The year before I started school, I was taken to my grandparent’s farm during a rough spot in mom and dad’s marriage. I don’t remember the trip there, or leaving, but I do remember the time spent. I can close my eyes and see it clearly. After you turned off the main highway in Northwest Jacksonville, there was a long gravel road through a marshy pine forest. I often saw deer there. The long ranch style house was situated at the end of a circular loop large enough to hold more than a dozen cars. The landscaping was simple in the front yard, yet it was a huge contrast to the wooded entry road. To the right was the barn and garage, weathered by age. Behind it and down a trail was the smokehouse. Next to the garage was a huge pig pen and a henhouse where my brother spent many joyous hours chasing the chickens and dunking them in the water trough.
The back yard looked like a movie set. The swimming pool was to the right. At the end of the pool closest to the house was a concrete frog where the water gushed out of his mouth into the pool. On both sides of the pool for quite some way back were large oak and magnolia trees with multiple clusters of perfectly shaped azaleas. Straight ahead was a path with bottle brush plants lining and overhanging the walk down to the river. I always felt like royalty as I walked the 1/10th of a mile or so to the river bed. When you arrived, there was an old oak tree overhanging it with a heavy rope for swinging out into the water. There was just something about that brown creek water that never seemed too inviting to me. I went in on occasion, but not nearly as much as Jim and Theresa.
As beautiful as the place was, what I remember most about the farm was Irene. She was a healthy, well rounded black woman who served as housekeeper and cook. I used to sit outside with her, next to the house as she did the daily washing. I would watch her take the clothes out tub and push them through the ringer and then hang them up as she hummed or sang Negro spirituals, told me Bible stories and talked to me like I was one of her children. Her voice seemed to mesmerize me and her laughter made me feel joyous, even though my parents were gone. Later, I would follow her in the house, watch her pluck a chicken for chicken and dumplings or get the roast beef, potatoes and cabbage ready for Big Pop’s arrival. I loved spending time with her. Grams pulled me inside often to insure I wasn’t distracting her. Irene was one of the most outstanding personages in my life. I often thank God for her. I’ve never met anyone like her again. I would like to see her at my earliest possibility in Heaven.
Kids, I tell you this story because I hope that at some point in your life you will be an Irene to someone. For the most part, you have known a stable home environment and did not need an Irene. However, there are many without that privilege. Whether it is finding a child through Big Brother, Big Sisters, Scouts or youth groups, someone some day is going to need the songs, stories, encouragement and love that only you can give them. Irene took the sorrow out of my life and brought me joy. God knew what I needed and supplied it during a traumatic time of life. The ministry God has given me provides some capacity for that. My hope is He will use you too, to be an Irene in someone’s life.
Love Dad