By Ruth Rucker Lemming
1982, Eakin Publishers

Chapter VI

"In some time, his good time, I shall arrive" -- Robert Browning

With Emphasis on Minnie Holton Weeden Rucker Called Mrs. Minnie Rucker, Minnie, or Mama 

            Mama told me later how she had wandered aimlessly about the National Hotel that last night in the spring of 1939.  Never had she felt the personality of the hotel more forcefully.  The next morning she was to turn over the key to the new owner.  Her thirty-five years there were drawing to a close. 

            I had gone down from Tyler the two preceding weekends and had taken back with me all of the personal possessions that I could - the accumulation of a lifetime!  Mama had begged me to destroy most of it; but who was she to advise, she with her numberless boxes of possessions. 

            The furniture for our little house on Rix Street was all packed and ready to be shipped.  In the morning my friend, D. K. Caldwell from Tyler, was to drive her there to live with me.  Mama’s three children and four grandchildren passed through her mind one by one.  Jimmie was planning to stay on in Franklin, secure in her two jobs.  Connie and Frances both had their lives settled to suit them.  Robert and Lizzie were living in Huntsville.  Little Minnie (in her heart Mama still called her that, although everyone else had dropped the diminutive) was happily married and little Robert was in A&M, so his things were going with her to Tyler.  It was decide now - Rain or shine!  Sink or swim!  Survive or perish!  She was leaving the National Hotel and Franklin. 

            I knew Mama so well that I could imagine the things she thought about on that night.  Her mind raced back more than thirty-five years before when she had stood there at the end of the long front porch with her father and her three children; then with her head held high she had marched into the National Hotel. It had been the place of refuge for three families - and an undying influence on many more.  It had educated them and given them a good start in life.  Mama mused:  “Here I am, on the shady side of seventy, saying farewell to the place that has been my home for so long.  Alas!  Things are not what they used to be.  I can see Mr. Silverman sitting there at the domino table; and in retrospect, all the people who have come to the hotel pass in my view.  But my business is not what it used to be; neither am I.  I know the time has come for me to leave it.” 

            As Mama walked around taking a last look at various things in the hotel, she carried on with her monologue.  She had begun to notice that as time went by she had fallen into the habit of talking to herself more and more. 

            “Ruth says our new home is near the church and that there is a grocery store in the neighborhood.  She went there the other day and laid in a nice supply of staples.  She bought $7.00 worth at one time.  (Imagine how much $7.00 would buy in these days of inflation!) Ruth has lots of friends, and I’ll make friends of my own age through the church.  Ruth lives such a busy life.  I must remember that my purpose is to help and not to hinder her.” 

            “I’m glad I had enough money for the down payment, and all Ruth will have to fork over is the $75.00 monthly payments.  I’m doubly glad to have a bathroom and private entrance built on the back of the house.  Then I can come and go as I please.  And I am overjoyed that Mr. Caldwell has promised to take me to apply for old age assistance next week.  Ruth didn’t approve of my getting aid, but he did.  We agree that the government has this money for people who have been good citizens and have paid taxes.  (Remember this was in pre-social security days.)  Yes, I’ll pay my way all right.  I’ll not be a financial burden to Ruth.” 

            “The old National Hotel is no more; the new one will have to adapt itself to the changing times.  These have been good years though difficult and full of struggle and hardship, mixed tears and smiles.  Now, I’ll try a new life in the rose capital of America.” 

            She told me of how she had stood there in the front door irresolutely, fingering the little diamond pin at the neck of her dress.  A thrill rushed through her, a sort of stage fright.  She caressed the pin as if it were a talisman, symbolizing something special to her.  It was not of great monetary value, but it was beautiful and one of the few pieces of really good jewelry that she had ever owned.  As she looked in the mirror, she thought about the pictures of her parents and grandparents which were packed in her suitcase.  She studied her face carefully and could see that it was clearly visible in all their faces; that she was the latest in a long, unbroken chain dating back to who knows where.  But by no means was she the last link; she set her eyes forward and knew that a heritage was still evolving.  The ghosts of the past and of the future haunted her, but she was unconscious of the fact that this was a matriarchal inheritance.  Minnie herself was the highest point, but her influence and that of the National Hotel would go on to generations yet unborn.  The little amulet on her dress glowed with a special luster.  It blinked back at her as if to say, “Come on, Minnie; follow me.  Be it good or bad, our influence will shine on in those yet to come.  You will make it because you are dominant.” 

            Mama often spoke to me about the men in her life; she felt that they had failed her somehow:  her father, Jim, Henry, Robert; only her grandson, little Robert, had successfully broken that pattern.  But she was fundamentally antagonistic to men.  She referred to them as “that fellow”, “person”, “boy”, “guy”, or “the old man.”  Even though she was an admirable woman she often provoked antipathy in the opposite sex.  This quality too has been passed down in one degree or another to all of her daughters, granddaughters, and even great-granddaughters.  They have all had to fight tendencies to be too bossy, not to interfere too much in others’ lives, to love without smothering.  These feelings were mellowed somewhat as life went on.  Perhaps they had been caused by the loss of loved ones too soon in life.  For, in reality, Mama wanted us to have our chance at happiness, she said as much to me.  She coveted happiness for us.  Death, with his companions, pain and grief, came to her early; only time was able to assuage the suffering and enable her to accept the finality of a loved one’s passing.  But she will never forget the waiting in vain for sound of his horses; hooves as he rode on the trail to Kansas; nor Jimmie for his cherry “Hi Tex”, nor Ruth for the ringing of the telephone.  She has somehow passed on this quality of too much invincibility to her progeny. 

            Mama spoke about her liking to sell things.  “I used to get out and walk all over Franklin selling Gossard foundation garments, cosmetics and hats.  They were for sale in my shop in Austin, also.  I do not care for social clubs but like organizations with a purpose, such as the WCTU, the Chamber of Commerce, or the Democratic Party.  I wish we could go downtown and hear W. Lee O’Daniel and the Light Crust Dough Boys.  He is the most dangerous politician we’ve had in Texas since Jim Ferguson.” 

            This aroused my interest in Pappy O’Daniel and I walked all the way to the public square in Tyler to hear him the next day.  The thing that impressed me most was the poor people putting in $1.00, $5.00, and even $10.00 bills into his collection plates. 

            JoAn came to Tyler to spend a few weeks with Mama while I was away in school one summer.  Every Sunday friends came by to take them to Sunday School and church.  JoAn remembers one adventure well.  “Mammy was distressed because I did not have any white shoes to wear, on one Saturday she declared, “Where there’s a will there’s a way!”  She and I walked two blocks, caught a bus and rode downtown and stopped right in front of the Red Goose Shoe Store.  I’ll never forget the pretty white shoes she bought me.  I’ll tell you, Mammy had a great sense of decorum about what a child should wear.”

            I could not keep from chuckling when JoAn told me this.  The part of the story that struck me was Mama’s determination.  I recalled one of Morgan’s favorite sayings:  “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Rucker got up this morning with a bee under her coattail.” 

            Mama and I often talked about her religious beliefs.  I told her:  “You have an essentially religious nature.” 

            She demurred:  “But, I didn’t go to church much during the years I was raising my family and my son’s and daughter’s families.  It took too much time to make a living for them.” 

            “I think the Lord would understand that, Mama.  You grew up in such a strict Baptist family.  The church doors were never open without your whole family being there.  Your tales about being able to do nothing except read the Bible and Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress on Sunday afternoons are priceless.” 

            “I guess you’re right, Ruth.  There’s a statement in the Good Book, ’Bring up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.’  I’m so happy to be able to attend church more and take part in religious activities as I used to in my younger days.” 

            Mama had a very special feeling for those less fortunate than herself.  She often fed tramps that came to her back door.  In fact, during the depression in the National Hotel there were sometimes more people eating in the kitchen than in the dining room.  She swore by all that was good and bad that they left a mark on the house to indicate that it was a good place to stop.  But she could not stand for anyone to go hungry as long as she had any food in her house.  Mama ended the story, “Occasionally, one of the wayfarers would bring in a few arms full of stove wood or mow a little grass just to show that he wasn’t a dead beat.” 

            One of Mama’s favorite pursuits was keeping a scrapbook.  She encouraged us all to keep one too.  Not that I needed any encouragement; my apartment is filled with scrapbooks!  Mama was a great clipper, a trait which all of us - especially her daughter Ruth - have pursued.  An article in a newspaper about someone in her family usually found its way to her Holy Bible.  And the fly leaves were all covered with poems and quotations either pasted in or copied in her own handwriting. 

            To write a book about her life had increasingly become Mama’s desire.  To encourage her, I sent her a leather-covered notebook when I live in Yakima, Washington, and she did write in it frequently.  Many bits of information which she has written have served as the basis for things I have written.  Later on she sent the book to her niece, Vance, and wrote:  “I do hope that you will write the book about your parents and that this will help you.  I will never forget my dear Brother Nat and his wife Ella, for they are my dearest ones.  If I should die before I get this finished, please send it to Ruth; maybe she will write it sometime.”  And it was this statement which has spurred me on to get my book finished. 

            Mama frequently told me stories about her childhood.  She recalled:  “My grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, and her husband was a Frenchman named Prevatt.”  Oh! how I wish I had listened more closely to the things my mother told me about my ancestors. 

            She wrote in her book, “I have forgotten lots hat I would like to recall.  My memory is so short.  Yet I can remember things that happened when I was a child far better than much that has happened recently.  I have forgotten so much that I would like to remember.”  Alas!  That is my theme song, too. 

            Mama would not give up.  She was as solid as a rock.  Her hand closed over her garnet ring, which had been a present from Ruth and was the only other piece of real jewelry she owned.  There it was cupped in her palm.  In the dying sunlight the stone looked like a drop of blood.  It symbolized steadfastness - that throughout her life she should have undying stamina.  That’s the way Sylvia remembers Mammy, as being absolutely independent.  “A woman can just keep on keeping on as if nothing bad had ever happened.  Supper had to be prepared.  The drummers had to eat.  Minnie had to have that dress to wear tonight.  Ruth had to get to that play rehearsal.  It was compulsory that Robert water his flowers.”  So the pulse of daily life beat on and held her to the pattern. 

            Mama could not have functioned if she had not pushed herself to the utmost.  And all her children and grandchildren have the same inner drive which they have inherited from Mammy.  Jimmie persisted against all pressures.  Bob, despite his unlucky star, endeavored to accomplish.  Ruth feels driven to do something worthwhile all the time.  Connie has to have something to be interested in as an outlet for her energies.  Frances has to push herself to the utmost to do what she enjoys.  Minnie seems impelled to press with vigor and effectiveness church, community and personal activities.  Jean is determined to have a full and busy life,  And Robert, well, Robert is the worst of the lot.  He has had the drive to persevere even with the odds of having just one leg. 

            The girls have all had to fight against this inner drive - even down through the generations; but the trait remains - a predominant characteristic!  Mama’s great-granddaughter, Sylvia, receives complaints from her husband that she goes as far as she dares, sometimes forgetting that he is the head of the household.  Her granddaughter, Jean, even though she is very feminine, sometimes is too bossy for her own good.  This quality which permeates all of Mama’s female offspring has its tap root in Mrs. Minnie Rucker.  She had to keep going.  There was literally nothing else to do; and the National Hotel was the vent for her emotions, the means of her escape, her outlet.  But Mrs. Minnie Rucker was the focal point.  She made it to the top of the mountain.  She had endured. 

            In some ways, I wish I could write that our lives went on happily there in Tyler, but everything was changed by the advent of World War II.  Pearl Harbor was bombed and America was soon at war.  I got a leave of absence, when I was accepted to be Service Club Hostess in Camp Phillips, Salina, Kansas.  We sold our house in Tyler, and Mama returned to Franklin to live with Sister. 

            Then I was married and went to live in California and Washington.  Jean was born and a year later I came back to Texas.  Mama had bought the old Hurley house in Franklin and lived there until her death in 1952.   She was always plowing away, even to hand plowing her garden the week of her death.  She was amazing! 

            Somehow Mama was ahead of her time.  Perhaps her disappointments, her hardships, made her think and act beyond her years.  Her successful hotel business was due to a lack in her personal life.  She pursued her goals relentlessly.  Nothing stopped her.  However, I sensed loneliness in Mama.  A loneliness that went deeper than I ever heard her admit.  Mama was a paradox.  In her loneliness, she smiled; in her rigidity, there was a flexibility; in her brusqueness, there was a gentility.  All of which I am able to comprehend more easily as the years go by. 

            Age caught up with Mama.  No longer was she able - physically - to do the things she wanted to do; but her mind and her spirit were indomitable.  They endured, invincible, like the talisman which glowed on her bosom. 

            Mama murmured in a barely audible tone: 

“I’m dreaming tonight of a place,
The National Hotel by name;
In which we lived and worked,
And which we now proclaim.”

            “There! Ruth talks so much about poetry that I find myself talking in poetry half the time!” 

            Yes, Mama could do worse that talk “in poetry”, as she put it.  But if she did, I think that William Ernest Henly expressed her spirit better than she, herself, could have: 

“In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud;
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Out of the night which covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be,
For my unconquerable soul.”

Back to homepage