The Kindness of Strangers

Copyright © 2009 by Jeanne Crawford

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-3899-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-3898-0 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 6/18/2009

Cover photo of Jeanne as an adult was taken by Robert Crawford

To Karen

I kept my promise

Living is the exact.

The exact morphed by time

creates memories.

Memories

can create pain and anguish

or

provide hope and healing.

It’s a choice.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Jayne Woods for inspiring me to take on the project.

To John, who saw my strength.

To Wendell Stangeland for teaching me HOW to forgive.

To Lisa Jizrawi for sharing with me the healing power of my childhood photos.

To Leslie Harper for teaching me just how resilient the human spirit can be.

To James and Glenna Mori for their support and for introducing me to iUniverse Publishing.

To Anna Dunn and Vivian McCarthy for reading it closely, and for their encouragement.

To Bryan Gardner, Joan Henderson and Judy Molloy for their editing patience and expertise. I am indebted.

To my husband, Robert, for his countless hours of gentle encouragement and support, and hugs which kept me focused and motivated.

And to the many kind strangers who made it possible for me to go beyond survival.

Contents

CHAPTER I

THE CORNHUSK DOLL

CHAPTER II

THE CARE AND FEEDING OF CHILDREN

CHAPTER III

RUN CHICKEN RUN

CHAPTER IV

909 MILAM

CHAPTER V

BAMBI

CHAPTER VI

MELTED CRAYONS

CHAPTER VII

PINK CHENILLE

CHAPTER VIII

CRUCIFIX

CHAPTER IX

THANKFUL VS. THANKSGIVING

CHAPTER X

West Sacramento

CHAPTER XI

YOLO COUNTY COURTHOUSE

CHAPTER XII

WHEN CHICKENS FLY

CHAPTER XIII

A TRUE PARENT

CHAPTER XIV

J Street Stranglehold

CHAPTER XV

909 MILAM REVISITED

CHAPTER XVI

THE LUCK OF THE DRAW

CHAPTER XVII

TEXAS DOUBLE CROSS

CHAPTER XVIII

A BLESSING IN DISQUISE

CHAPTER XIX

PEACHES ON THE WALL

CHAPTER XX

LOVED ONES LOST

CHAPTER XXI

STRONG AND TALL

CHAPTER XXII

A Single White Rose

SURVIVE, HEAL AND THRIVE

Prologue

In today’s world children are taught not to trust strangers, and with good reason. In my life, strangers have played a positive role. Strangers have saved me and given me courage and support. This is not to say we should change our teachings, perhaps just our approach.

The purpose of this book is twofold.

This is not an expose′. It is a simple statement of appreciation for those who helped me believe in myself and hold my head up. Some of these people have become family. Most I would not recognize their names, and in a few cases, names were never exchanged. All were instrumental in the development of ME.

My first goal is to let children, who are unfortunate enough to be born into the wrong circumstances, know there are people who care and can help them. They just need to be careful in their choices.

My second quest is to let those who care know they do make a difference.

Webster describes a parent as one that begets or brings forth offspring; a father as a man who has begotten a child; a mother as a female parent; a stranger as a person not before known, heard or seen, and a friend as someone attached to another by affection or esteem. It is ironic the only one described as emotionally involved with you is a friend. It is not a prerequisite for parenting.

My favorite definition of a friend is: A friend is someone who hears the song in your heart and sings it when memory fails.

A parent can be that kind of friend. A stranger can become that kind of friend.

If those who society believes should be nurturing and loving to us are not, then we must be able to design our own family structure. We need love and support to develop properly.

I will be forever grateful for THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS.

CHAPTER I

THE CORNHUSK DOLL

She stood in the kitchen unnoticed, her baby doll tucked under her left arm, its legs dangling. They were screaming again. It was different this time only in that her mother was naked.

Years later when she would watch old black and white movies showing the rows of houses attached to each other with the sidewalks and grass running between them, she would come back to this scene. The movies always show these as Hollywood houses. It must be the case because this one was in Los Angeles.

The kitchen was typical of the late forties and early fifties. The cupboards were white-painted wood with linoleum on the floor and countertops. The windows were high, wood-sashed with starched, brilliant white-ruffled curtains. The room was painted a light, but cheerful yellow. The back door was wooden with a glass window across the top and one of those big brass spring locks kids couldn’t reach.

That night the kitchen didn’t seem cheerful. The bright light against the yellow paint gave a strange eerie glare to the surroundings. Her parents were only a few feet away, but she somehow felt very alone. She was unaware of the words, only the anger and the noise. She knew the scenario. The noise would go on for hours and then just end. Only this time it was different.

Her mother suddenly turned away from her father, ran to the back door and fumbled with the lock.

Anne, where do you think you’re going?

Anywhere to get away from you.

You idiot, you don’t have any clothes on. It was too late. She had already disappeared into the darkness.

The bewildered husband stood at the door for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, quietly shut the door and walked into the other room. He didn’t seem to notice their little redheaded daughter standing in the middle of the kitchen clutching her doll.

Jeanne stood very still. It was different. She waited, but she wasn’t quite sure for what. The room was so silent. She missed the familiarity of the shouting. Nothing was happening. Well, something was happening. Her heart was pounding and she could feel herself breathing. And her feet were touching the linoleum. And her left side and arm were aware of her doll. She stood as if she were a statue for what seemed like a very, very long time.

Her mother returned. She was at the back door. She was banging her fists on the glass.

She was yelling. Chuck, let me in. You open this door. You open this door right now! She continued to beat on the glass. She knew the door was locked. It locked automatically unless you pushed the little magic button. Jeanne stood frozen.

Her father came into the room. He was headed for the door when the glass gave way. Jeanne watched as her mother’s hand and forearm come through the glass.

There were sirens and lights. Someone brought Anne a coat and draped it around her shoulders. Anne was given medical attention. Both Anne and Chuck were questioned. Neighbors stood in their nightclothes on the lawn. Jeanne stood on the small concrete porch with her back to the blood-streaked door. She stood very still, just her and her baby doll.

Look at that poor little thing.

She saw it all. She looks like she’s in shock.

These people aren’t fit to be parents. This goes on all the time—day and night.

One elderly woman came out of the crowd. She walked to the edge of the porch and extended her hand to the little girl. Jeanne shifted her doll to the other side and obediently reached out her hand to the lady. She walked down the steps and stepped off the sidewalk onto the grass. The lady asked her if she was cold. For some reason, Jeanne wasn’t sure so she just smiled at the lady. She thought how nice the lady was. She wondered if she was a grandma. She seemed like she’d be somebody’s grandma.

The lady touched the little girl’s red ringlets and patted her on the shoulder. You poor dear.

Why was everyone so concerned? Jeanne wasn’t bleeding. Her mother was the one who was hurt.

At breakfast Anne’s hand and wrist were bandaged. Chuck fixed bacon and eggs, over-easy, and toast. The kitchen was bright and sunny and so was the conversation. Everything was fine.

—♦—

Hello, your name is Jeanne, isn’t it? Jeanne was playing on the back lawn, having a tea party with her little tin cups and saucers and matching teapot. Her doll was the only guest until she heard the pleasant greeting from the voice of last night.

Yes, she answered.

Are you and your doll having a nice time today?

Yes.

You have very pretty red hair.

Thank you.

Anne heard voices and came to the back door.

Jeanne’s mother was an impressive woman. She was tall and slender with thick red hair. Her skin was fair and her eyes were steel blue. She was wearing a colorful cotton print dress and a starched white pinafore-style apron. The only flaw was her bandaged arm that she kept tucked behind her. She didn’t want their visitor to notice.

The window was still broken, but Chuck had washed the blood off the door. He didn’t want her to be embarrassed in front of the neighbors. He would have the glass replaced later that afternoon. Anne appreciated his thoughtfulness.

I made something for your little girl.

How sweet of you? What is it?

A cornhusk doll. My mother made them for me when I was a youngster.

She knelt down on the grass on one knee and gently placed the doll in Jeanne’s hand.

The lady’s face was soft and there were lines around her eyes and mouth. Her hands were wrinkled. Her voice was tender and her eyes were gentle. She was beautiful.

The cornhusk doll had been freshly made that morning. The corn silk was cool and slightly moist in Jeanne’s hand.

The lady stroked the little girl’s hair and touched her shoulder. You are a very precious little girl.

What do you say to the lady, Jeanne?

Thank you.

—♦—

Forty years later, Jeanne stands in her kitchen cleaning ears of corn. The cool moistness of the corn silk brings back the memory of that dear, sweet lady who took the time to let a little girl know she was a precious commodity on this earth. She was a stranger who cared enough to reach out a gentle hand. She made a difference.

What do you say to the lady, Jeanne?

Thank you.

CHAPTER II

THE CARE AND FEEDING OF CHILDREN

Anne, Jeanne’s mother, was the fourth daughter born to Ross and Mary Luttrell. Subsequently two sons arrived, but Anne Ross was her father’s namesake and she worshipped him.

Her sisters remembered Anne as the terror. She would do mischievous deeds and then convince her father one of her siblings was the culprit, thus avoiding punishment. At times she would be mean for no reason and she could scream like nobody’s business.

When Anne was 14, her father, a traveling salesman, was killed in an auto accident.

He had sold a jukebox to a restaurant owner a few months earlier. Since his customer had not received his jukebox, he assumed Ross had stolen his money. When Ross walked into his diner to inquire about the man’s satisfaction with his purchase, the proprietor reached under the counter and came up with a bottle of catsup—in 1932 catsup came in glass bottles. He struck Ross over the head with the catsup bottle. Ross was traveling with his brother, Ben. Ben rushed him across the street to the doctor’s office and got him patched up. Shortly after the visit to the doctor, the two men proceeded on to the next town with Ross at the wheel of his Woody station wagon.

At the edge of town they started down a steep hill. The authorities surmised Ross lost consciousness and drove off the road down a steep grade, rolling over several times. The vehicle was demolished; the bodies didn’t fare any better.

The day before the accident Ross bid on an unopened trunk at an auction and bought the item.

The police identified Ben’s body as that of an unidentified woman because the newly acquired trunk was full of women’s clothing.

Anne’s mother, Mary, was devastated. Her husband was dead and he had been traveling with another woman. She refused to have anything to do with her husband’s body.

It was several days before it was discovered