Chapter 20
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
In the summer of 1910, all New Bedford was buzzing about the upcoming fight between current heavyweight champion Jack Johnson and former heavyweight champion Jim Jeffries. When my father calmly maintained that Johnson was going to win and probably without much trouble, most of the town thought he was crazy. Jeffries had retired as undefeated world heavyweight champion. Johnson was considered an arrogant pretender who had been lucky enough to fight weak opponents. The consensus was that against a splendid specimen of white manhood like Jeffries, a Negro blowhard like Johnson stood no chance.
Father was completely undisturbed by our neighbors' attitude. He continued to maintain that Johnson would win decisively. When pressed to give his reasons, he was happy to do so. Unlike anyone else in New Bedford, he had actually seen both Jeffries and Johnson fight.
In 1903 in San Francisco, he had witnessed Jim Corbett almost take Jeffries' heavyweight title in twenty-five rounds in a dazzling exhibition of speed and skill compensating for lost years and strength. Six years later, he had been a spectator at an exhibition bout in Vancouver between Johnson and the same Victor McLaglen who later became an Oscar-winning actor. Johnson had won on points, although it was clear to anyone there that if Johnson had wanted to do more than simply demonstrate his skill, McLaglen would have been lucky to make it to the end of the first round.
Even in 1903, Jeffries didn't have Johnson's speed and technique and probably not his raw power. Father saw no possible way that he could prevail seven years later. Most of his neighbors continued to believe differently even when confronted with the eyewitness testimony of a man who had been an avid and knowledgeable boxing fan since John L. Sullivan's time. Such is the power of deeply ingrained prejudice.
Mother didn't mind that father had set himself dead against the opinion of most of the community. She did mind when he took a barbershop bet on Jeffries from a friend who challenged him to put his money where his mouth was. As a good Presbyterian, she didn't believe in gambling on the grounds that it discouraged hard work and thrift through the illusion of easy money.
Father didn't think there was any harm in the occasional friendly bet. Father was usually able to keep the ones he made quiet, but his willingness to put good money on Johnson brought out half the town to bet against him. The news was certain to get out. Father's argument that it isn't gambling if your opponent doesn't have a chance of winning carried no weight with Mother. They argued politely but firmly for a week over whether his prospective winnings were ill-gotten gains or generous gifts which it would be ungracious to refuse.
If Mother had known that my brothers were making their own bets on Jack Johnson with their schoolmates, she would have hit the roof. I suppose that it was admirable of them to have such absolute trust in their father in the face of near universal doubt in the schoolyard and more than a few jeers and insults. However, the ruthlessness with which they took every bet they could on what they were unshakably convinced was a sure thing was shameless. When I think of some of the mischief those two got up to when they were kids, I can hardly believe that they grew up to be such upstanding adults.
There were long faces all over New Bedford the day after Johnson inflicted a crushing defeat on Jeffries. Father donated his winnings to the new University Settlement House in Toronto and not just to quiet mother's misgivings about gambling. He felt that a lot of people had helped him over the years to get where he was, so he had an obligation to help others. My brothers spent their winnings on dime novels and penny candy.
Soon afterwards, the whole family was out for a Sunday constitutional when Hank Wilamot approached father and demanded to know how he could bet against his own race. I never forgot his good-natured answer. "I belong to the human race and I didn't bet against that. I bet against fools who saw skin color instead of sense."
From Transcript Ezekiel "Wanderin' Zeke" Bell Interview, June 5, 1973 by James O'Donnell, pgs. 16-17. Published in abridged form in Blues Alive Magazine vol. III, No.3 September,1973. cont.
O'Donnell: This was in 1910?
Bell: Sure was. 'Splains a lot about 'er, don' it. I'd like t' have met her daddy. He musta really been somethin'. Ida aksed if that Hank Wilamot was any relation t' the butcher who kept tryin' to give her the worst cuts a meat when she went shoppin'. Grace 'lowed that the butcher did the same t' her an' that Hank Wilamot was his daddy. Ida woulda liked t' see Hank Wilamot's face when Jeffries got whipped. 'Course she thought it was a shame that the black man that did it had t' be a no 'count sportin' man. She looked right at me when she said it was too bad we ain't all like her oldest boy Josh who goes t' church on Sunday an' looks after his family. Like I didn' send Martha money for our Daisy an visit ev'ry chance I got. I told Ida so. Grace aksed about Daisy before Ida could say anythin' else. I showed her the snapshot a my little girl I always carried aroun'. … I don' suppose I blame Ida fer bein' a little edgy. With her youngest boy away at war an' her oldest fightin' the Pullman Company with the Sleepin' Car Brotherhood she had a lot to worry about.
May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan August 16, 1937
I am happy to say that the annual Silverdome Mining Company Fishing Tournament and Royal Dominion Bank Picnic was a splendid success. We had visitors from as far away as Sudbury. Joe Callahan's training camp was very popular with them. There were nearly as many participants in the tournament as there were the last time it was held.
Honey could not have been more relieved. If Max's plan to erase Bas Lake's reputation as a plague spot hadn't worked, the annual tournament and picnic would likely have ended for good and he would have taken the blame. Fortunately, New Bedford's merchants have every reason to be happy with the business they did this year.
Grace is happy that the talent contest and raffle brought in over $150 in ticket sales. I wouldn't tell her this, but unless the Spanish Republic's high command manages to elevate its present low standards of generalship, the Friends of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion Rehabilitation Fund will almost certainly need every penny. It's a good thing she did such a fine job of organizing everything. Having one of the three talent contest judges come from Pinebury and another from Northbridge and then publicizing the fact in the Pinebury Bugle and the Northbridge Herald was a brilliant way of attracting attention to the entire affair.
Personally, I think that Maisie should have won the contest instead of coming in second. There is no question of her skill with the piano, even if she did insist on playing that nerve-jangling stride music. However, the boy who won did have an astonishing voice.
Toppy may be exaggerating in calling him a second John McCormack, but not by very much. It's a shame that Honey couldn't have been there to hear him. McCormack is her favorite singer. However, she continues to insist on offering no public support to the Spanish Republic and its defenders. It was still generous of her to make an under-the-table donation to the rehabilitation fund out of sympathy for wounded soldiers.
Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring August 22, 1937
Congratulations on your transfer to the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion. I am glad that you have managed to stay with Harry, Will, and Oscar and that Harry is now a corporal. It comforts me to think of the four of you looking after each other. Tell Oscar that his mother enjoyed the Silverdome Fishing Tournament and Royal Dominion Bank Picnic.
The crowd gave her a warm reception when she said a few words about him to encourage them to buy raffle and talent show tickets. Mother and I were delighted to have her as a guest. She was a little sad though. The tournament reminded her of all the times when Oscar was a little boy and his father took him and his brother fishing. He was so happy when she made the first trout he ever caught into mojakka-a Finnish fish soup that sounds absolutely delicious.
Tell Harry that his Uncle Zeke also made a hit at the picnic playing requests in exchange for donations to the Friends of the Mac-Paps Rehabilitation Fund. I can see why he has been doing so well playing for tips at the Cramps' beer parlor while he's here. I was a little surprised when I first heard about that. I didn't know the beer parlor crowd liked blues. When I mentioned it to Zeke, he just smiled and said that wasn't what he played there.
When I asked him what he did play, he sat down and performed a more-than-creditable version of "When I Take My Sugar to Tea." He sounded a lot like Lonnie Johnson. I still think it's ridiculous that Eddie Lang had to use an alias on those amazing records he and Johnson made together just because he was white and Johnson was black. Zeke explained the change in his style. "A workin' musician hasta play what the audience wants. If he don't, he don' eat. Sometimes, he don' eat anyway."
Ida wasn't happy about Zeke spending time at the beer parlor but was appeased a little when he also got some carpentry and painting work from the Cramps and others. She also took comfort in knowing that he refused to go near Bryant's Nook. That's a roadhouse outside of town with a bad reputation owned by two white Southerners with bad reputations of their own.
Tate Bryant supposedly came here because the cold air slowed his galloping consumption down to a crawl. However, according to Zeke, he and his partner Phil Reeves got on the wrong side of some dangerous people in a wide-open neighborhood across the Pearl River from the Mississippi state capital called the Gold Coast. They had to beat it across the Mason-Dixon line fast if they wanted to stay among the living.
After Sunday dinner, Zeke talked to me about his daughter. She sounds like a beautiful child. He told me that he used to love hopping a freight and traveling as far as he could ride. Now he doesn't want to be too far from his little girl for too long. After the engagements his friend has lined up for him in Chicago starting next week, he hopes to go back to Mississippi and see her again.
… Darling Van, I miss you so much. Every night I sink down beside my bed and pray like a child on my knees for your safe return. I can't believe that after everything you have already been through that God will not keep you in his care and see you safely home.
Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring August 23, 1937
… I wish I could share your faith. I can see how it inspires you to do good to others and makes you a better person. However, I find it very hard to believe that a creator made us and gave us souls that are immortal. For a little while we glimmer like lantern flames in the dark. Then we slowly dim or go out all at once.
I fear that when that happens whatever fuel it is that sustains our light is gone forever. I could be wrong. I hope I am. Eternity may still be too short a time to spend with you. A lifetime is definitely not long enough. I want to believe that I will see you again, if not on this side of the grave then somewhere else.
Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry August 30,1937
… The End of Summer Dance hasn't changed much at all since we were little girls. I can still see Mother gliding across the floor in father's arms back before the accident on the front steps of the post office permanently injured her left leg. Both had eyes for no one but each other.
Your parents weren't too bad at tripping the light fantastic either. Mother sends them her regards. As we made our way to our table, she reminded me that our family hasn't missed one End of Summer Dance since it was started a few years before I was born.
All the lovers were there-Max and Honey, Archie and Toppy, and Ollie and Marjorie. Audrey Collins even came in from Northbridge for an evening with Jim Flett. They made the most of seeing each other in person. With school about to start, both of them will be too busy teaching to do that again for a while.
Pritchard and Rebecca were also there. Pritchard looked very handsome in his best suit. Rebecca was lovely in green. They made an adorable couple. Henry wouldn't even come. He actually volunteered to stay at home and look after his little brother and sister.
I walked over there for a few minutes to try and cheer him up and to play with Violet and Zack. I don't think I lightened his dismal mood much. For him, Rebecca is the only girl in the world and any attention she pays to Pritchard is a catastrophe.
Hub came to the dance but wasn't in a much better mood than his brother. Laura has been sent to a Catholic boarding school for the fall and won't be back in New Bedford until Christmas. Mother had a word with Mr. Bridgeman about his behavior towards that poor girl, but whatever she had to say only put his back up.
… I wish Van and I had been in New Bedford last year when the End of Summer Dance was held. It would have meant so much to be in his arms here where I've seen so many people dance by me with no thought of anything but their love for each other.
I remember the one time I ever came to the End of Summer Dance with a sweetheart. It was the summer of 1920 and Judd Wainwright took me. I wonder where he is today. Of course, Mother didn't think he was good enough for me, but we didn't care. We were head over heels for each other. When Judd kissed me under the lanterns, I thought I knew everything there was to know about love.
It wasn't until Van and I found it in ourselves to forgive each other after our terrible quarrel last year that I truly understood that love isn't something you know all about the moment you fall for someone. It's something you learn about over a lifetime day by day, year by year, mistake by mistake, joy by joy. Maybe you never do learn all there is to know of it. Maybe you die not knowing everything, but what you do know is enough to make a lifetime worth living.
From the Journal of Honey Sutton September 6, 1937
It was good of Grace to agree to teach Henry to drive so that Max would have at least a little time in the day to work on his play. Henry was disappointed that he couldn't sweet talk his aunt into letting him take his lessons in the roadster Van bought her instead of her old Ford. No doubt it would have impressed Rebecca to see him tooling around in such an elegant job, but Grace's soft spot for her nephews is in her heart, not her head. She remembers the damage Hub did to the Ford's bumper and right headlight when Max taught him to drive last fall. If I were her, I wouldn't trust a beauty like her roadster to a beginning driver either.
My new correspondence course in world history looks challenging, although not as challenging as holding my temper at the rudeness and insensitivity of some of Grace's critics. In the beauty shop today, I overheard Mrs. Hartsfield complaining to Mrs. Grady that her friends in Pinebury and Northbridge can't believe how Grace gets away with murder just because her family founded New Bedford and her mother is its leading citizen. Apparently, some of the young people in those towns actually admire her.
Mrs. Grady asked her what else was to be expected of a thoughtless snip with no regard for anyone but herself. I felt tempted to commit murder there and then. I don't agree with everything Grace has done this past year, but she has always acted out of a sincere desire to do the right thing and a deep concern for the welfare of others.
Of course, troubles often come in pairs. Mr. Bridgeman was even worse. This evening Grace and I were walking down the sidewalk between CRNB and the New Bedford Inn. I was looking forward to having her as a supper guest.
Mr. Bridgeman marched up to us and waved a pamphlet under Grace's nose. I recognized it as a copy of the Joint Letter of the Spanish Bishops on the War in Spain. After determining that Grace had read it, Mr. Bridgeman, smugly asked her what she thought of its refutation of her arguments in favor of the Republic. She looked him straight in the eye and coolly replied that, "the Spanish Bishops are either the most shameless liars or the most naïve idiots I've ever run across."
I was shocked that Grace would be so contemptuous of the church hierarchy. I was even more shocked that I couldn't help agreeing with her. The last thing I would call Franco's reign of terror against the Spanish people is "efforts to restore to Spain a regime of peace and justice." When there are two wrongs, it is the duty of good Catholics to condemn both, not to support the wrong that seems most likely to offer the Church power and privilege.
Mr. Bridgeman went red in the face and spluttered. He could barely choke out the words, "How dare you?"
Grace remained perfectly calm and dignified. "Mr. Bridgeman, you apologized to me a month ago for haranguing me in the street, I'm sorry to see that you weren't sincere. I don't think we have anything else to say to each other."
Mr. Bridgeman had the decency to look ashamed but said nothing. Grace turned her back on him and walked away. I followed her.
Hub still feels a vocation from God to the priesthood but is even more troubled than I am about the direction the church is taking. As far as he is concerned, the Pope should be ordering Franco to stop murdering civilians and prisoners of war on pain of excommunication, not giving official diplomatic recognition to his dictatorship.
Next Post-in two weeks: Fascism rising. A conversation about faith. Parents and daughters. Fuentes de Ebro.
