March 02, 2007
Ninety-Nine
Josephine was born on her family's Ohio farm on March 2, 1908, the middle child of an eventual family of seven kids. When she was nine, her beloved daddy passed away from kidney failure. Her memories of him are sparse, but she speaks fondly of trips to town and how he always had candy in his pockets. She was named after him - a Jo to his Joe - and he wanted her to grow up and become a teacher. Ninety years later, she still grieves for him. She recently commented that she didn't understand why she let her older siblings die without asking them so many questions. "Like what?" I asked her. "Like what it was like to have a daddy," she told me.
Joe Morrow's death would alter Josephine's life in dramatic ways. Her mother remarried - what else could she do? - and her second husband was what we would now call a deadbeat, but what they called a shyster. He left her mother Rwilda with another son and not much else. By the time she was a teenager, Jo had been shuffled around - sent to her brother's sister's house in nearby Springfield and left to work the farm while her younger sisters attended school. When she was 16, still just a young child herself, she married her older brother's friend, Elijah.
They had two children in quick succession and lived with his parents on a small, nearby farm. Eventually, Lige had saved enough money to buy their own land. It was a small place, on Paint Creek, and he purchased it in 1926 from the Fishback family for $300 yearly payments. They moved in on her 18th birthday. On that farm, Jo would have several more children, including her sixth, my mother. Four years later, they moved to a larger farm within the same county, but Lige, ever the self-educated businessman, rented out the Paint Creek farm to sharecroppers, retaining ownership of the land. (On that land, two days ago, a fifth generation of Hall babies was born, Lige and Jo's great-great-grandson, Nathan.) On the Hall Farm - as it became known - Jo finally had a kitchen sink with running water and after a few years they put in an indoor bathroom. She was 41. That same year, 1949, their third child Wanda became engaged to a WWII Vet, Edward, and when Ed purchased a diamond ring with which to propose, Lige purchased one for Jo as well. He hid it in his roll top desk and when he asked Jo to retrieve something for him, she discovered the ring instead. It was their 25th wedding anniversary.
In 1950, Lige retired from farm life, leaving the daily operations of the Hall Farm to his eldest son Dick and his new bride. Lige, Jo and their three youngest daughters moved into a 1800s Victorian house in town, blocks away from their church and the girls' eventual high school. My mom speaks of those years with glowing fondness, as it was almost as if they were a second family. There were no more cows to milk twice a day and Jo no longer had to work a garden for profit; instead she grew tomatoes and canned jam for their own use. Lige could walk into their backyard and pick beets for his lunch, which he ate raw covered in salt and pepper. Jo and Lige lived in that house for 45 years. They saw their youngest children get married and become parents themselves. Their brood of grandchildren grew and grew and they were great-grandparents before they finished gathering grandkids. Every Christmas Eve the old house was filled wall-to-wall with people as the family convened to celebrate. Steam would pour out of the kitchen as Jo cooked and cooked, her daughters joining her as they arrived. After the gifts had been opened and the food was eaten, they would call those who weren't in attendance. Wanda in Athens, Ga. Judy in Spring, Texas. Bill in Cocoa Beach, Fla.
In 1995, after it was apparent Lige's health would continue to worsen with age, they made the extremely difficult decision to sell the home they'd occupied for 45 years and move 14 miles to a neighboring county to be closer to three of their daughters. They purchased a small ranch with a porch so tiny, it would fit neither the glider nor swing Lige and Jo had occupied every evening for the latter years of their lives. Back in Greenfield, they would spend their evenings on the big porch with the wide, white rails greeting neighbors as they walked by.
On Feb. 20, 2000 Lige passed away, his death closely following the death of their eldest son. In the subsequent years, Jo would bury two more of her children, as well as her remaining surviving siblings.
Sometimes she wonders why she's still here; why God has blessed her with such long life. But the answer is found in the redheaded great-grandson whom she cuddles and loves just as she cuddled and loved his daddy, 33 years prior. The answer is found in her church's young pastor who visits her monthly to offer her communion and to seek her counsel on issues close to his own heart. The answer is found in the women and families who have adopted her as their surrogate mother and grandmother; the young blonde whose wedding she attended a few months ago, honored as their matriarch though she was only their neighbor.
The answer is found in me, a granddaughter whose life could not be more dissimilar. She is my guiding star, my hero, my love. I could never stop singing His praise for not only making her mine, but for making me hers.
Happy Birthday, MeMe. Your blood is in my heart.
Posted by hannah at 01:42 PM
