Beauty of Man and Woman - Volume 13: Bomaw Page 3

  She was fixing plates for them, her and Mama Jojo and answered him without turning around, “Bartholomew, I’m staying with Mama Jojo tonight. You’re welcome to do whatever you please.”

  He wasn’t happy to hear that. But with the house filled and his sons looking on - he could do nothing more than nod his head and step away. She loaded a tray and carried it back down the hall to Mama Jojo’s room. Shawn rushed ahead and opened the door for her. Looking in the room to catch a glimpse of Mama Jojo, just to make sure for his own need, that she was okay. She was coming out of her bathroom, using her walking frame. She glanced Shawn’s way and nodded her head with a smile.

  “Just checking that you’re alright.”

  “I’m just fine chile - ain’t no need to be frettin’ ‘bout me.”

  Shawn smiled back, nodding his head and backed out once his mother was through, closing the door gently behind her. Something was going on, he wish he had a clue of what. For all the women in his life, not one of them could he demand to know what they were keeping from him, not even from his wife. Times like this, he wish that Dennis and Sheila lived nearby. Sheila would know what was going on, and then she would tell Dennis and for sure, Dennis would tell him. However, he had to accept that they didn’t live near, so that was one idea he could forget, for now anyway. He went back to Jake and his father, wondering where Derrick had gone?

  In Mama Jojo’s room, the two women ate deli salads and cold delicious rib tips, so tender - with a spicy barbecue sauce that was Mama Jojo’s secret. One of those kind of sauces you have to lick off your fingers - no way you’d waste it on a napkin. As they were comfortable and didn’t expect to be interrupted, Mama Jojo ate a little here and there, and started talking once more about the past. “First time I seen this man - I was a little girl, helpin’ mama fix up the old house we used to live in. We was out’ah money, or ‘bout to be. Like I say, it was hard times back then… real hard. Hard for black folks and white too. Mama was selling the farmhouse and he was there helping. When the going got really hard - somehow, help always come from somewhere. I’m thinkin’ it was a good thing too cause my mama was one pretty black woman, yes lord she was…and too proud to scrub floors for a living. She found other ways of making money…I’m thinkin’, that’s where he come in…” Mama Jojo smiled, remembering back to her childhood.

  November 1927

  Back in 1927… the world was a different place. America’s strong moral codes along with the dream that all held were on the way out, and a world of business ethics, power, corruption and profits first - was on the way in. The 30th president was Calvin Coolidge. The music most listened to, was either ballroom slow, or jumping jazz and swing. On the radio, listeners couldn’t wait to hear Luis Armstrong’s, “When you’re smiling,” or Eddie Cantor’s “Makin’ Whoopee” - such lyrics caused a gasp of shock, followed by a request to hear it again. Dancing at the local dance hall was the thing, at that time, many were still doing the “Charleston” with a break in of the “Tango” to cool down and show off their moves if any couple had the confidence to do it. Elsewhere, at the juke joints, black folks were cutting the rug with the shimmy and the jitterbug. It was only a matter of time before those dances made their way into mainstream dancing halls. That was the way many spent their Friday and Saturday nights. All major cities and even small towns, had their own ballrooms which were always filled and jumping.

  At that time another needed change was on the way. The roadways were under construction as the new modern world of personal transport was on the rise. The days of horse of buggy was slowly coming to an end. The majority of those earning enough to be a part of the movement, paid, one way or another for their Ford Model Ts or As. The Model T was so common, there were farmers who changed the rear wheels, replacing them with tractor tires so they could get twice as much use out of the vehicle by plowing their fields with it as well. They saw that as the best way for justifying the purchase. As for getting it going, started, unfortunately many learned too late the right and wrong way to do that. The risk at hand for a farmer - if not aware, could easily land him a sprained wrist or worse, a broken arm. The crank start had a mean kick-back which was the cause for the sprained wrists and broken arms. Thus, the Ford Model A - was a bit better to start and actually went faster, smoother. As for the upper crust, the old money, they drove Cadillac. Anyone able to afford a Cadillac was saying something - especially so if the vehicle was the Duesenberg J. Successful actors, performers, or “bankers” were the ones styling about in it. If such a vehicle chanced to drive by, most would stop to peer at it with curiosity of who might be within. For instance, the Cadillac or the Duesenberg J. was easily afforded by Al Capone - who was said to be worth one-hundred-five million dollars back then. He was a man hot on the press wanted by the law. Constantly living on the edge, looking over his shoulder for the FBI. This was the time of the uprising of many criminals, corruption and payoffs. Bank robberies were constant. Some of them were considered heroes, like “Slick” Willie Sutton. A hero because he took the bank but never innocent-by-standers. Reason being, he used the same cunning on them, that they, the banks used to be what they’d become. When the paper was read about his latest escapades, people cheered and laughed. Those were the days of bankers being held in disdain by the common man. After all, way back when, banking had been established by con-artists. Those who ran a scam by holding a few pieces of gold, yet loaned out money that far exceeded the value in gold they held. Gold that belonged to a few. Basically, if they held one-thousand dollars’ worth of gold, they loaned out ten-thousand dollars or more in credit.

  The law, courts, and judges called it extortion.

  Using extortion, banks grew in numbers and in power, loaning out to many, and charged interest so that the con-artist, ie; “bankers” made money off of gold that belonged to someone else. Bankers started out as goldsmith’s who weighed and valued gold. Greed and cunning made them boldly talk people who found it, into letting them guard it, keep it. In exchange, they gave them credit notes around town that vouched for how much gold they had in storage. Those people could make purchases based on the banker’s note. Then the goldsmith turned around and issued loans on the gold he held. If only those few had known that their precious gold was being used to make the holder filthy rich - things may have turned out differently. A lie - a scam, started the banking industry. Thus, some of them who robbed it, knew that they were stealing from a fellow thief - and had no conscience against it - which is one of the reasons some people saw robbers like Slick Willie Sutton as a hero instead of a criminal.

  True irreversible corruption was born when the bankers began paying police, chiefs, judges and lawyers - promising credit and a take on the possibilities. Once money and businesses were established on banking, they held the power to rule ever since.

  Most citizens were common and struggling, driving their Ford trucks, the T or a Chevrolet - if anything. Around them, the sly crooks, were spreading, making an honorable name for themselves with the rich, getting them to invest their gold so that they too could get in on the profits gained from loaning to the poor. Thus, they continued to make money out of nothing. Even in little poor Southern states like South Carolina, they gave what they didn’t have to give. Threatening to take from the borrowers homes, land, property, valuables if their payments weren’t made back to the “banks” on time. It was the reason many blacks would not take a loan from the banks. To them, it was the equivalent of selling themselves back into slavery.

  Like making a deal with the devil.

  They worked, scraped, saved and dredged a living until they could pay cash for land. Cash for equipment. A few would have been fortunate enough to inherit from masters of old who promised them freedom with a bit of land. The swindlers/bankers did all they could to get them to come in and take out a loan to purchase the newest, latest and greatest heavy equipment. Some did, and found themselves right back into a loss of freedom. Thus, the reason many farmers who needed plows, bought the Mode
l T - using it as a vehicle as well a field plow. For those who wouldn’t, the horse, wagon, buggy was not yet obsolete. No one could talk them into getting credit, too frightened of banks for good reason. They did all they could with the earnings they received, a few - mostly white, earned perhaps forty dollars a week. Others, some black and white brought home as little as eighteen dollars - if that. So, owning a vehicle was the last thing on South Carolinians minds. The south was the hardest hit by the great depression. Keeping a roof, holding onto your land via; paying your taxes and putting food on the table was their top concerns.

  In the midst of it all, if black…add staying alive to that. Due to competition for survival, there were some whites who felt it their right to thin out the competition by lynchings, farm burnings, land thieving. All they had to do was get their hands on the deeds to the land, and it was theirs. Thus, poor struggling blacks abandoned the south and headed north.

  In Lexington, SC - Reginald Piercey’s absence from home, from his family caused a struggle that his wife needed a solution for and soon. He’d gone up north for the same reasons others had - informing Virginia Ruth Piercey, his wife that as soon as he had enough pay saved up and a place for his family - wife and daughters, he’d send for them. To their relief he had reached his destination safe and sound. Sure enough, it hadn’t been long before he’d actually gotten a job, and started sending them money. However, as time had gone by, the amount of money he sent to Virginia became less and less, and the letters to her became fewer and far in between.

  Virginia couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. He wasn’t saying. Therefore, she had to do her part for their survival. She had two little girls, land and a farmhouse to see to, because the money Reginald was sending simply wasn’t enough. She did whatever jobs she could that allowed her to bring her two daughters along. Josephine the oldest was six years old, and Tara the youngest was four. Virginia specialties were sewing and doing hair. In those parts, she was the best. In between, she would waitress or work as a coat check girl at the town’s dance hall. Even though there was always a need for maids, Virginia wasn’t about to be any body’s maid. The way some of them were treated, there was no way she would put herself in that line of fire. Fired she would be if not worse. The extremes that some maids went through servicing people that still had a master mentality was not something she was willing to go through. Sadly, as more time went by she could see herself being forced to possibly seek out a loan at the bank. She had collateral. Her house, and seven acres of land was left to her by her grandmother and grandfather. He, her mixed grandfather inherited the seven acres from his white father. Who divided his land up between his legitimate children and his three mixed bastards.

  Having the land was good, but without cash, credit - or a working farm - winters were rough. No crops had been planted on Virginia’s land since the death of her grandfather. Luckily for her and her girls, there were patches of vegetation that regrew itself. Watermelon, squash, figs, pecan trees, snap peas and a patch of greens she saw to around the house. Add to that, a few chickens and hens for eggs. Even so, that wouldn’t help pay her taxes. Nor pay for the maintenance and upkeep badly needed on the farm. She had a mule and two goats that pulled the little cart her daughters rode in when they went to town. Simply put, Virginia was not a farmer. Working the land was not on her mind. Owning her own shop was what occupied her dreams. In that community few to none, black or white could match her skills when it came to styling hair and fashion design. The white women around town, (who could afford her), were always calling on her to do their hair and create something original for them to wear. To make sure there was always interest, Virginia knew just how to tease. She used her own hair and body as models - and what a body she had - with a full head of hair malleable if done right. Seeking to grow her ideas for her own beauty shop and fashion apparels, Virginia would not be caught dead in town without her hair in place, cut, waved, twirled and fixed like a star. The white women that saw her, couldn’t believe how stunning this Negro woman’s hair was and demanded her attention to do theirs the same.

  Her clothing had the same affect. She had certain goals in mind, thus required three things as payment. Money, fabric and meals for her little girls whom she always brought along with her. When it came to doing hair, she wanted money, hairstyling implements to add to her beautician vanity bag and a referral to another customer. Only because she was the best could she demand what she did. Her reputation never failed to be proven with a new client.

  However, along with the good of what she gained, there was always the curse of bad. It was the jealousy. It was the men. They were always a problem. She had to carry herself carefully. Never dare she be arrogant, or what they might consider, uppity. She was close enough to it by her manner, carriage, dress and look. When she spoke, she was mindful always to be humble, grateful and very respectful. Yet and still, jealousy prevailed from black and white. The white husband’s - were the cause of making her reputation questionable. Again, the way she carried herself, her hair, her dress, her style, her creativity and the way she cared for her daughters - those things touched a nerve with some. What helped is that she kept her daughters with her and sewed for children as well. Thus, she dressed her girls in clothing that other mothers would like to see on their little girls. Even so, there was that group that saw her talent, confidence and manner as a turn on. Thus the double edge sword for a Negro woman to be this way with such pursuits. The problem that was moving in on her is that she couldn’t go on like this for long without the protection of a man. However with such dignity, there was no man in the area good enough for her.

  With her husband gone she was on the brink of do, or die. The natives were getting restless like it or not, several eyes were upon her. They would sit in the barber shop with her as the topic of discussion. Especially if she chance to walk by - thank goodness she couldn’t hear their ideas of what some would like to do with her. She was a stunning work of art without a man at home. At twenty-two years old and a fully developed, curvaceous dream body she gave some of her women customer’s reasons to watch their men, closely.

  Time of their safety was running out, Reginald needed to be sending for them soon. Nothing made a group of randy white men restless like an unguarded, pretty black woman, who lived alone. With growing fear - Virginia knew it was only a matter of time before something happened. Her options were few. Either she would have to move, and soon - selling her property to get the most that she could to start over somewhere else - or… get herself a protector. Virginia didn’t want a protector. As far as she could see, there was only one white man present that she was willing to “entertain” so that he might “protect” her. He was as dashing, handsome and charming as they came - problem was, he was married and she really liked his wife. His wife seemed to like her. As husband’s go, he seemed to really love his wife - so much so that she doubted that he would ever cheat on her.

  Aside from that, Virginia wasn’t about to be that kind of mistress, if she did it, the man would have to be single.

  No, there was nothing in her that could make her do that to Lida Bell McPherson. A customer who simply loved what Virginia did with her hair. Fact was, she was Virginia’s most loyal customer. She could afford to pay Virginia whatever she wanted, because she could get just about anything out of her husband, George Marshall McPherson - most referred to him as GM. The man seemed to cherish Lida Bell, especially after she’d blessed him with a son, Jacob Paul - named after his favorite uncle who died in WWI. GM spoiled his wife, his son and the daughter she later blessed him with. Whatever they wanted - he worked to give. As a consequence, Virginia knew he was out of the question.

  Then late one night, she met their son. Someone she’d only heard about. He was a bit of a genius some said. So smart there was little to nothing he couldn’t figure out how to do. He’d finished school early and was already in college many stated. There was talk that he might end up being a Baptist preacher man. But for now, he was studying
theology.

  On a particularly cool night, with dusk closing in early it was simply too dark for Virginia to go home alone with her daughters after finishing Lida Bell’s hair. She and her husband were going out to a dinner party with some of the local political big wigs. She was wearing an ensemble Virginia had sewn just for her and didn’t she feel special.

  Since their son, Jacob Paul was home from school - they thought he could take Virginia and her girls home. He attended Wesleyan Methodist College in Central, SC. The school was suggested by their local pastor who thought that Jacob would make a wonderful Baptist minister. All who knew him, knew of his youthful wisdom and gentle nature. He was an extra kind soul. Always wishing to please, Jacob Paul had registered and began his path in life. Meanwhile, it was that kind-soul that made him agree to take the beautiful Virginia Piercey home. The girls were worn out and sleeping, so had to be carried to his Chevrolet.

  It was the first time he’d laid eyes on his mother’s hairdresser.

  It was the first time she’d ridden in a motor vehicle - she was afraid and it showed. She couldn’t believe that her daughters slept right on through the ride. After all, she was all over the place on the front seat from the various pot holes and uneven furrows the tires encountered. Jacob kept glancing her way, watching her squirm, brace, flinch and suck in a startled gasp. He could tell, she was not all that impressed by his motor vehicle. That he was naturally easy-going and laid-back, more gentle a man than not - he took the rough ride in stride. Chuckling he tried to reassure her, advising, “You need to relax - sit back and go with it, not so bad once you get used to it.”