Christmas can be a time of hope for the best that can possibly be in our lives. We rustle and bustle about, putting up decorations, making plans to spend time with loved ones, eat too much and, ideally, are grateful if the season is complete with joy. For some, misfortune makes a visit during this festive occasion, making it difficult, at best, to manoeuvre heartache in the midst of so much glee. Those that are lucky, find a way to keep warm, in spite of the freeze. Left scrambling to find my feet after my beloved Mama Dear exited her earthly existence, my tangible source of sanctuary in her arms taken from me, the love of my son is the light that shields me from the inexplicably empty ache that threatens to haunt me during this time of year. As my grandparents had taken me in at the age of 2 months old, after my teenage parents had traded me off to experience the freedoms historically denied to their tribes, the void brought on by the loss of Mama Dear, had the sting of being orphaned, all over again. Yet, I remember how my grandparents taught me to count my blessings, one by one. It is a mercy that allows me to step out of the darkness and live in the Sun.
My son Bobby told me that he tells his friends, he will reference me as the model of the parent he would like to be. I was flabbergasted at this revelation as I know how very many mistakes I made along the way bringing my child up. Graciously, what my child values is the person he is today, which he credits as my doing. I have to give all the credit to my grandparents. They showed me what positive parenting is, amidst all the challenges, how to assure your child is secure in their 'first place' status with you, and, to equip your child with the facts of how very different the world can be from the particular circumstances of childhood.
I called them Mama Dear and Daddy Honey, because I thought 'Dear' was my Grandmother's name and 'Honey' was my Grandfather's name, as this was what they always called each other. My Grandmother would say, "Go tell 'Honey...", etc., or Grandaddy would say, "Take this to 'Dear', occasioned with the "What did yo' Daddy say?" and, "Let yo' Mama know first". They reared me up with an urgency, as though fearing once they were gone from this earth, I would pretty much be on my own. They totally got that right. I have been blessed with others to love me, but the safe harbour my grandparents provided me with, was a one off. Being excluded and marginalised is a theme in my music, recognised by those who identify with being left out and overlooked. However, I was trained to work at staying hopeful for better times. Hence, my songs, sounds the bells of faith in the future.
The Reverend Pastor David Anderson Sr. and his wife Alberta, would suffer me in their bed every night, my feet and arms wailing out from under the covers onto their unsuspecting throats and chests. After enduring hours of missed sleep, they would gently place me in my bed and quietly retreat back to theirs, hoping to get some much needed rest. All in vain, for as soon as my tiny body felt the cold from the vacancy of them beside me, I woke right up, marched into their bedroom, pulled myself up onto the Victorian styled bed, so high above the floor, using my Grandfather's night shirt like it was a cable to my survival zone. I'd nuzzle myself in the middle of them, with an air of a huff that they had the audacity to remove me from my comfort in the first place. Resistance, they knew would be futile, so of course, they acquiesced.
A musical endorsement of the joy my grandparents gave me, is expressed in a song I wrote called, "When the Light Shines", released on my "Alberta's GrandDaughter" CD, which tells the story of what it was like getting ready to go to church with them on Sunday mornings. It was my favourite time of the week. They put so much delight in preparing to serve people with hope. They had minimal material resources, but shared what they had as though they owned the key to the world's bounty. Everybody had a duty, came with the territory and the tasks were to be done joyfully, without complaint. They kept me in stitches with their satirical sense of humour, without leaving a bitter taste in my mouth about the circumstances of my birth. The love they shared, provided a safe haven, that even in the environment of being socially and politically oppressed, they channelled their energies towards dignity and strength, and educated me spiritually, to do the same.
Mama Dear and Daddy Honey had such tolerance with me, allowing for my precociousness, albeit within the confines of their religious doctrine. Being a member of the Church of God in Christ Pentecostal church, labelled as the 'Holy Rollers', was ridicule enough, as we lived a very isolated life. But my grandparents also had to try and accommodate the backlash I had to deal with from the neighbourhood kids teasing me about why I hardly ever had any communication with my 'real' parents. It did feel a cruel confusion, expected to maintain a parental reference to my birth parents, even though both of them had created a river of separation between us. Yet, loving them remains automatic. To bear a grudge against them would be pointless. My birth father's absence resulted in the bond of rescue with my grandparents. My birth mother is a Gypsy by nature, an unsettling characteristic of hers that to this day reflects poorly on our relationship. However, after living the first seven years of my life with a disturbingly minimal presence from my birth mother, her roaming about landed her a job as a wardrobe assistant for James Brown. He heard her sing and later named her as his most favourite singer. She married his best friend, Bobby Byrd. From her famous associations sprung a Godfather for me who supplied a platform for my own musical career, and a Stepfather whose loving encouragement gave me the confidence, amidst my tremendous insecurities, to tackle the complexities of stage fright. My birth parents, Reuben Anderson and Myra Barnes, (aka Vicki Anderson), succeeded in their quest to make the most of what the civil rights movement afforded them. True, I can literally count the hours of face time I had with my birth parents. However, the experience made me the person and artist that I am. I grasped quite early on, to simply, live with it. Providence graced me to value the power of a brighter outlook, learnt from my grandparents during my formative years. It is a priceless point of view that I yet return to, for self reliance in facing the troubles of the human condition.
My grandparents went into overdrive to make up for what they knew I had lost out on. To see the funny side of things got my grandparents through the Depression era in the 1930's with six children to feed. Raising their grandchild in their senior years, whilst living off the leftovers from the congregational church offerings, after the church bills had been paid, meant times were lean, but hardly a comparison to the struggles of their youth. They both had been raised as sharecroppers, so they knew all about stretching the penny. My grandmother made sweet potato pies to sell after Sunday service, for 25 cents each. She packaged them into small perforated tins, stacked them on top of each other, then stored them in a large cardboard box, which was placed on the floor of the kitchen that separated my bedroom from theirs. This particular Saturday night, after they had put me in my bed, with a view to getting some rest on their own, I woke up, as per usual. But, upon going past the kitchen towards their bedroom, I was overcome with the delicious smell of the sweet potato pies. I started with a tiny pinch from one of the pies at the bottom of the box. That Sunday morning, my grandparents found me curled up inside the box, with all the empty pie tins, the last bit of pie in my hands at the corner of my mouth. I had passed out from consumption. Being awakened by their stifled laughter, I finished off that last bit of pie, as they murmured how to respond to my greed. They cradled me together in their arms, took me over to the kitchen sink, rinsed off the top layer of sweet potato that covered my body, before taking me to the bathroom for a proper wash. They explained to me as they bathed me, that in future, I must leave enough sweet potato pies for the people at church. As the news spread that my grandmother's sweet potato pies had gone missing, a certain church member thought it necessary to let me know how my gluttony would cause my grandparents to go without food that week. I went to apologise to my grandparents for my 'selfish' deed. With instinctive kind absolution in my grandparents eyes, and smiles that beamed how proud they were of me for taking responsibility, they simply replied, 'just always remember to save enough for others'. After church service, we dropped the over zealous church member off at her house. As we sat in our car while she walked the pavement towards her door, I asked Mama Dear 'why did that mean woman wand chall to be mad at me?'. Mama Dear explained that the woman had lost her loved ones when she was young and never recovered, so I was to forgive her, because the woman was lonely, and we had each other. Then Daddy Honey said, "and because you fell asleep with the pies, we finally got some rest widout choo slappin' us widjo body parts all night long! We just have to eat cornbread and collard greens for the next few days, is all!" They so taught me the value of laughter. And, even with the financial shortfall that week, Daddy Honey still managed to find a way for he and I to have our regular 'Father & Daughter/Friday night after church meal, at the Fish Fry Stand, off the Buffalo Speedway'. I completely revelled in being his 'Little Daddy's Girl'. Some say my grandparent's love story causes me to have too much of an idealistic view of romantic partnerships. Perhaps, but I witnessed a devoted love with boundless harmony. It is a validation that steadies my balance in this very shaky world of monumental twists and turns.
My grandfather died on the same day that I met my 'real' father. I had celebrated my ninth birthday a month earlier in the visitor's waiting room at the Veteran's hospital with Daddy Honey, Mama Dear and close friends from our church. Although we visited the hospital everyday, I had no idea Daddy Honey would die, until moments before he left us. I've been told that at the age of 18 months old, I saw my 'real father' for a short time, when he came to visit his parents, while he was on a break from his studies at University in Los Angeles. I don't recall that meeting. My 'real' father had been forced to marry my mother, according to Texas law regarding underage pregnancy at the time, although the law was powerless in making the two live together as husband and wife. After the court enforced marital procedure, both my parents went to their separate family homes. My 'real' father left his parent's house soon after I was born. My grandparents shouldered his accountability to avoid my mother and her family seeking lawful retribution against my father's neglect of his parental obligations. Ultimately, I was blessed that my grandparents fell in love with me. In a future Blog, I will detail the impact that day of loss and recovery had on my psyche, meeting my father for the first time, in conjunction with us saying 'fare thee well' to the man who had raised us both. For now, let it suffice to say, upon my grandfather's death, I attached myself to my grandmother's hip.
The photo at the top of this Blog, with the Christmas tree in the background, showing me with a swollen face and red eyes, but smiling because my son's arms wrapped me in cheerful support, was taken in 1984, a few weeks after my grandmother died. At the time, my son & I were living in Hollywood, on Melrose Avenue, the famous street of luxury, in a 1 multi-purpose room flat, where we slept on the floor. We shared the flat with my boyfriend, Donny Baker, a German Catholic Hippie who lovingly took on the role of 'stepfather' to my son. We were both music students and saved pennies in a coffee can, for my son's treats, etc. The apartment courtyard accommodated other 'low income' families, to mix with those of privileged fortunes, the city government's attempt to bridge the gap between the 'haves and the haves not'. It fostered aspiration amongst us 'poor' ones, instead of resentment, and a bit more tolerance from them that were better off. It was a short lived 'affirmative action' project, that granted my son an opportunity to get on the 'higher track' of education, of which the waiting list was brutally exclusive. I was way more than ready to get my son out of the neighbourhood of his birth, in South Central L.A., where random gang shootings were an everyday occurrence. But to leave my grandmother was torture. To give you a more in depth idea of my affinity with my grandmother, when my labour pains started, I got out of the bed with my son's father/my husband, and got into bed with Mama Dear. Her healing hands and calm humming of gospel hymns, from her house to the maternity ward where my son was born, is yet a comfort beyond words. My husband left us when my son was eighteen months old. My son was three years old at the time that our names were selected to participate in the social exercise of mixing the underprivileged with the affluent, which also included the advantage of my son having a prestigious pre-school education, all provided for by the Los Angeles city government. My birth father moved my grandmother into a new house in the suburbs of Long Beach, near where he lived. As a full time music school student and a divorced mother with two jobs, I drove the 2 hour journey in my 20 year old car to visit Mama Dear weekly. Such was my need to get a cuddle from her. After she took ill, I'd spend all day just trying to feed her a bowl of oatmeal. To kiss her cheek was a precious reward. I had last seen her on Thanksgiving Day. The phone call came a few days later. I drove up to the Hollywood Hills, perched myself on a bench and absorbed the news that I had lost the last earthly shoulder of my childhood for me to lean on. Looking out over those Hollywood Hills, I felt the embrace of my grandparents, a presence of assurance that they now existed in a place of peace and that my sorrow must take a back seat to my duty as a good mother to my son. Their love yet brings me the strength to imagine the arch that connects the darkness of night to the light of day. I am grateful for their loving touch in my life. This Grace of Gratitude is a very warm blanket, that inspires music to accompany my journey, a truly merciful blessing.
Wishing you all a joyful and harmonious Yuletide season that lasts every single moment of the rest of your lives. Carleen Anderson
Daymaker
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