My Grandmother Was a Poor, Black Woman

Mary Gertrude Hagen met Thomas Eslie Hampton in Ronceverte, West Virginia. Thomas, more commonly known as "Jack" edited and published the Ronceverte Times there. He was 20 years old. Mary worked for him. She operated the linotype machine. They were married in the late summer of 1912. They had seven children, the last born of which, was my mother.

Jack and Mary were quite a pair. Mary, beautiful and Jack, handsome; both very intelligent, always stimulating their children with stories and tales. Jack, always suggesting books for them to read and Mary (who was Irish) always telling fairy stories.

"The story" was everything to Jack; the meat, the details, the whispers. He loved his work. He left for work everyday in a crisp white shirt, black trousers and a newspaper under his arm. A man who knew his business. Rumor has it that he stopped a lynching one time. People loved him and he loved them back. For Jack, there were no racial boundaries. He despised it when anyone was disrespectful to black people. He began to be known as the person you could go to for help. Jack Hampton was your man. There are hundreds of great stories about him and Mary. But the best story to me was what happened after their death.

My mother, Jeannie, was Jack and Mary's youngest. When Jeannie was 6 months old, Mary died of cancer. This left Jack alone with his work and seven children. Jack knew a young black woman who was in need and he offered her work, to help raise his children. For seven years, Zeltha stayed on. She cleaned the house, she raised and loved the children and she taught them how to love without color-blindness. She told them stories and taught them how to work. Zeltha was the only mother that Jeannie ever knew.

When Jeannie was seven years old, her father, Jack died too... also from cancer. The children all worked to stay together during this time and Zeltha never left them. (Keep in mind that Zeltha was married and had a family of her own. She would spend all day with Jack and Mary's children and then go home to care for her own. This was an AMAZING woman).

Jeannie learned so much from Zeltha. How strange would it be for a baby to have never known her own mother and barely, her own father. But Zeltha kept her intact. She gave her security, hope and love. Jeannie grew to be, herself, an amazing woman who carried what she had been taught and passed it down to her own children. After a time, Zeltha went to be with the Lord and by then, the family was grown and self-sufficient.

Jeannie died 16 years ago. I'm her daughter. I only met Zeltha one time in my life when the family gave her a thank-you party for her love in their lives. She was an old, small, thin, black woman with eyes I will never forget. She took my face in her hands and said, "My Jeannie," (thinking I was my mother).

What I would give to be able to sit with her today and hear all the stories of Jack and Mary and Jeannie. How I would love to hear her speak about racism and integrity and honor. I pray that this woman somehow lives inside a part of me today and makes me respectful and kind and accepting of others, my grandmother.