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Susan Rollins
                                                        Campus Box 1064
                                                        Washington University
                                                        One Brookings Drive
                                                        St. Louis, MO 63130
                                                        srollins@wustl.edu.


PITTS
Early in the morning on a hot St. Louis summer day, we packed up
the candy apple red Dodge Caravan Mini-Van with eight pieces of
luggage, toys, snacks, one car seat, a urinal, beverages, two
purses, two pillows, a cooler, mom’s favorite straw hat, my
husband Luther- age 38, Alison - age 6, Chandler - age 2, grandma
Dot - age 75, grandpa Ted - age 85 and me - age 38. We were
headed to Jekyll Island, Georgia for vacation. I chose Jekyll Island
for three reasons: my friends described it as a beautiful barrier
island, we could comfortably get there in two days and it gave me a
reason to visit Pitts, Georgia my father’s birthplace which was the
halfway point of the journey.
I’d never been to Pitts. Ever since I could remember we made an
annual Memorial Day weekend pilgrimage to Brockton,
Massachusetts, my mother’s hometown. The purpose of the trip
was to decorate the graves of the Canada’s my mother’s relatives.
We packed up our car with mom, dad, Ma – my mother’s mother
and me and headed to Brockton. The cars would change but the
ritual remained the same. We arrived Friday evening at Alice’s
house. Alice was a friend of my mother’s who lived in an old house.
She lived on the first floor and only opened the upstairs when she
had company. That meant the upper floor was never used until we
came to visit. I don’t really know that for a fact, but it smelled like it. It
smelled musty like the sun and wind never touched it. When I took
a deep breath my chest would not expand. I felt as though I a pillow
had been put over my nose. I would stand by the window that had
been opened in the little room for me and I would pant in and out to
capture some of the fresh air from the outside. By Monday, our day
of departure, the smell began to dissipate and breathing became
easier.
Friday evening we would have a huge dinner in the formal dining
room. The large mahogany table was covered with an old
fashioned, yellowed table clothe. All of the food was in the center of
the table in old fashioned serving pieces. I could tell they were old
because they were yellowed and had varicose veins like the legs of
old ladies. We passed the meat, the other meat, the mashed
potatoes, the green beans, the salad, the hot homemade rolls, and
gravy, any and all condiments until our plates were filled at least a
mile high. If that weren’t enough, Alice would gorge us even further
with homemade strawberry shortcake with homemade whipped
cream. She would cut the shortcake and I would assemble the
shortcake towers. Biscuit half, strawberries, dollop of whipped
cream, biscuit half, strawberries, dollop of whipped cream and one
strawberry on the tippy top. I got to serve dessert. I walked very
slowly with both hands around those dessert plates like a trapeze
artist on a wire, not wanting to have my dessert masterpieces fall
onto the floor.
On Saturday we visited friends. We made a circuit that got smaller
and smaller over the years. We visited Cousin Thelma who owned
a two-family house in Roxbury in Boston. There was Mr. and Mrs.
Mapp and his son’s family who owned a produce company in
Brockton. There was Mr. and Mrs. Green who owned the black
funeral parlor that was next to the white funeral parlor. Of course we
ended the day with a dinner as sumptuous as the first but it was
served around the kitchen table.
On Sunday we visited the graves. I picked out the flowers at the
florist. I chose bright flowers. I’d never met the people we were
going to visit, but I was sure they would want bright flowers on their
heads. At least I was certain I would want bright flowers on my
head. Melrose Cemetery in Brockton was a beautiful place. On
Memorial Day weekend all of the Veteran’s graves were marked
with a flag. Most of the Veteran’s from the First World War were in
the front near the entrance. As we drove through the wrought iron
gates headstones stood at attention and the flags saluted you as
you passed by. We visited Grandpa Canada, Ma’s husband. Her
son George was there too. George died of pneumonia at the age of
one. James Canada, Grandpa Canada’s brother wasn’t far away.
James was buried with his second wife. Cousin Ophelia was
around a bend and son on. There was Mr. Unknown who had no
surviving relatives so we shared our family with him and placed a
flower at his headstone. The elders watched as I dutifully, dug the
holes and planted the flowers. I felt as if I was being trained for
something, but didn’t quite know what.
Maybe I was being trained to make the same pilgrimage but this
time to visit the other side of the family. That summer seemed as
good a time as any, since I wasn’t sure how much time we had
since daddy was already 85. As we got in the Mini-Van, Daddy took
his spot in the front seat. He was six feet tall with arms as long as
his legs. On long trips poor circulation would result in a Charley
Horse, causing us to have to stop by the side of the road so he
could stretch his legs. We decided if he sat in the front seat he
might be able to enjoy the trip without frequent stops. He was also
challenged by prostate cancer and would often have periods when
he urinated quite frequently, hence the need for a urinal in case he
had the urge before or after a convenient exit. Mom sat behind dad
and across from Alison. When she wasn’t driving she always sat in
the back seat to shelter her face from direct sunlight. Direct sunlight
would cause her skin to discolor. Her doctors told her the skin
condition was hereditary, but so far it had passed over me. I started
out in the back seat with Chandler, the toys, the snacks, the
beverages and the cooler.
I wasn’t surprised dad wanted to visit Jekyll Island. He had heard
about it as a young boy growing up in Georgia. It was a place that
was frequented by the Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Pulitzers, the
Morgans and the McCormicks. These prominent families founded
The Jekyll Island Club as a place for their families to hunt and a
place for some of the richest men in the country to plot their next
moves. Dad referred to these big business magnates as “suckers”
who took what they wanted and created heaven on earth for their
families.
I met daddy’s “suckers” head-on when I interned at Morgan
Guaranty Bank in New York the summer between years at New
York University’s Masters of Business Administration program. I
had this idea that I wanted to be a securities trader. Morgan
Guaranty offered me a chance to intern on their trading floor and
mingle with the best and the brightest. The internship was not all
about how well you knew your trade but how well you could mingle.
We were put in elaborately staged vignettes that were supposed to
mirror real life. I remember sitting with what I thought were my
peers and officers of the bank in a very elaborate dining room. The
table was set for twelve. There was the finest china, the finest silver.
The glasses were Waterford and there were three of them. There
was one for water, one for a second beverage of your choice and if
you dared, one for wine. Our hosts were two Senior Vice
Presidents, who took the seats at the head of the table. We, the
interns were interspersed between other officers of the bank. The
conversation began with one of the heads interrogating an intern.
“Where did you prep? Asked the head.

“I prepped at Choate, class of ’72.”
The head replied, “So did I, class of ’62. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
I began to eat my steak with the proper knife. The conversation
made its way around to me.
“Susan, where did you prep? There was the dreaded question. I
had nothing to be ashamed of. I had attended an excellent high
school. As the piece of steak landed with a thud in my stomach that
I was sure could be heard around the world I replied,
“The United Nations International School.”
“Oh, was your father with the UN?”
“No, my father was with the Postal Service.”
There was silence. I’d obviously flunked small talk. But I did get the
job.
What did surprise me was daddy’s interest in visiting his
birthplace. It was a place daddy left because as he put it, “if I stayed
I would have killed a ‘cracker.’” The daddy I knew was an even-
tempered man who had lived in Georgia, Florida, California,
Pittsburgh, Virginia and finally New York. He was a chauffeur, a
Pullman Porter, a member of the Navy and a postal worker. He
hardly ever talked about his childhood. I used to inquire: “Daddy,
what did your house look like?” “It was a farmhouse.” “What did
your parents do?” “My dad was a farmer and my mom was a
domestic, but the farm house caught on fire.” “Where did you go to
school?” “In town with the Negro kids.” When I pushed a little
harder a new man emerged, one who was bitter about his
treatment as a young colored man in Georgia. “Susan, I don’t like
to talk about it because all I wanted to do was get out. I didn’t want
to stay there. The white man was mean and I knew he would kill me
or I would kill him.” So I learned about my father’s South by
watching the TV and listening to my parents talk about stories in the
newspapers. When a lynching occurred mom would be upset and
Dad would say, “Dorothy, that’s nothing new. You were in
Massachusetts that’s why you don’t know anything about lynching.”
When we watched the accounts of the civil rights movement, Daddy
would comment, “It’s about time Negroes decided enough is
enough. Look at those crackers. They can’t believe Negroes have
finally decided to fight for their freedom. Glad, I’m not there.” He had
closed the door on Georgia. It was a sore subject. He left the pain
of the South to others to heal. It was not his campaign. His
campaign was to make sure his family didn’t have to deal with the
ghosts of his past. So why did he want to deal with those ghosts
now? Maybe he was hoping they were dead.
As we traveled down the highway I tried to remember what I knew of
his family history. His mother, aunt, sister and brother had moved to
New York when he was a young man. My grandmother Tallulah,
purchased a rooming house in Westchester where she lived with
her sister. Tullulah had very light skin, almost white. She could have
passed for white if she wanted to. She had long straight gray hair
that she put in a bun. I remember her wearing glasses, suits, thick
hose and sturdy walking shoes. She had a comforting voice and I
enjoyed sitting in her lap and listening to her stories. I don’t
remember what they were, but her lap was soft and inviting and I
liked to sit there. I remembered daddy talking about being raised on
a farm. “We didn’t have a lot of land, but if my father had lived we
would have been alright. Also didn’t help that we had a fire.” To this
day I don’t know how they got it or what happened after the fire. I do
know my great grandparents were slaves, but I don’t know their
names. Maybe my family was lucky and they received the land as
reparations for slavery. I remembered a picture of Tullulah standing
in front of a horse drawn carriage with the mule and her kids. She
had on a white dress or maybe it was lightly colored, but you would
never know because all the pictures were in black and white.
Looking at her in the picture I felt that sense of warmth I would feel
while sitting in her lap as a little girl. I was six when she died. She
fell and broke her hip and never recovered. The last time I saw her
she was in her bed propped up by a sea of pillows. She looked as
if she was floating in the clouds. She wasn’t in pain. Her face was
relaxed. Circling the bed was her sister, her children, her
grandchildren (all two of us) and her friends. That gray hair was
pulled back in a bun. Mom and I left the next day to visit some of
mom’s family members who were in Puerto Rico on a teacher’s
exchange program. Tullulah died while we were gone. We returned
and immediately went to her house. I went into her room. The bed
was empty. Grownups were very somber and some of them were
crying. I didn’t understand because through my six year old eyes
adults weren’t supposed to cry. None of the day was real. I asked
my father, “Where is grandma?” “He answered, she is in heaven.”
“Where is that?” “In the sky.” “Does it have pillows?” Grandma
was buried in New York. She was the first to die in “the new
country.” Daddy may have closed the book on Pitts because all of
the chapters had been transported to another place, but I only had
glimpses of that book. I knew my mother’s hometown of Brockton. I
knew the smells, I tasted the food and I slept in the beds. I even
took the kids back a time or two. I wanted to see my father’s Pitts,
before he couldn’t be my guide.
We arrived in Pitts, Georgia the second day of our trip. It was hot.
The air conditioner was on full blast but the warmth of the South
seeped through the car making it difficult to maintain a comfortable
temperature for all the passengers. We left the highway in Cordele
and began our ride down a County road and we came to a
crossroads. As we came to the intersection Dad shouted out, “Here
we are!” I don’t know what I expected, but there was nothing there. I
felt like the first time I visited my husband’s family in Maywood,
Missouri. We lived in Chicago at the time. We took the interstate to
Quincy, Illinois, crossed the Mississippi River into Missouri. We
took the County road to Maywood and then the dirt road to the
house. I was born and raised in Queens, New York and had never
seen a County road. I didn’t know dirt roads existed unless they
were taking you to the doorway of an estate. Like Maywood,
Missouri, Pitts had no sign welcoming us to anything or to
anywhere. There was no sign that stated the population. There was
just a crossroads showing that something began and something
ended, depending on whether you were at the beginning or at the
end. “Where are we?” questioned Alison. “Ted, are you sure you
know where we are,” said mom as she rearranged her hat. Luther
just looked at me. I offered to take the wheel. I asked daddy if it
looked anything like it did twenty years prior when he had visited
with his Cousin James. He said the road we were on was new and
that many of the originals homes were gone. “There used to be
homes along this road. Looky here, they are all gone. Isn’t that
something?
I turned left and went down what looked like Main Street. There
were fields on the right. Farmers and farm equipment were busily
preparing them for harvest. On the left was a green space with two
old clapboard buildings. “Stop,” daddy said as he put up his hands.
He got out of the car and stood in the grassy area between the
buildings. “The old school house is still here and so is the church.”
What must have been shiny white clapboard had grayed with age.
Some of the planks were missing, but most were in tact. Alison
jumped out of the car and stood beside grandpa Ted and I still have
that picture. Alison had on shorts and a matching top. Her little feet
were in black sandals with yellow accents. Her hair was in a
ponytail and her smile was missing a few teeth. Daddy stood next
to her. He had maintained a healthy physique. He had on a pair of
shorts with a clashing shirt, an undershirt, a straw hat, black socks
that came up to his knees and a pair of size thirteen sandals.
Alison was just short of his waist and his long arms made it
possible for his massive hand to touch the edge of her shoulder.
Her smile was big and so was his. I snapped that shot while the
rest of the family waited in the air-conditioned car.
We continued down the road for what must have been just a
second and saw the remnants of Pitts’ Main Street that was long
abandoned. A few storefronts remained. Across from the shops of
Main Street were the old train tracks. There was no remnant of a
train station, just the tracks with a sign indicating to use caution
while crossing the tracks. We sat at the tracks for fifteen minutes
while daddy told us where the train came from and where it went.
“This train went up North. We never went, didn’t have the money
and didn’t have anyone to visit.” He knew every piece of railroad
track in the United States. He knew the “suckers” who owned the
trains, where they went and what they carried. “You could get out of
here if you could get a job as a Pullman Porter. I did that for a while.
Also took the train when I was in the Navy. Went to Virginia and then
to California, and when the war was over went to Pittsburgh to visit
family and finally to New York. Don’t understand why the trains don’
t run like that anymore. We need to take the kids on a train ride. You
get to spread out and relax and enjoy.” Mom piped up, “Ted, nobody
takes the trains anymore.” “But Dorothy, that was the way to travel.
Pullman Porters made a good honest living. Great way to see the
country and get away from home.” He loved trains. He went on,
“There was the Zephyr, the South Breeze, the South Wind,
the……….. He was sitting in the car but began to reel around in all
directions like a top spinning out of control telling us the names of
what seemed like every train and where they went I don’t think I
heard a word he said, but remember how excited he was to find
something left that he remembered.
I continued down the road to what seemed like the end of Pitts. I
knew it ended because as far as I could see, there was nothing.
There were just fields on either side of the road being blown by an
occasional breeze that cut through the Southern heat. Progress had
passed Pitts. There were no hotels, no places to eat, no gas
stations and very few homes. The homes that were there were old
and rickety. White families sat on front porches while children
played in front yards in the blistering sun of that Southern afternoon.
As we turned the corner to pass these homes inquisitive eyes
gazed on us as we made our way back to the road that would take
us back to the Interstate.
Too much time had passed since daddy’s boyhood and there was
nothing to see. All the places were gone. They had been eroded by
time. As we approached the crossroads daddy shouted, “Stop!
Stop!” I slammed on the brakes. We were on the road with the field
on the right and the schoolhouse and church on the left. Daddy
sprung out of the car. With his large hand cupped over his eyes, he
peered into the field where a farmer was cultivating his field. He
craned his head forward and then forward again as if he could
extend his neck way beyond his shoulders. By now the children
were hot, tired, thirsty and hungry. The snacks and beverages were
gone. Mom was sure her skin would be ruined by the Georgia sun
and started to complain about getting back on the highway. I
continued to watch daddy crane and stood in the sun next to him
trying to see what he saw. In the field we passed as we entered
Pitts was the smallest patch of land. If you looked really fast you
would have only seen the crops. Daddy started to take off for this
piece of land. His big feet lumbered through the Georgia sand at
the edge of the field as he made his way forward. With each step
his foot melted into the sand. He would pull his leg up and
deliberately place his other foot down into the sand. He continued
this motion looking like a runner caught in slow motion. At first I just
watched him, then I realized he was walking onto someone’s
property and that very close by was a moving tractor and I wasn’t
sure if daddy could be seen. As I motioned the others to join us, I
lumbered toward daddy. With each step my feet also melted into
the Georgia sand. When I caught up to him I was drenched, but
daddy did not have a bead of sweat on his brow as he continued
toward the oasis. Alison had run ahead to reach us. Pearls of
sweat glistened on her face as she raced to catch up with her
grandfather. Mom walked slowly with her hat shielding her face
from the warm sun. Luther brought up the rear with Chandler in his
arms. I expected the noise of the tractor to stop and for it to be
replaced with the voice of a farmer who surely would reprimand us
for trespassing, but that never happened. The noise continued as
the farmer continued to do his work. I thought how odd he would let
us cross his land. Didn’t he own this property? As we got closer to
the land I could see a tree with a large canopy that sheltered the
land. This place was protected with a section of wrought iron fence
that had weathered the time. The tree provided refuge from the sun
and a cool breeze started to blow. “Is this where grandpa is
buried?” “Yes. It’s still here.” It was the burial spot of my
grandfather. There were headstones with the names of people
daddy had talked about over the years. The headstones were gray
and weathered. Some were upright. Some of the headstones were
pushed over from the wear of the wind. Some were low to the
ground. The most recent headstone marked a 1960’s death. Some
of the oldest dated back to the 1800’s. There was no order or path
because there was no room. I stepped on stones looking for my
grandfather’s name. There was no stone that said Jackson. “We
used to have a marker but it’s gone. I tried to find this place with
Cousin James, but I guess we couldn’t see it.” I found it totally
amazing that God would have saved this place from the plow. The
South daddy described would have turned over this land because
no one would have cared or noticed, but that hadn’t happened.
Someone had saved this place long enough for daddy to share this
moment with his family. I wondered if it would be there if I returned
again or whether this was a mirage and it would be gone.
I stood there for a long time staring at those headstones and at the
ground below. I let the family go ahead back to the car and stayed
under the protection of that tree with daddy to take a breath and say
a prayer that I might return to this oasis some day and find it as
unchanged as daddy had found it that day. I’ve never gathered
more information about this place. I’ve never returned. Nine years
later, I lost my guide and my life became more complicated by
divorce, mom’s Alzheimer’s and the pull of three children. I plan to
get back to Pitts, just can’t do it right now.
Later that afternoon we arrived at Jekyll Island. I chose a moderately
priced hotel on the beach. We had two adjoining rooms that
overlooked the pool. Palm trees dotted the property. Alison and
Chandler squealed with delight at the little lizards randomly running
throughout the property. The mood was lazy. Nothing and nobody
moved too quickly. There were no unnecessary movements by the
staff in order to conserve energy that would be sapped by the heat
of the day. The Ocean was only a short walk from our rooms. It
lapped against the shore. Pelicans patrolled the water’s edge
looking for unsuspecting fish. Further out you might see a dolphin
come to the surface for air. Mist from his blowhole would give away
his position. The sand was hot to bare feet. I enjoyed the children
walking on their tippy toes as they ran to inspect the water’s edge
and plot out what they would do the next morning.
Early the next morning Alison and Chandler took grandpa Ted to sit
on the beach. He had on another pair of shorts, another clashing
top and an undershirt. He continued to wear the long socks up to
his knees and the large sandals. He sat next to me in a beach chair
under an umbrella. The girls circled his chair with their arms
outstretched like dive bombers looking for their target. When they
tired of playing dive-bomber they pulled him out of the chair. They
dragged him to the beach each one of them holding onto the
fingers of those large hands and he tossed them over and over
again into the water’s edge. They tried to coax him into taking off
those long socks and those big shoes, but he remained totally
clothed as the children continued to dance around him as if he
were a totem pole and they were conjuring up souls. I sat in the
beach chair under the umbrella in my swimsuit and prayed that my
father would live long enough for the children to remember him and
then I joined the children’s dance until dad was tired and returned
to his room to join mom who stayed inside sequestered from the
sun.
Daddy loved that trip to Jekyll Island. He loved that trip back to his
birthplace. He would tell his friends: “My kids took me back to my
hometown. Not much left, just a graveyard. Grandkids got to play
where the Morgan’s and the Astor’s kids played. We ate in
restaurants and stayed in hotels without any problems.” His friends
would respond, “Of course you did, Ted, things have changed.”
Dad finally conceded, “I guess they have. Should have made that
trip more often. Wish there was more to see. Glad I made it with my
kids and the girls.”
After a week on Jekyll Island we packed up the candy apple red
Dodge Caravan Mini-Van with eight pieces of luggage, toys,
snacks, one car seat, a urinal, beverages, two purses, two pillows,
a cooler, mom’s favorite straw hat, Luther, Alison, Chandler,
grandma Dot, grandpa Ted, and me. But, we left daddy’s anger for
the South in his hometown of Pitts. Now I didn’t say we left racism
behind, nor did we fill the chasm between the North and the South
but we were able to help daddy come to terms with a difficult part of
his life and help him see it through a different lens. How do I know?
He told me. “Thank you for taking me to Pitts. Glad to see things
can change.” The blessing of living for many years is that you
understand the meaning of “full circle.” Daddy was born in the
South of 1909 and returned to the South of 1978 and returned again
to the South of 1993 but this time he came with his family. The bad
snapshots in his brain were gone. The houses of his youth were
gone. All that was left was a place for souls to rest that provided an
oasis from the warmth of the Georgia sun. The pain of my daddy’s
earlier years was not gone, but it was soothed by the warmth of a
healing salve that taught the pain to subside, and in time it was
replaced with the laughter of his grandchildren.
I had opened a new chapter in my life. I’ve only had enough time for
the introduction but I plan to complete a draft if I’m given enough
time or it I find the time or if I make the time to get it done.

Books will make the heart grow founder