July, 1920

In 1920, in July of that year, if you had stood in my grandfather’s rice fields in South Louisiana and chanced to gaze overhead at the blue summer skies, they would have been clear of contrails. This was only the dawning of the aviation age. Jet travel was another generation, and a world war, into the future. The Spanish flu pandemic was only a year past. In downtown Crowley the livery stables did a strong business renting horses and buggies. Elderly Confederate soldiers were still a part of everyday family life, and former slaves still walked about and indeed worked in the homes of that small city. This was the world Marjorie Jo Yeomans was born into, the eldest of three daughters, the youngest of whom was my mother.

When someone lives more than a hundred years, it nonetheless can come as a shock, as it did for me, to receive the call of her passing. Aunt Jo was the memory keeper for our family, the one who knew the scallywags in our closet and their stories. Her historical memory among family members was legend. Her own past as a member of the editorial staff of The Papers of Andrew Johnson; as a wife, mother, and grandmother; a teacher of history; a lifelong member of both the UDC and DAR as well as a committed believer in the social gospel — all prepared her for a life that served as an active witness to a century she both bridged and transcended. (She earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in history and was proud of the fact that she was the first woman at her undergraduate college to receive history honors.)

My aunt taught me several important life lessons. Not object lessons but ones taught by example, with humor and a keen intelligence. The most important is that life is not black or white; it is instead shaded in gray. Which means that those we love or admire, past or present, have feet of clay. To expect otherwise is a delusion and a snare. Accepting that truth brings peace.

I began this remembrance hoping to share more of my aunt’s life history: she was a woman both ordinary and remarkable. Yet that is not what matters here; you really do not need to know those details. What matters is that you make the effort to know and care for the people in your life, to discover the shared threads of family and culture, to appreciate the fullness of the story you are a part of each day. Not to be surprised by the fault lines in a life, but to embrace the full artistry of that imperfect creation.

Having said that, I will leave you with this one memory: In the spring of 2010, I drove Aunt Jo to a veteran’s center in a last effort by her to get my uncle quality care at an affordable rate. After being told the facility was full, we sat with the director in a neat and sterile office and tried to find out what if anything we could do. My aunt laid out before the director my uncle’s discharge records from the bomber crew he served on while stationed in England during World War II. Page after page carefully preserved a view of his life from that world now vanished. When finally it became clear that there was no help to be had for my uncle, we stood to leave. My aunt turned to the director one last time and said, “But he is such a good man.”

July, 2020

When Marjorie Jo Yeomans turned 100 this past July under blue Tennessee skies, contrails were once again absent and another pandemic was once again loose on the land. A small group of family, restricted in number and contact, joined her in celebrating her birthday. My aunt lived another six months, until this past Monday, when she died in her sleep. As I reflect on her life, I think back to her words about her husband, and I can also say with confidence that she, my mother’s sister, was a good woman. And she was loved. That is more than enough.

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