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Group Writing: Helen’s Honor
This post is the type our group-writing coordinator @arahant describes as “your chance to bring up topics seldom covered on Ricochet.” Parts of it may be hard to read; they were hard to write. Ultimately, it’s a story of honor, triumph, and most of all, great love.
There are two aspects of this month’s writing theme, zeal, I hope to bring out in this story: great energy or enthusiasm in pursuit of a cause or objective; intense emotion compelling action.
The Beginning
Like many, I don’t usually share online copious identifying details of myself, family or friends. For this story, a true one, I will because for some things detail makes all the difference. So pull up a chair, people, and let me tell ya ’bout my maternal grandmother, Helen Eliza Sulser, born to Floyd and Martha Mae Sulser in 1910. She grew up on a farm in Franklin County, Illinois, the oldest of three children who were born seven years apart from each other. Grandma Helen, or Grammy as I often called her, adored her brothers Stanley and Mayo, but it was Great Grandpa Floyd who called her “Sister” as country folks sometimes do female family members.
Great Grandpa Floyd worked the coal mines for extra money in addition to being a full-time farmer. He was strong as an ox and looked sorta like one now that I think about it, being on the short side and thick in the chest and arms. Mama gets a kick out of telling the story about going with him when she was a child to buy a new vehicle. When he’d picked out the one he wanted, the young salesman made an assumption based on his overalls and well-worn work shoes and asked him, “Which of our credit plans would you prefer, Mr. Sulser?” Grandpa Floyd responded deadpan, “Will cash be alright with you?” and proceeded to write a check for the full purchase amount. That puckish humor didn’t pass to my Grammy, but his twinkling blue eyes, perseverance, honesty, and sense of honor she got in spades.
None of the Sulsers were afraid of hard work, and Grammy did her part to make sure my brother and I were acquainted with the concept of work as well. We knew when we were able to visit her and Grandpa on summer vacations that we’d be working hours in her garden, helping her hang sheets and towels on the outside clothesline, picking and canning fruits from local orchards. All worth it for the privilege of just being with her. Grammy loved on us like nobody else; she gave the best hugs and smacking wet kisses around. Her homemade fruit pies, applesauce, and peach ice cream had nothing to do with our helpfulness. Really.
The only work I ever heard my grandmother complain about was hating to get the eggs from the chicken coop as a young girl. She didn’t like it when the hens pecked or the rooster sometimes got mean.
Once I recall casually telling Grammy about a friend in first grade who didn’t want to tell his dad about something he did wrong because it was hard to say out loud. She put down the spoon she was using to stir a heavenly smelling pot, wiped her hands on her apron, came over to me and sat down. I remember the feel of her work-roughened hand on my cheek as she took my attention from my crayons, focused her blue eyes into mine and said, “You must always tell the truth, no matter how hard it is.”
It wasn’t until this last week when, in the middle of some news report about Christine Blasey Ford’s allegations, my mother quietly said, “Mom was raped when she was a young teenage girl,” that I learned how familiar my grandmother was with telling the truth even when it was hard. Shocked doesn’t begin to cover how it felt hearing of a devastating crime against a grandmother I thought I knew.
Circa 1923-24
Corn grows high in southern Illinois. High enough to shield the husband of one of Grammy’s cousins when he cornered her in one of Grandpa Floyd’s fields and violated her with no one around to hear her cries for help. I imagine he thought as a young 13-14 year old that she’d say nothing, be too ashamed and not want to upset the family.
Grandpa Floyd was the first one to see her walking home from the fields after it happened. Somehow my grandmother told her father everything. Grammy said when recounting the story to my mother that she could see him shaking with rage and thought he wanted to kill the man. Instead, he gently picked up Grammy, carried her to the house, sat down in a rocker with her on his lap and let her cry silent tears into his shirt. His only words were to ask her after a while, “Sister, are you ready to talk to the Sheriff?”
With Great Grandpa Floyd’s silent support, Grammy told the county sheriff the details: the who, what, where, and when. She came home and was finally able to clean the evidence of rape from her body. Next morning she got up early as usual to complete her chores. When Grandpa Floyd asked her if she wouldn’t rather Stanley get the eggs for her she said, “Chickens are my job and I’ll do them today.” She knew Grandpa Floyd needed her help with my Great Grandma Martha heavily pregnant with Uncle Mayo.
The cousin by marriage was arrested. My 13- to 14-year-old grandmother sat in a courtroom with her rapist in front of her and testified against him. She lived in a rural community, so the trial and story of what was done to her was in the paper and talked about all over the county. The man went to prison for many years. My great grandfather’s intense rage and desire to avenge his firstborn and much-beloved daughter ended in justice. Years later when my mother asked her why she decided to do what she did, Grammy replied, “He was bad, not me. And I didn’t want him to be able to do to another girl what he did to me.”
Dear God, if that’s not determined pursuit of an objective — zeal — I don’t know what is. This country was built by people like my grandmother. Men and women of courage, not afraid to face down and put away wickedness. We owe it to them to confront and defeat those who want to twist our nation’s heritage into a parody of truth and justice by gender/race/class.
For the record, my grandmother not only triumphed over evil done to her, she thrived and lived a full life happily married with two daughters. six grandchildren, and several great-grandchildren whom she lived to see. I recall her saying to me with a smile on her face I thought funny looking at the time. that she’d married the best looking man in two counties. Grandpa sauntered in and asked, “Just two counties, Helen?” I left them to it when the mushy stuff started. Obviously, she didn’t let what was done to her as a young girl define her marriage. Yeah, Grammy!
In Conclusion
I debated about writing this story; it’s not the sort I normally read in group writing entries or anywhere else in my time on Ricochet, come to think of it. In the end, immense respect for my grandmother and my own intense, compelling emotion meant I couldn’t not tell it. Mom thinks Grammy would be okay with it, even proud. It’s not marked Members Only, either, because she’s not unique in her experience, and maybe her story will encourage someone else to be able to come forward to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God.
My young grandmother had more courage to confront wrong than many grown men and women on Capitol Hill have shown this past month. Knowing all about defending your honor, she would have listened to Brett Kavanaugh September 27, 2018, and known exactly what he was saying and why. I leave to you to imagine what she would have thought and said of Christine Blasey Ford.
I’ve always loved her. Now I’m in awe of her. I don’t have words adequate to express my grandmother’s honor, but in her honor, I’ll close the post with a song that always brings her to my mind.
Published in Group WritingThese Are the Women I Come From
They are faces in photographs, heads all held high
Not afraid to look life in the eye
They were women with backbone, keepers of the flame
With a spirit even hard times couldn’t tameAnd I know that this same blood is in me
And I meet their gaze one by one
Eyes strong and clear, I still feel them nearChorus:
These are the women I come from
The faith that sustained them is bred in my bones
I know what I’m made of, and where I belong
‘Cause these are the women I come fromWhat did life bring them, what pain did they know
Stories the pictures didn’t show
They were lovers of babies and lovers of God
With lessons and laughter in their songsDid they dream better dreams for their children
As they prayed silent prayers in the night
“Lord make their way clear, and always be near”
No words.
Amen. Thank you for posting this, Mim.
Thought of my grandmother’s courage spurred me to click <Publish>.
Thank you, @percival and @judgemental for taking the time to read it and post your comments.
Thank you for posting this. “He was bad, not me.” And “I didn’t want him to be able to do to another girl what he did to me.” Such simple words. Such truth. Such responsibility. Such grace. And such a wonderful, loving, and strong, family.
Thank you for sharing.
Thanks for this. The strength of your grandmother is amazing. Second to it is the strength of your great-grandfather. The strength to give his daughter comfort when she needed it the most, instead of running off to kill the bastard. The strength to recognize that the thing to do was not be a vigilante, but to pursue justice the correct way. I’d like to think I’d be as strong as he was, but I don’t think I could.
It wouldn’t shock me if there was an aside to the sheriff; you deal with it or I will.
Possibly when the family doctor my great grandfather insisted they send for was examining her. It sounded to me hearing it for the first time and talking about with my mother the past few past days that Great Grandpa Floyd closed as many loopholes as he could think of. He wasn’t an emotional type at all, but they were a family who loved and supported each other their entire lives. I didn’t get into my Great Grandma Martha’s role, but she was an amazing woman herself who helped steer him in the Sheriff’s direction, I think.
Part of the reason I posted my grammy’s story is because, with Ford’s allegation in the limelight, I couldn’t help thinking that this is the way assault/rape should be handled. Family is the first place to go for a port in storm for those who are blessed with strong families.
Grammy finished high school, which not many girls did in her community at that time. I wondered as I was typing this part of her life story what it was like for her at school when all this became public.
She was 4’11-1/2″ (she always insisted on claiming that 1/2 inch), and she’s never stood taller in my eyes than she does right now. I loved her so much. Still do :-)
Well, that was powerful. It started for me with a laugh. I was wondering if we were related. One of my grandmothers was named Helen S. She was born in 1909 in Macoupin County, a few counties north of Franklin County. She also had two brothers, although she was in the middle between James and John. But then your story diverged even more.
Thank you for sharing your grandmother with us. I’m glad she came forward and justice was done.
As Mim mentioned, this conversation is part of the Group Writing Series under October’s theme of Zeal. If you have a story to tell about someone who had (or has) zeal, or if you would just like to describe one of your own great enthusiasms, we have plenty of openings in the schedule. Come sign up.
Bless you, @mim526, for sharing this incredible story. It’s clear that you come from honorable and courageous stock; how fortunate you are. After this violation of your grandmother, I was moved to see everyone do the right thing: her husband, the sheriff, the court. The image of your Grandpa Floyd carrying her home and then holding her on his lap will stay with me for a long time.
I love her too.
Yes. What disturbs me about Ford’s testimony (many things do, but this in particular) is that she perpetuates the stereotype that the woman should somehow be ashamed of themselves and feel guilty about the actions perpetrated on them by others. If something did happen to her, she should have dealt with it at the time, either in her family, or if that wasn’t a viable option for some reason, with her school or with her church, or even with a friend’s family.
By presenting herself as a trembling mess almost four decades later, and saying that said trembling mess is a direct result of a high-school episode of drunken pawing by a contemporary at a party where there was, apparently no adult supervision, and which she mentioned to nobody for thirty years, she is the epitome of weak, feeble, and clueless, and not a brave example for young women of today at all. And she has a doctorate in psychology to boot (no further comment on that matter).
Someone on this site (can’t remember who, sorry) made the trenchant comment that if the experience undergone by Ford caused the results in her that it did, and if the reflexive support of Leftist women she enjoys, for the torment, and the misery, and the shame, and the unhappiness she’s endured ever since are any indication of what the Feminazis believe are the highest aspirations of womanly behavior, then the idea that women are fit to serve in combat is a non-starter right out of the gate.
I could not agree more.
And God Bless my own granny who, on a day in about the same time-frame that your grandmother suffered her trauma, was on holiday in Wales with her family, saw the family car (on which the brake had apparently slipped) suddenly start rolling backwards downhill towards her picnicking children, ran over, picked up the back end of the car all by herself, turned it about 30 degrees, and sent it off down the hill where there were no people in its path.
She, also, was not quite five feet tall. Tough ladies. We need more such.
Me, too. I remember him as a white haired older man with bright blue eyes always trying to sneak me orange slices before breakfast.
It astounds me that as a 13-14 year old girl in the 1920s my grandmother knew all shame belongs to the perpetrator alone, who deserves nothing but prosecution to the fullest extent of the law. None of us should be ashamed to address it, and I’m so glad to feel Ricochet gets it.
Do you think that was just “the way it was” in the 1920s, or do you think your grandmother’s maturity and point of view was unusual?
What I’m getting at is, when did we succumb to the idea that whatever bad thing happens to us must, in some way, be our fault?
Mr. She has always dated this to the assassination of JFK, and Richard, Cardinal Cushing coming on TV a couple of years later and saying something like, “we were all guilty.” (Haven’t looked up the quote, but I’m trusting it was something like this.)
Mr. She has always said that his first reaction to that was “BS! My six-month old son is not guilty of this, and you can’t make me believe he is.”
Seems to me we have lost the ability to call out evil, and even just wrongdoing, when we see it, because such “judgmentalism” is viewed as evil in itself. And I think that’s very unfortunate.
100 –>
Wonderful, Mim, absolutely I wonderful. What a woman your grandmother was. What bravery! That image of her curled up in your great grandfather’s lap is an image to be treasured. Your great grandfather’s quiet resolve is also wonderful.
And she shook it off and went on with her life — as we all should when we have done nothing to be ashamed of. No histrionics, no playing the victim for the rest of your life. Just get on with it.
Thirteen years old!
A great post, Mim.
Rape/assault was something kept quiet unless a reporter got hold of it. I think my grammy was unusual for the day in testifying at trial and refusing to stay at home like she was ashamed. She definitely was unusual making sure her daughters born in the 30s knew the facts of life at a fairly young age.
There’s a continuum on certain subjects. My grandmother’s grandmother was shocked when she started her menstrual cycle because no one those days discussed bodily functions with their daughters. The 60s era which you cite, the pendulum swung far in the free love direction yet here we are today still unable to speak of rape and assault in a responsible manner in the public square.
Some idiot #MeToo activists seem to want to call a man blinking in a woman’s direction an assault on her person, making genuine survivors part of a meaningless massive new victim class and thereby not holding actual perpetrators responsible. My grammy would probably say something like, “Someone needs to tie a knot in their tail”.
Maybe we haven’t lost the ability to call out evil so much as the ability to recognize evil when we see it. Everything on the Left seems to be 180 degrees from the truth.
So true, and so well put. Once when the Group Writing theme was fear, I wrote about being raped when I was in college. He held me prisoner overnight and I thought I was going to die. I’d never told anyone but my mom and my sister in my whole life. Writing it all down was cathartic for me. It was members-only of course.
But a woman member came into my post and pretty much said I had asked for it and that it wouldn’t have happened to her. She then went on to imply that my mother hadn’t done a very good job raising me. Then a different member PMd me to chastise me for oversharing.
Great clip, Arahant. I’m going to learn a lot about movies if you continue to post these little clips in response to my responses. You know, I used to write a movie column for the local newspaper, The Murray Ledger and Time. I think I was a fraud. Wait a minute: “Rosebud!” See, I know movies. I don’t go to the movies anymore. They bore me. But then most everything bores me these days.
I am sorry about that. “There’s nought so queer as folk” as the old British saying goes (it has no other context other than that “some people are odd”). Unfortunately, we’re not in charge of other people’s prejudices or world views. I f we were, I can’t help thinking that things would not be the mess they are.
Thanks. I was so mortified after all her comments that I deleted the post. – “There’s nought so queer as folk”
The book was better and more interesting. It was speculative fiction written in 1931. In her future, pretty much everyone had a private plane. In the movie, some of those exiting Cold Comfort Farm went by car, but in the book, they all flew away. It’s funny to see what people thought life might be like in twenty or thirty years.
I am so sorry, @rightangles. Good thing I wasn’t on Ricochet then, or I’d probably have received my first flag or worse, gotten banned, for giving the hag a verbal slap or two or three upside the head. **cue three stooges, @arahant **
Survivors can eventually harm themselves and other by dwelling on the horror, but people need to heal and talking intelligently about it in a safe place to help yourself and others can be a very good thing.
Thanks. I think that the fact that this experience didn’t affect me for the rest of my life, and the fact that my experience was truly horrifying as opposed to needing a safe space if a man whistles at you, is one of the (many) reasons women like Ford irritate the dickens out of me. I mean get a hold of yourself.
Have four, they’re small:
That is real strength. Thank you for sharing this.
Great OP. Why it is not on the MainLine already is my question.
I do not consider stoning cruel and unusual punishment for (perhaps not all) rapists. The effects of rape will be felt by the whole family and often passed on to one or more generations who may never be told anything about that ‘black cloud’ over their head.
It seems that the ‘sexual assault / sexual harassment is happening to me all the time crowd’ has really pushed the seriousness of rape out of view. It also seems to me that rapists and especially pedophiles are not being punished as harshly as they once were. I think, no matter how well the rape victim recovers, a bit or more of one’s spirit is murdered by the rapist.
Grandpa Floyd was a Big Man too that day. I’m not sure I could have stopped myself from doing what he surely wanted to do.
You know a piece of his soul died too. No more his fault than hers, but I’ll bet he could never believe that himself. He was supposed to protect his little girl, and he failed her.