Desne A. Crossley: Something I Came Across

Yesterday, I was culling through papers to throw out and came across a letter from my mother to her father. She’s trying to cushion the news that no one will tell him. He’s dying of cancer. She dances around the issue, trying to soften the blow with remembrances. What jumped out at me was the part about my grandfather’s motivation to work independently. My grandfather had a 3^rd grade education and lived at a time filled with despair and racial oppression. He was short and wiry, so he would not be a white employer’s first choice to do the physical labor that bigger black men could do easily. As a child, he was the hired companion of a rich white boy his age who suffered from encephalitis. The boy’s parents dressed my grandfather in identical, finely tailored clothing so that he could be identified to whites in stores as working on behalf of their son.

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Personal letter dated September 29, 1974 

Papa, my dear sweet Papa:

You wonder at my silence just now. You don’t know why I say nothing at all, when you are so unable to say anything for yourself. You probably wonder why Blackie[1] seems to desert you, just at a time when you so need consolation.

Well, My Beautiful Father, I will break the silence. I will break a silence that cuts at the very soul of me; cuts at the very saliva in my mouth, leaving an acid sickness as acids cut away at the mucous membranes that line my stomach.

Papa, do you ever remember in your life God promising you that you would be different from all other beings? Do you recall his ever promising you that the earth would forever be home for you? Was there ever a time when he promised you that he would never call to redeem that which is His? Don’t you remember somewhere he said that we never belong to mortals; that we are His, and only He will determine our destiny?

I hesitate to write to you, Papa. I do not want to upset you. I want only to console you. This is why I have waited so long to write to you. Now it seems that if I would write such a letter to you, now is as good a time as any.

Ours has been an unusual life, Papa. I know, because I was there. I shared it. We have been unusually lucky people, in so many ways. We have all grown up together. You and Mama were only babies having babies, one right after another, though even before the pill and all the other apparatus, we’re kind of well-spaced. You look just like you were a brother of all those old men, instead of the father. Sometimes I think each one tried like hell to live up to your sharp-looking image. I think you knew it too!

Remember when you tried to teach us “culture,” and became so exasperated when we did something uncouth? I just couldn’t see where it mattered so much which way I held my fork just so long as I got the food into my mouth and nourished my body. Nor could I understand why ruffles and frills and Vaseline on knees made the slightest difference. So, what if I did like Old Man Redmond’s discarded hook-and-eye shoes from the trunk on the third floor? I ALWAYS LOVED a good piece of leather.

Hey Papa, remember when I drove the truck for the Shop[2]? You thought I was crazy then, didn’t you? I thought at the time, as I do now, that there is great pride in doing a job well for yourself, rather than some old half-ass job for whitey. I really was so proud of what you tried to do for us, and the ambitions you had for all of us. God, how you struggled and juggled dimes to make it all happen! I recall so vividly you and Mae and Kee[3], anytime of day or night, making it for all of us. And, you old devil, you did!

Remember the time you were flat broke, and went out and bought yourself a new car and Mama a new refrigerator, so you’d have to succeed? You told me that if there were big bills to pay, you’d just have to work harder and whine less about conditions. Seems the lower you felt, the bigger your ambitions became. You were so far ahead of your time, man! You were into the Black-do-it-yourself-thing before we were aware of it. I used to have the audacity to wish you had a job like other people. You know, like going to work for the man and Miss Anna. Like slinging bags at the airport, or a fancy job like a mailman or hotel doorman, in one of those sharp uniforms. Why did I have to be born into a family where the man was too high-falootin’ to leave Rosie long enough to go to work?

I never knew a man who had so many dependents, who could play with flowers all the time. Seems like all that creative stuff, all that “own your own business” stuff was for the birds. I was only a very little girl then. As I got older, then I could see it all. I could see myself driving a truck, or sweeping the floor, or cutting the stems, or doing anything else, just so long as it was for our own independence.

We’ve come so far, my dearest Father. We’ve spanned several generations, and created generation gaps. We’ve come from one economy to another, and watched the brains of the country bring us all the way back to damn near where we started. We’ve had a good life. All because you and Mama loved each other so deeply. We couldn’t do too bad, so long as you and Mama had your thing together.

Now Papa, things are changing, as we knew they would. Nothing is forever. Your time is December and winter. The summer sun and warmth are long since gone. The autumn leaves are a crisp-like, tan-like, moisture-less dropping, that will be caught up like dust in the wind. And like ashes return to ashes, dust to the dust, we all hear the distant ringing of the bell that tells us God is calling. Sometimes He will do like Mama used to do and call more than once for us. Mama used to say, “Elaine, I’m not going to call you again. I mean come now!” That’s how God does it sometimes. Then again, He’s tolerant of us when we don’t want to hear Him. Hey Papa, remember the time you called me up to Mr. Smart’s grocery to get you some cigarettes, and I acted like I didn’t hear you? Do you remember how mad you got ’cause I took my time? Well, old man, God is beginning to call for you. I know how hard it is for you to go, but then, you don’t know why He’s calling. You don’t know what He has in mind for you just now. Sort of cool it, Papa. Sort of let God call the shots. Put yourself in His hands, and have faith in Him. Who knows, maybe He only wants to tell you He’s going to let you stay here longer than we think. I cannot speak for my brothers and sisters, but I feel that you are winding your way to another land. I feel that you are going on a journey far more beautiful than any you have ever taken. I think you are one of God’s very special people, and that He will gently hold you in His hand and cup them in a way that all the shocks of living and dying will be spared you. Now, my Father, when He calls you, do not be afraid. You have been only loaned to us, and we to you. Each of us belongs only to God, in the final judgment. I love you so very deeply, Papa.

Elaine / Blackie / Peter

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[1] “Blackie” was my grandfather’s nickname for my mother. A family nickname for my mother was “Peter.”

[2] Sherman’s Flower Shop, 1928 – 2007. My mother was fourteen when she began driving the Shop truck and delivering flowers.

[3] My mother’s oldest sister Mary was nicknamed “Mae” and their brother Charles’s nickname was “Kee.” They were both award-winning floral designers at the national level, working beside their father and mother at the Shop.

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Copyright 2025 Desne A. Crossley