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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”
Ms. Angles, I didn’t think we had such folk on Ricochet. That’s disappointing to me.
I believe one has been booted since. Don’t know who the other was.
Mr. Mental, he didn’t fail her in any way that I can see. We can’t have our children at our hips all the time. Children go off and play. Children go for walks. Children go to the movies in the cars of the parents of their friends. He didn’t fail her in any way whatsoever.
By the way, @kentforrester, I hope you’re bringing your A-Game to your entry in Group Writing tomorrow. This has been a powerful month so far.
You miss my point. He wouldn’t see it that way. He would see it as a failure, whether it’s reasonable or not.
Arahant, I’m working on it feverishly. Unfortunately, so far it’s not only not my A-Game, it’s looking like a D+. And that’s by an easy teacher.
I’m trying.
I would have to follow that absolutely wonderful post by Mim. Anything I post is going to look weak. My D+ is going to look like an F.
I kid you not.
What a powerful story of real empowerment and true justice.
Oh she’s still here, posting madly every week. So is the PMer.
Outstanding post. Thank you.
I loved them as soon as I read the names, and that just kept growing as the family grew.
I wonder (and, sorry, I haven’t read all the comments yet), is it harder today for a woman to come out and accuse her assaulter?
Seems today, that woman would suffer the vagaries of the political moment and whether she was useful or detrimental to the meme of the day.
Back in that time and place, pretty sure people would look to their Bibles to help them flense right from wrong.
Ah, thought it might have been our old friend the burqa confronter. Never mind.
Nah, we were kinda pals at times.
Ah, now I think I remember.
@kentforrester: At the risk of sounding terribly, toxically masculine, suck it up, cupcake. Get it done.
This post is outstanding. We (okay, “I” but I think it’s okay to say “we,” for this crowd) aren’t looking for a competition. We’re looking for a best effort. So get on it.
OK Mr. Mongo. Damn straight! I’m saluting now, my thumb tucked slightly into my palm, my forearm at a 45 degree angle to my upper arm. There’s a slight tremor to my upper arm to show its rigidity.
@kentforrester: Dude, last thing I want to hear about is your rigidity. Don’t get nominated to the Supreme Court, that comment is total miscast gold. Now, don’t salute, type. Well. Clock’s tickin’, dude.
Without a doubt man.
It feels like you have to be a code breaker around here just to understand 1/2 of what is going on. I probably don’t even hit that low mark 1/2 of the time.
Or just read all the comments…
I will cheat and/ or take a shortcut from time to time. So – sue me.
No pressure, @kentforrester. My Grammy’s a tough act for anyone to follow; a genuine VSL (Very Special Lady).
Give it your best shot, put up your post, we’ll read it with pleasure and thank you for it :-)
That person may not still be here, Kent, hold your disappointment…Updated to say: I’m disappointed, too.
I get where y’all as men might think Grandpa Floyd grieved for what he thought a failure to protect. And he might have let it eat at him indefinitely had it not been for Great Grandma Martha Mae. That woman was sweeter than honey, full of grace and joy, and possessed of a spine of steel. Floyd’s sun rose and set in Martha, and I can’t see her allowing any Sulser to feel any sort of failure for long on her watch. Powerful woman with a very powerful faith.
Yep, I was raised from a tadpole surrounded by womens like Miss Martha Mae. Powerful women keeping all the trains running on time. God love them.
Mim, I wasn’t kidding. I’ve got next to nothing so far. I put it off too long. I think I’m going to have to fake it.
I don’t think it’s what she would “allow.” I think it’s what she could bring to bear on salving her man’s abject feeling of failure. Of course he failed (thinks every man, every where, every time, object truth not a factor). This scenario would torture any and every father.
It was her “wife ability” to heal that fundamental self-assessment of failure. To re-direct it toward continued, functional support of the family and its needs. She was fundamentally key and essential to his ability to carry on. This is the indelible strength and gift of women.
This is fundamentally what the Left would tear away and rip asunder, if it could.
Women dedicated to healing their men and making them better? That’s unsat…
@kentforrester: Word on the street from Huggy Bear is that a lot of counseling paradigms are “fake it til you make it.”
We can exchange about this later. I know that right now, you’re too busy to respond to comments.
Perhaps write about “nothing,” in particular. How zealous have we become in constant clicking, status checking, posting words, gibberish, icons, memes, photos… to what end?
Good point. You’re committed to write, Kent, but you can change your topic or title.
Arahant, I’m OK. I’ve come up with something. It’s not great but it’s something. I didn’t want to trouble you. Thanks for your help, but I’m good.
Amen, brother. Right as usual, Boss. Took you two short paragraphs and sentences to sum up how many of my paragraphs? LOL
You know the human body’s amazing ability to heal? (Scratch that, rhetorical question for you :-) How they say you can tend to an injured area — direct healing therapy/meds/surgery etc. into it — until it’s almost stronger than it was before the injury? That’s Martha Mae Sulser. She kept praying and loving and encouraging the healing into Floyd, Helen, and Stanley until the family was stronger than ever the way it was told to my mom. Militant feminists have no idea the power packed into my little 4’11” great grandmother.