The Reclamation of Ollie Bell Garraway

She tugged at her floppy hat and straightened her kerchief in the noonday sun. Her gaze, pale and piercing, danced across the land like one of her Cherokee forefathers around the tribal fire. Beads of sweat soaked her cotton shirt and the south Texas heat finally drove her to the shade of a tallow berry tree. I watched her and silently wondered how much more my grandmother's 65 year-old heart could handle.

As I recall it rained a lot that summer of '70, but we still worked in spite of the weather. My grandmother, and I, and Marveen (a young man who lived down the way), and anyone who could swing an axe or build a fence were called into service and we all heeded the call and did our best. The land we cleared was only a few acres of sticks and stones and underbrush to the casual observer, but to Ollie Bell it represented something much greater. That land, a motley collection of mostly flat fields of berries and bees and the occasional tree was reclamation, as if all the loose ends of her life had converged at that place between two blacktop roads in Evergreen, Texas. It was home, and she had been looking for it all her life in one place or another.

Tragedy touched her when she was a very young girl. Her mother, her younger sister and she were standing in the doorway of their old farmhouse when the lightning struck out of a dark Oklahoma sky. Her mother and younger sister were killed instantly. My grandmother, only 8 years old at the time, was spared. Her dad was devastated by the loss of his wife and daughter, and moved the remaining family members to the city. Ollie Bell never got over being uprooted and went through the next 50 years or so mourning her loss, and assuming she would never get to live on a farm again. She missed farm life and she spoke of it often.

When she was a young woman she married and had a son (my father), but lost her husband in an oil field accident. She married twice more and had a son from each marriage.

Ollie Bell and I had many sweet memories. She always told everyone (when I started dating, even my girlfriends had to hear the story) about how she was at the hospital and heard my first cry. She was really proud of that. When I was a very young boy I would sleep in her bed at night and she would teach me how to count in some pseudo Indian language: one-a-zaw, two-a-zaw, zig-zaw-zan, zela bowl, cracker bowl, cottontail, pee-a -wee, a-tan. I never understood it but I still remember it and it makes me smile.

I played baseball and she always came to every game, no matter what. We became huge fans of the Houston Astros and she sacrificed a lot to make sure we made it out to the Astrodome at least a couple of times a year to see Rusty Staub, John Bateman, and Jimmy Wynn play. The Astros didn't win much back then, but that really didn't matter. Seeing the Astrodome was victory enough for us, and it was a good thing.

Throughout all the Indian talk and baseball games she often had that far away look that people get when they're thinking of home. Ollie Bell always had a garden at the houses she lived in, maybe just to remind herself that she was still in touch with the land, and that she could be a farmer if she ever had the chance.

One day her chance came along when an older gentleman named Luther Garraway started courting her. He was a widower and was reasonably well off, with a nice home and a little rental property. His pleasant demeanor and kind face contrasted with my grandmother's strong opinions, stern looks, high cheekbones, and quick temper. She was driven, and he seemed happy to be along for the ride. They were great companions and good for each other.

Along with calming Ollie Bell's restless spirit (I realized much later, after her death, that her unsettled way was a symptom of her deep seated fear of dying before she could get back to her roots), Mr. Garraway taught her a great deal about tolerance. Much to the chagrin of his mostly white neighborhood, he rented his house next door to a black family. They were wonderful folks, and although it wasn't terribly fashionable at the time to do so, he saw them simply as people equal to himself-not black or white. My grandmother initially had a hard time with that idea, but his influence caused her to love her neighbors and even defend them if necessary. It was a giant step for an older woman raised in a pre-civil rights world to change her views, but she did so and eventually became one of the fairest people I have ever known.

When Mr. Garraway passed away my Grandmother decided the time was right to sell everything and move to Evergreen, Texas and build a house and a farm with chickens and, of course, a garden.

We spent the summer of 1970 cutting and burning and bulldozing away everything that didn't look like her dream and she built a modest two-bedroom house and a chicken coop. She planted the biggest garden she'd ever had and we ate fresh tomatoes and black-eyed peas from the garden when I would visit on weekends. Thanksgiving dinner at her farm became a tradition, and the Thanksgivings since she passed away have been missing her touch somehow.

The years she spent at her farm were the happiest years of her life. She lost a lot of the edge that had characterized her first 60 years, and, while she certainly wasn't bashful about giving her opinions, there was a kindness and ease about her that I had not seen before. She stayed healthy and vibrant and mentally sharp until her final days. In 1987, she left her farm for the last time. She was 82.

Recently, I decided to take my two sons to visit my grandmother's farm. Although she has been gone for almost 14 years this was the first time I had been able to muster enough courage to even look at the place or go near it. Tiny drops of rain spattered the windshield as we drove, and the roads, once familiar and well worn, made me feel nostalgic. It felt bittersweet to describe to my boys how the land had changed, and what it had looked like when we first started working on it, and where the garden used to be.

The car got strangely quiet as we turned onto the road that led to her house. Years ago, when the trees were smaller, I could see her farm from the moment I made that turn, her familiar figure standing on the front porch waiting impatiently for me to show up. We never had enough time to spend together, and as far she was concerned, I was always late. She would grumble a little at first about the time, and how long dinner or breakfast had been waiting, but she kept the coffee hot and meals never tasted better. Within minutes of my arrival, she would forget all about my tardiness and we would spend the remainder of our time catching up on family matters and world events.

My sons and I sat in front of her house for the longest time like it was some kind of shrine. I don't know who lives there now, but they can't love the place any more than my grandmother did. My youngest took a picture before we drove away. It hangs in my office as a constant reminder of how fragile life is and that some people really do get a second chance.

Before we left Ollie Bell's farm the rain started falling a little harder. The lightning cracked across the Evergreen sky, and in the light I saw her standing in the doorway unafraid.

by Dennis Welch