Young and Innocent: The Lives of Ellis and Wilhelmina Ruley

By Diane L. Ruley Laiscell

This is the story of the life of Ellis W. Ruley and his wife Wihelmina Ruley. He painted using homemade oils and canvas. He was a self-taught artist. He raised three great granddaughters. They also showed much love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781641386753

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Young and Innocent

The Lives of Ellis and Wilhelmina Ruley

Diane L. Ruley Laiscell

Copyright © 2018 Diane L. Ruley Laiscell

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64138-673-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64138-675-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

In honor of Ellis W. Ruley and wife, Wilhelmina

Acknowledgments

Aspecial thank-you to the people that contributed and donated their time and special talent to the Ellis W. Ruley and Douglas Harris story.

Gladys Ruley Traynum

John E. Laiscell

Michael M. Baden, M.D.

June Williams

Henri Fuqua Funeral Services

William W. Backus Hospital

Batesville Casket Company

Elm Cap Industries/ Wilbert Vault Company

Frank Manfredi, Esq.

Maplewood Cemetery

Tri-Country Memorials

The Reverend Barbara White

4-Get Me Knot Limousine Service

Norwich Police Department

New York Foundation for the Arts

Glenn Smith

Ellis

Introduction

This story is about Ellis Walter Ruley, a self-taught African American artist, mason, and farmer who died mysteriously on January 16, 1959, in a small southeastern New England town. Shortly after his death, his home on 20 Hammond Avenue, Norwich, Connecticut, was burned to the ground. Eleven years before Ruley’s death, on November 19, 1948, his son-in-law Douglas Harris was found dead on Ruley’s property near the house.

The family believed that Harris and Ruley died under suspicious circumstances. It’s been more than fifty years since their deaths, and the family is still searching for the answers to many unanswered questions. Dianne, great-granddaughter, shared that as child she lived with her great-grandfather, Ellis Walter Ruley, and knew that he worked hard all of his life and was a religious man. Dianne said that she seeks justice. She will continue to search for the truth until the mysterious deaths are solved. This is his story.

Dydee

You took two lives.

You broke up my family.

You took my land.

You took my art.

You took my car.

—Dydee

Young and Innocent

My name is Dianne, but my great-grandfather Ellis called me Dydee. When I was a child, my eyes were closed to the world but my heart was opened to the people who took care of me. I didn’t know my mother or father. I was about two years old, lonely, and all I had with me was my younger sister, Arlene. I didn’t know that she was my biological sister. She was a year younger than me and didn’t talk much. I began to see and hear people talk about us. I was too young to put the pieces of the puzzle of life together.

Over time, I began to slowly understand the world around me. In 1950, my sisters Gerri, Arlene, and I were placed into foster care. I didn’t know the reason why we were put there, but I had a strong feeling that something was wrong. I recall that we were told that we were going to be living with some friends for a little while. All I heard was a little while. Those words resonated in my mind. I wondered why we had to live with some friends for just a little while. How long were we going to be there? What did the state lady mean when she said a little while? All I could think about was being separated from my family.

Arlene and I were put with one family while Gerri, my eldest sister, was placed with another. To me, I thought we stayed with those people longer than just a little while. Our stay turned days, then weeks, and those weeks eventually turned into months and still we were not back at home. We lived with those people for so long that I wondered if we were ever going home.

As time went by, it wasn’t hard to figure out that Arlene and I did not belong with that family. We didn’t act like them and I didn’t look like them. As a matter of fact, Arlene and I didn’t look like each other. Our skin color was different. Arlene was light skinned and could pass for a white. I think the only thing that gave her away was her coarse black hair. My skin color was a few shades darker than hers. My skin color was light brown. It was evident that I was a Negro and I felt that we were treated differently. I did not understand why we were treated that way. Maybe, it was just me. Arlene was younger and needed more attention. I truly didn’t know why but I felt like I was getting the bad end of the stick. I can’t describe it, but you know when you are being treated differently.

When we were with that family, I thought my foster mother was a very nice person. But my foster father was mean to me. He often made me go to bed without supper especially when I wet the bed. My foster father would get mad at me when I said that I wet the bed. He would march me into that bedroom and press my head in the bed and wash my face in that smelly pee.

I was two years old and didn’t try to fight back. I did absolutely nothing. Even though I thought that what he did to me wasn’t right. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter what I thought. I knew exactly what would happen every time I peed that bed. I guess my foster father must have figured out that if I didn’t eat or drink anything at night, then I wouldn’t wet the bed. He figured wrong because it happened anyway.

Even though I was young, I had feelings and understood the difference between being treated fairly and unreasonably. I knew that my foster parents didn’t love or care about me. I didn’t trust them and didn’t want to live with them anymore. I knew Arlene had accidents too, but I never saw anyone push her face in her pee. I used to pray to God that one day, I would see my mother.

One bright sunny day, Arlene and I were playing outside in the yard. I was standing by a telephone pole. A spider bit me on my hand, and I started crying. A young lady was walking down the street. She had a brown paper bag in her hand. I thought she was my mother but I wasn’t sure. She spoke to me as if I knew her. To be honest, I had no idea who she was. She was a friendly person. She walked toward me and looked at my hand and told me to stop crying. Then she opened her brown bag, gave me a piece of fruit and a piece of candy, and told me that she would return soon.

After that encounter, I saw her a few more times. I remember seeing