of which added to their food supply.

Daddy bought that piece of land from my mother’s mother (Emma Terrell) and paid someone to build a house on it, Irving explains. Later, he added more rooms and enlarged the cellar area. I was just a kid when that happened, but I remember it well, very well.

After the addition was built, the house had a double cellar, with the two sides divided by a solid wall. From the back door, family members would turn right to reach one set of cellar doors (set in the ground at an angle against the brick foundation) and turn left to go to the other set. Canned fruits and meat were kept on one side, potatoes and various items on the other. There was a wide front porch, with a porch swing for sitting outside on summer evenings and where us kids slept on hot nights. The front door opened onto a hall, with a living room on the left and the dining room on the right. You reached the kitchen by walking through the dining room. My parents’ bedroom was downstairs in the back, and all twelve children slept in three upstairs bedrooms, Irving reminisces.

When Irving was young, their family home had no electricity, so they used kerosene lamps. There was no indoor plumbing, just an outhouse (also called a privy) in the backyard. Rain barrels placed below the downspouts from the roof served to catch and store any storm runoff, but most of the family’s water had to be hauled home from a spring about a quarter mile away. Once they were old enough, the children would fetch the water once or twice a day and sometimes more often.

Daddy kept a ten-gallon water can in a wheelbarrow, Irving explains. We would come out of our home, down our main driveway, up the road a bit, up a path to the spring, and then wheel it back home. The spring was on state property, if I remember properly.

The spring water ran out of the hill, dripping continually from the rocks.

*They’d haul water for drinking and cooking, and then pray for enough rain to be able to wash their clothes without extra hauling. Jane chuckles.

With so many kids, the Smith house was full but well managed, Irving says. His mother never worked outside the home, because she always had so much to do inside it. But no matter how busy she was, she always made sure her children looked presentable.

She had a string of pins, and when the boys would go out to school, if their pants were hanging down, she would unfasten some pins and pin it up, Jane recalls.

We would come by her as we went out the door, Irving agrees. She would look us over before we went out.

Everyone in their large household was busy all day with school, work, chores, or anything they could do to earn a little extra money; but everyone always gathered around the table for meals.

With all those children eating, you better be there when the food comes. Jane smiles. It was just amazing to see the great big pots of food on the stove. Irving’s mother would put it on the table and then just like that, it’s all gone.

But while mealtimes might have been crowded, everyone behaved themselves.

Dad kept things orderly, Irving explains, clearly picturing the family table in his memory. He would be at the head. Mom and we kids would be around the table. If there wasn’t enough room, someone would sit at the side table or at a flour barrel.

Both of my parents were strict, Irving adds. Dad was very strict, and Mother was very religious. She relied on God’s guidance. That was her nature. She was a quiet person, not fancy, very industrious. She was a real momma.

Every night, Irving says, the routine was the same. After dinner, the children would go upstairs to study. But at bedtime, they’d come back downstairs to their parents’ bedroom.

One of the older kids or Dad or sometimes Mother would read the Bible, but Dad always said the prayer. And then we would all go to bed. We did that every night. It was a regular affair.

Irving adds thoughtfully, It kind of kept us under control.

When Irving was very young, the family attended a little country church called Cedar Grove, which was near their home. When that closed, the Smiths joined Ebenezer Baptist church in Staunton.

They became very active, Jane says with a chuckle that quickly gives way to a full-blown laugh. You thought the church was owned by the Smiths. She grins.

Every Sunday, Henry and Queenie Smith rode to church in their horse and buggy; while their children—those young enough to still be living at home—walked approximately a mile and a half into town. In addition to the buggy, the Smiths owned a wagon, which Irving’s father used to sell butter, buttermilk, produce, and anything else he could raise on his land. Besides the acre or so around the family’s house, in 1925, Irving’s father bought about nine or ten acres of gently hilly farm land not far away, along with a small strip that gave them access to the road. He was what’s known as a truck farmer, raising just a few types of fruits or vegetables then hauling the harvest into town and selling it.

That property was where he did his truck farming. It was good farmland, Irving explains. Matter of fact, when he passed, Dad was still raising most of his vegetables on that land. We still have that property in the family.

In addition to growing vegetables, Henry Smith kept chickens, pigs, calves, and a milk cow or two. Queenie Smith churned the fresh milk into butter, and the leftover liquid was known as buttermilk. Twice a week, Henry would hitch the horse up to the wagon and drive around Staunton on a regular route, selling his vegetables and Queenie’s homemade butter and buttermilk.

I’d ride along with him, Irving says with quiet pride, clearly savoring the memory. At most places, I would stay in the wagon and he would go inside. And there were certain places on his route where I could take stuff in.

Irving’s father drove the wagon on these selling trips, and Irving loved going along, helping his father. One of the places they stopped was at Jane’s family home in Staunton.

Irving was always my close friend, but not my boyfriend, Jane says of their childhood. He would always do nice things for me—bring me some milk or something from the farm or some sassafras.

His father would also take the wagon on other errands—to the mill or elsewhere—and Irving would go along if he could. He remembers his father as honest and hardworking.

He was very conservative. He didn’t waste money. I never saw him drunk, and I never saw him gamble. He was a very hardworking gentleman.

Those were values