My father was born February 8, 1913, the same year as future President Richard M. Nixon, French philosopher Albert Camus and English composer Benjamin Britten. Abolitionist Harriet Tubman died that year. Woodrow Wilson was inaugurated President of the United States. War was raging in the Balkans, and in the exotic, far-away continent of India, Mahatma Gandhi proved himself to be such a nuisance to the British colonial government as to get himself arrested.

The year 1913 was a black one for my finances and for yours because it was the year Income Tax was first established in the United States. In the world of arts and letters, famous books published in 1913 include Willa Cather’s saga about Swedish immigrants in Nebraska titled O Pioneers!, Eleanor Porter’s children's book Pollyanna (a huge favorite of mine later dramatized by Walt Disney) and Sigmund Freud’s Totem and Taboo, for those intellectual academic types who like dallying with the psyche.

In New York City, the landmark we know as Grand Central Station opened its doors for the first time in 1913. The scientific community was busy as well, one result of note being that 1913 saw the first isolation the compound we know as Vitamin A. Humanitarian efforts were in the works in many places, none so famous now as the opening of Albert Schweitzer’s hospital in the African Congo.

The modern entertainment industry was still in its infancy; in that year the first Charlie Chapman movies (silent ones, of course) were released for viewing to the American public, who were also enamored of the newest rage in dance, the fox trot.

Although they had been invented before the turn of the century, everyday life was improved in 1913 when zippers were put into common use in the garment industry.* It was onto such a stage as this my father made his entrance, but unzipping the wrapper around his story is not as easy a task as you might think.

As I see it, my father’s story really can’t be told without tracing the family history back to his paternal grandfather’s second wife, known to everyone in the family as “Miss Annie,” for he grew up under Miss Annie's care as much or more than under the care of his own mother.

My great-grandfather had been wealthy enough to build a large Victorian home and send his children (the boys, at least) to college. My father’s father had grown up in this refined Victorian setting but was unable to maintain the same lifestyle for himself and his own family after he reached adulthood. Everyone agrees my grandfather Loy had absolutely no talent for earning money; he and his wife continually struggled to make ends meet. Because of this, my father was sent to live with his grandfather and his step-grandmother "Miss Annie" in the big old Victorian house in Dallas, North Carolina so that there would be one less hungry mouth to feed in my grandfather's household. A couple of years after his arrival in Dallas, my great-grandfather died, leaving Miss Annie as my father’s sole caretaker.

As it happens, I feel a little guilty writing about Miss Annie. I think my heart is not just exactly right regarding her - in fact, I am somewhat prejudiced against her, to speak truth! Have I mentioned the fact our family is riddled with worms? I confess I can be guilty of lacking sufficient charity toward others. If that weren’t bad enough, I shall also reveal a most reprehensible taste for gossip, as you will see: my favorite stories about Miss Annie concern those things for which she would not choose to be remembered – her not-very-nice foibles. Ach! So, Miss Annie, please forgive me as I poke a little fun your way. Someday my step-great-grandchildren will have a ball writing about my foibles I’m sure, and you shall have your just and well-deserved revenge. They will no doubt squeal with mirth while revealing to the world the uglier side of my life: my habitual style of pigpen home management, my tendency (opposite of yours) to be a spendthrift and possibly even the photographic evidence of my struggles with the sin of gluttony! Yes, what goes around comes around, so just be patient.

It was told tome that Miss Annie grew up in a place at or near Scottsville, Virginia, and that her home was ravaged and despoiled by the Union Army during the Civil War. Her mother told her stories of near-starvation and I don’t know what all. (“I don’t know what all” was a phrase commonly used by people in my family.) My mother told me that Miss Annie related to her how soldiers set fire to the crops on their plantation, pulled down the chandeliers from the ceilings and destroyed the furnishings of their house. It is logical to assume the aftermath of all this trauma was a major factor contributing to Miss Annie’s legendary stinginess. I think fear of want was probably a very reasonable reaction to hearing awful stories of what her family and community had endured as a result of the Union Army’s sojourn in Virginia during the "War of Northern Aggression." (That would be the Civil War to us Yankees).

I wish I knew how it came about that Miss Annie l learned of a position as governess for the orphaned children of my great-grandfather in the Piedmont of North Carolina, and what her reasons behind choosing to accept the position might have been. Whatever the circumstances surrounding this story, it is a fact that she came from Virginia to North Carolina to oversee the upbringing of these children. At the time of their mother’s death, the children ranged in age from seventeen down to six. My grandfather was twelve years old at the time. I guess Miss Annie must have had her hands full – I’m sure hers would not have been an enviable situation. It is also a mystery just how the romance between my great-grandfather and Miss Annie developed (if there was any actual romance, that is), but it is certain that her job description altered significantly when, on January 11 (one source I have puts it at January 18), 1899, Miss Annie married her employer. The groom was eighteen years older than his new bride. I would venture to guess the large formal portrait of the pair standing by an ivy covered pillar was made on the occasion of their marriage.

Almost precisely one year later, on January 29, 1900, Miss Annie gave birth to her first child, Cecil.

On December 4, 1902 she bore another child who was either stillborn or died soon after he was born. My aunts told me she always kept a photo of a dead baby on the mantel in her parlor; this must have been a picture of that child. Her third and last child, a son named Wilbur, was born February 25, 1904. This little boy died just four days before his fifth birthday, and I came across a scrap of paper on which I had made note of the fact he died of pneumonia or scarlet fever, although I no longer remember the source of that information. My Aunt Mary has a postcard sent to him from his Uncle Bob (Miss Annie’s brother who lived in Virginia) written eight days before his death which reads:

My dear little man, Valentine day is close to hand, and I am hoping to hear before this Valentine card reaches you that you are a great deal better. Take good care of yourself and try to get well quick. I remember your “stunts” and trust I may see more of them next summer. Make Mama write to me so that I may know how you are getting along. With lots of love, Uncle Bob.

I can’t imagine the heartbreak reading that postcard must have caused Miss Annie, but it does demonstrate the kindhearted character of her brother. I have visited Wilbur’s grave in “the Old Presbyterian Cemetery” in Dallas, a small graveyard now adjacent to a Wesleyan Methodist Church and an electrical power station. The poignant inscription on Wilbur’s tombstone reads “Our boy is safe in the arms of Jesus.” It makes me cry just to think about it.

After the death of her husband in July of 1922, Miss Annie began to earn money by renting out rooms to boarders in her large, conveniently located home—mostly schoolteachers, I think. My brother used to tell me gruesomely fascinating stories about Miss Annie’s other lady renters. One of them, intending to rid the front porch of a troublesome wasps’ nest, took a broom out onto the porch intending to use it to knock down the hive. Unfortunately, the hive became impaled upon the broom, which the lady dropped and trod upon in her fright. The enraged insects swarmed out of their nest and began stinging the poor woman, many flying up under her skirt. She ran as far as the front door and immediately collapsed and died just inside the front hall. Were it not for the fact I myself have a life-threatening allergy to bee venom, I might find that story hard to believe, but I know for a fact this kind of tragedy can and does happen. As you can imagine, stories like this created quite an aura of fascination around the figure of Miss Annie.

Another of the macabre stories I was told by my brother (which is, of course, totally preposterous) concerned a boarder who was a teacher in the local elementary school. My brother was born with a silver tongue – he could spin a tale with such skill, such humor and be so persuasive in the telling of it by the time he was finished he could convince you of anything. Because I adored him – the little sister looking up to her big brother – his silver-tongued speech had even more power to turn my incredulity to belief. The way he spun this tall tale, his large blue eyes mesmerizingly focused on mine and his face the perfect picture of sincerity, this teacher had a very rare, admittedly strange disease that caused her tongue to slowly keep growing. By the end of school each year it had grown so long she could hardly talk! Year after year it would become so large this poor lady was forced to undergo surgery to cut off the excess tissue, which she had done in the summertime so she was all healed up by autumn, when she had to go back to teaching her classes. I was so gullible I actually believed this!

Miss Annie was universally acknowledged to be a great stickler for the rights and respect due seniority and position – a real plutocrat. Aunt Dorothy used the word “standoffish” to describe Miss Annie, admitting she was a little afraid of her. My father’s mother, the wife of Miss Annie’s stepson Loy, is reported to have thought of her as being “queenly” and “imperious.” It is certain that Miss Annie had absolutely no hesitation in letting her wishes be known or in voicing her displeasure over little things. Aunt Martha and Aunt Mary recollected that Miss Annie kept a miniature broom near the fireplace in her most often used parlor. When she was a little girl, Aunt Martha thought this little broom was fascinating and presumed to touch it one day. Miss Annie’s immediate response was “No, no, honey; put that down,” these innocuous words stated in a tone leaving no question as to the speaker’s displeasure. During one meal, a young lady visiting the house scraped her chair slightly across the floor only to be rebuked immediately with the “mm-mmm” sound people make when they intend to convey the word “no” without actually saying it. My Aunt Mary, Loy’s youngest daughter, would occasionally use her fingers to touch food and be chided with “This is not the way we do things.” It is therefore especially funny, knowing just how prim, proper and rule-bound she was, to hear that Miss Annie had a vulgar habit of taking a spoon and dipping it in a dish of food or pitcher of cream which was to be passed around and shared by all sitting at the table, putting the spoon in her mouth and tasting the contents and then replacing the contaminated spoon in the community dish. My goodness, Miss Annie, we’re shocked, truly!

Miss Annie had a habit of disappearing when there was work to be done, although she was very good at telling other people what to do and just how to do it, besides. In the words of one of her neices, "Miss Annie was the mistress of her house." She was forever ordering the help about, keeping them moving from one task to the next with little time for rest. On occasions during which her maid was either absent or elsewhere engaged, I'm told Miss Annie's guests would arise from the table and say, "Well, I suppose it's time the dishes were done," to which Miss Annie would reply, "Well then, I'd better retire, since I'm just in the way," intending her company to go to the kitchen and wash up by themselves.

I've also been told that when Miss Annie served dinner, she would fix only enough food to feed about a third of the people seated around the table in her large, elegant dining room. (My equally bad tendency is to fix three times too much.) She would place tiny little portions of food in the serving bowls and then calmly address those at the table with, "Oh, do have some [such and such]; there's gracious aplenty." Both my father (and his brothers, during the times they visited the house) were routinely reduced to sneaking biscuits and hiding them because they were so chronically underfed under Miss Annie's roof. My father later told my mother that even the neighbors were aware of it and took pity on him by frequently feeding him themselves. He would sometimes try and bring Miss Annie recipes of food he particularly liked made by these kindly folks but Miss Annie would alter the recipes so drastically ("a whole cup of nuts? Why that's much too much; a fourth of a cup is gracious aplenty") the end product would be completely unrecognizable. Although she had a cook, Miss Annie kept everything, including foodstuffs, locked away in cupboards and cabinets to which she alone had the key. If a boarder or guest wished for a piece of fruit or a slice of bread or a cup of tea, they had to approach the formidable mistress of the house and wait while she unlocked the item from its storage place. I'm sure this must have discouraged requests for snacks!

Miss Annie’s home, which had been built by my great-grandfather, was very large and sat on a corner lot at the intersection of Main and Church Streets, across Main Street from the Dallas Methodist Church. The interior was suitably ugly, in the late Victorian style of décor. Aunt Dorothy remembers the long central hallway which boasted an ornate Victorian hall tree. There was a tiny door at the back end of the staircase my brother always felt was somehow ominous when our father would take him along on weekly visits to Miss Annie. (The family who bought the estate after Miss Annie’s death believe they have seen a ghost lurking in the house once or twice, if what they told me on a recent visit is true.) The very finely carved and ornately made front staircase was seldom seen to advantage however, as the only lighting Miss Annie used in the front hall was a single, unadorned 40 watt bulb in a fixture hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the very lengthy front hall. Most of the furniture in the house was Victorian golden oak, some of which still survives in the households of the descendants of the family. The front parlor had wallpaper on the walls but most of the other walls in the house were painted a gloomy blackish-green. The parlor furniture was “very ugly Victorian plush,” according to Dorothy, who lived at Miss Annie’s house one year, and in her old age Miss Annie had to endure the teasing of her step-grandchildren, who would stand and toss her valuables back and forth to each other like a football. One nice thing she had, which now belongs to a granddaughter of Loy, was a Tiffany hanging lamp with red grape clusters around its rim. Miss Annie also had an unusual and much commented-upon freestanding porch swing which all the family particularly remembers enjoying sitting in while visiting her house. It sat at the corner of the exceedingly large wrap-around porch which was partially covered with vines and overlooked a beautiful yard filled with trees of many varieties. Out back was a very small house so tiny it almost looked like a playhouse to my eyes. It was used, however, to house very real people: the “Colored” help.

It is all too easy for me to feel a certain disdainful disgust for Miss Annie; to “write her off,” as we would say – but I know deep down we are all too complex to dismiss so lightly. In my preparations for writing this, however, I also came across another note from her to my father at the time my parents separated (written February 28, 1956) which starts out:

My Dear Carlyle

I have thought of you so much in your deep sorrow and prayed for you every day and I am glad God still sustains and helps you. Be brave and some day, we don’t know when, it may be soon, all will work out well for all your family. Read Hosea, especially chapter 6, verses 1 & 3 and be patient in all things…

Oh dear! It pains me to reveal Miss Annie’s kinder side and to discover I must adjust my thinking about her – which only goes to show you what a wicked person I am myself! I very much doubt most people would take the time and the trouble to read and meditate upon the book of Hosea. I suspect God will probably play some sort of joke on me, being sure to have Miss Annie be one of the first to greet me at Heaven’s gates, especially since I’ve taken so much trouble to highlight her foibles. Well – it wouldn’t be the first time God has shown me his sense of humor (nor the first he has corrected my erroneous judgment of people).

(Historical facts gathered from The Timetables of History, The New Third Revised Edition, edited by Bernard Grun.)