A Voice Beyond Weeping

Afterword

IN THE BEGINNING

They came from everywhere. They were possessed by a fever. They came in wagon trains or in single wagons drawn by oxen. They came on horseback, or afoot. They forsook all and followed the sun–West. They left father and mother and houses and lands and came to a new land which the Lord showed them. They built houses and dwelled therein. They planted gardens and ate the fruit of them. They took wives and begot sons and daughters and took wives for their sons. They gave their daughters to husbands that they might increase there and not diminish. They built cities and towns and sought the peace of the cities. They came with guns and Bibles. Neither drought, nor flood, nor sickness, nor height nor depth nor any other creature could dissuade them. They were the pioneers.

The first to arrive prepared the way for the others. They made straight the way. They made the rough places smooth. They beat a path across the wilderness. They left the depleted land of the Mississippi Delta, the worn out cotton fields of Georgia and Alabama. They left the mountains of Tennessee and the old disappointments of Virginia and the Carolinas. They turned their backs on the old and set their faces toward the new. They set out in spring and arrived in summer. They claimed their land and lived in soddies or boarded tents. They cleared the land and before winter they had built cabins. They faced heat and cold, hunger and isolation, ridicule and unending labor. Women died in childbirth and men grew old before their time. But they endured. These were the pioneers.

A wagon train came to a rickety bridge. The men dismounted to assess its strength. They had been traveling for weary weeks on what passed for a road–ruts cut by the wheels of the wagons that had gone before. As they approached the bridge, they saw a rustic sign that some earlier pioneer had nailed onto one of the supports. They moved closer so they could read the faded letters: They said we couldn’t do it, but we did. The words were murmured, then spoken and repeated until a great exultant shout erupted. What can stop us? Shall tribulation or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword? No! We are conquerors. These were the pioneers.

The land had belonged to the Caddos, Kiowas, Wichitas, Comanches, and Apaches. Now it belonged to those whose names were drawn in the lottery. The person whose name was drawn could claim a parcel of land–either acres for farming or a city lot. The new owner could farm it, build a house on it, or sell it to someone else. The place of their arrival was first called Lathram. Established as a town-site, almost overnight home sites and businesses sprang up. Incorporated in 1906, it was settled a year before President Theodore Roosevelt signed the proclamation declaring Oklahoma a state. But some other town was already called Lathram. The suggestion came that the town be named Carnegie after the great philanthropist. So, Carnegie it was–and is.

The town grew and prospered. The settlers built a city park. By 1912, they had built a hydroelectric power company which furnished electricity to forty-five customers. They added city water, a sewage treatment plant, and the Chamber of Commerce–in that order. They erected a flag pole in the center of town at the intersection of Main and Broadway where the well and watering trough used to be.

In 1922, the Junior class of Carnegie High School ended their history of their town with these words: Reports from agents along the Rock Island show that Carnegie ships more farm produce than any other town on the Mangum branch–hence the slogan adopted by the Chamber of Commerce, ‘The Busiest Town on the Rock Island.’ Carnegie, with a population of fifteen hundred, has all the advantages of a modern city. Lights, power, sewers, water–all are here. The business streets are macadamized and oiled with crude oil. Some of the institutions which mark Carnegie as a more progressive town than its neighbors include four big grain elevators, two cotton gins, three banks, a flouring mill, a broom factory, bottling works, an ice plant, an ice cream factory, an elegantly furnished funeral home, and mercantile establishments second to none in the country. Carnegie is blessed with a live-wire, progressive, forward-looking citizenship.

Carnegie was a boom town—an alabaster city, set, not on a hill, but in the fertile valley of the Washita River.

WASHINGTON D.C.–MAY 1966

Mother sent me a copy of the publication from the United States Printing Office about daddy’s hearing, a part of the Congressional Record. I eagerly opened it to see what was said about him. It was most impressive. The week before, President Lyndon Johnson had called my father into the Oval Office to tell him he was to receive a presidential nomination for an important post. My dad had been legislative assistant to Senator Robert Samuel Kerr of Oklahoma. In those days, Kerr was known as the Uncrowned King of the Senate. My father had worked for him for many years. Dad was often called the third senator from Oklahoma. He had hitched his wagon to Bob Kerr’s star when the senator was governor. He had stayed all through the years Kerr was in the Senate. They had been ardent Democratic warriors together during the Eisenhower administration, when the chances of getting an appropriations bill through Congress had been next to nil. Their aim was to bring water to their state, primarily through the development of the vast Arkansas River basin. When Kerr envisioned the Port of Catoosa, and ocean going barges on the Arkansas River, he was derided and called the Admiral of the Arkansas. Something of that early pioneer claim persevered in his goals for his dream: They said we couldn’t do it, but we did. When Senator Kerr died on New Year’s Day, 1963, something in my father died, also. In their heyday, when Lyndon Johnson was majority leader of the Senate, he and Bob Kerr were power brokers. My father was a part of that team. When Senator Kerr wrote his book about land, wood, and water, daddy autographed my copy:

"Dear Bertie,

The Senator has said some nice things about your dad. Maybe you would like to read them. This book is the story of a team of which I am happy to be the ‘bat boy.’

Dad"

I remember as a graduate student at the University of Maryland, I would sometimes hitch a ride with a friend into the Capitol, spend a couple of hours in the Library of Congress doing research, and then ride home to Alexandria with daddy. If he wasn’t ready, I’d go up to the Senate chamber and watch Lyndon Johnson wheel and deal. It was an education. One day, as I was walking back over to the Senate Office Building from the Congressional Library, I realized that the Majority Leader was going my way. I was struck speechless in his presence.

He looked at me, smiled, and said, We seem to be going the same direction. He must have known how flustered I was.

I swallowed and blurted, I think you know my daddy. He works in Senator Kerr’s office.

Johnson, tall and imposing, gave me his full and considerable attention. Who is your daddy?

Don McBride.

Oh, honey, I’ve known your daddy for years. We have done some mighty good work together. He asked me where and what I was studying and, consummate politician that he was, seemed to be genuinely interested when I told him I was working on a Master’s degree in English literature.

When my father sat opposite him in the oval office, the President asked, Don, whatever happened to your daughter who was working on a Master’s degree at the University of Maryland?

My father was astounded that he remembered that brief encounter. It was a trademark of Johnson’s. My dad answered, She and her husband are Baptist missionaries in South Brazil.

Well, that’s wonderful. We need more people like that in this country.

They chatted like the two old friends they were. Johnson had just announced he would not run for a second full term. My father reported afterwards that the President seemed lonely and eager to talk about the old days and the old conquests. They spoke of Bob Kerr, of course, and of Mike Monroney, at the time senior Senator from Oklahoma. Monroney had taken on some of Kerr’s staff, including my father, but for my dad, it was never the same. Dad’s loyalty had been to Bob Kerr. Now, the President of the United States was offering my father a directorship of the monolithic Tennessee Valley Authority, a nine-year term. Dad was almost sixty-four years old. Such an appointment required a Senate confirmation. He was afraid he might be turned down because of his age. That was not the case.

The Committee on Public Works of the United States Senate convened May 17, 1966, in Room 4200 Senate Office Building, Senator Fred R. Harris of West Virginia presiding. I quickly scanned the information: Senators present: Harris, Randolph, Muskie, Gruening, Moss, Jordan, Inouye, Montoya, Tydings, Cooper, Fong, Boggs, and Pearson. I read on eagerly.

Senator Harris: We have before the committee this morning the nomination of Mr. Don McBride to be a member of the Board of Directors of the Tennessee Valley Authority. Don McBride is well known to most of us on the committee. He served as special assistant to the late Senator Bob Kerr on water resources matters, and was instrumental in drafting much of the legislation relating to rivers and harbors and flood control that emanated from this committee during the period that Senator Kerr served as a Member of the Senate. He played an important role in drafting the Water Supply Act of 1958, which permits both the Corps of Engineers and the Bureau of Reclamation to incorporate the storage in reservoirs for low flow regulation and for municipal and industrial water supply. This law has proven to be of immense value in combating water shortages throughout the country. The President has made a wise selection in placing this nomination before the Senate. Without objection, I would like to place into the record at this point a biographical sketch of Don McBride, which reveals the executive and engineering background possessed by this man which I certainly feel highly qualifies him for this most important post.

Carl Albert, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, sang daddy’s praises. Various senators gave glowing reports of dad’s expertise, his courtesy, and his integrity. After hearing the accolades, Senator Gruening drew laughter from the committee. It’s hard to believe anybody could be that good, he said.

The biographical sketch included dad’s early professional and personal history, as well as the long list of honors which had been heaped upon him during an illustrious career in public service. Although I did not know it at the time, some key personal history had been omitted. Years later, when I had occasion to reflect on our lives, I wondered how he managed to get through the FBI background check–not that he had committed any felonious act. He simply had some secrets that remained hidden–to the public, certainly, but also to his family. It was in an era when J. Edgar Hoover and his agents routinely collected the personal and often the sexual histories of men in order to destroy them.

I was proud of my father and his accomplishments. He ran on nervous energy that was translated into work. As far back as I can remember, he was driven to succeed. When I was a child, I thought daddy just wanted to get out of the house. It seemed to me he was always gone, always doing important things. He worked for the governor. As an adult, I have wondered if he drove himself to atone for his early sins. I imagine he was sweating out the FBI background check. But, this is not my father’s story. This is the story of my three mothers.

MISSISSIPPI–1918

Her sweet face and gentle manner melted the hearts of various neighborhood swains, but when Melford Anderson came to call, May knew he was the one. May was loved by everyone who knew her. If there ever was anyone deserving of love, it was May. She looked at life and smiled, and life smiled back. Good as gold was what people said about May.

She lived in a time of cataclysmic events. The great World War was drawing to its conclusion. The Kaiser would soon be forced to sign the armistice. World leaders were engaged in great debates, but this fifteen-year-old girl from McComb, Mississippi, was not one whit interested in world events. She was interested in Melford Anderson.

Melford was solid. He was built square, and his feet were steadfastly planted in reality. He was a pragmatist with a warm heart. When he laughed, his plain face lighted with merriment. Melford discovered early that he was not afraid of hard work. Salt of the earth was what folks said of him.

Melford took his time about courting. If truth be told, he took his time about most everything he did. Melford was a plodder. He thought things through. Once he had made up his mind, he pretty well stayed convinced. When he knew he loved May, he concocted a plan. He would ask her to marry him. If she said no, he would go out west and be a bachelor for the rest of his life. If she said yes, he’d take her with him and raise a family. He thought it unnecessary to get down on one knee. They sat on her father’s front porch swing in the soft Mississippi summer night.

In Oklahoma things are booming. We could get us some land. Everybody’s building out there. They need carpenters. We could build ourselves a house, too. And we could fill it up with kids. How does that sound to you? He was almost sure what her answer would be. Almost.

May slipped her small hand into his large already calloused one, and in a voice firm with conviction, she gave him the answer he wanted. If you’re going to Oklahoma, Melford Anderson, I’m going with you. She paused for a moment. Well, aren’t you going to kiss me?

Melford obliged, found he liked it, and kissed her again. Then he grinned. Let’s go talk to your daddy.

And so it was that, a few months later, May stood with Melford in her parents’ parlor and promised to love, honor, and obey him. It was a promise he never gave her reason to regret. They were young. They had their entire lives ahead of them. In 1920, people were old at fifty. Life expectancy was not much above that. May beat all the odds. Of course, they had no way of knowing what lay ahead when, that next spring they packed up all they owned. With the energy of youth and great optimism, they headed west to what, a few short years before, had been Indian Territory. Rogers and Hammerstein might well have had May and Melford in mind when they wrote their musical so many years later:

"They couldn’t pick a better time to start in life.

It ain’t too early and it ain’t too late.

Starting as a farmer with a brand new wife,

Soon be living in a brand new state,

Brand new state,

Gonna treat you greeeaaaaat!

OOOOOOOOklahoma where the wind comes sweeping down the plain…"

CARNEGIE–1922

They made a garden. Melford cleared and plowed the acre. Together, he and May planted it and tended it. They prayed for rain. And the rains came. In a few weeks, green fuzz appeared down the straight rows. May and Melford stood at the edge of the garden in the evening arm-in-arm, tired from their day’s work, but proud of what their work was producing. Corn and beans, potatoes and onions, okra and tomatoes, butterbeans and black eyed peas appeared in embryonic form. In spite of her thickening middle, May worked her garden in the mornings before the sun sent her indoors. In turn, she hoed and weeded. From mid-June until the end of July, she picked, washed, cooked, canned, and stored the bounty. The labor involved was unremitting. It was, however, not optional. They lived on what they could produce.

Adjacent to their garden was their house, built with their own hands. Melford was a carpenter. He knew the language of plumb lines, levels, and planes. He followed the rule to measure twice and cut once. His eye was accurate and his judgment sure. The sawdust drifted down from the gash the saw blade cut into the two-by-fours. It fell into a pile beneath the sawhorses. The steady shoom-shoom-shoom was a rhythmic song produced by muscle, sinew, and sweat, and when Melford picked up his plane to smooth the pine boards, curls of a delicate butter hue fell softly to the ground. The house rose on its solid foundation, a testimony to the faith, that without work, is dead.

May was in her mid-teens. Melford was ten years her senior. In her eyes, he was everything a man ought to be–protector, provider, fount of all wisdom, kind companion, and spiritual guide. At twenty-six, Melford was a man who had already accomplished much. He had taken a bride, brought her to this place, acquired land, built their house, found employment, and done his part to ensure that the Anderson name would not be blotted from the book of life. May was not afraid with Melford by her side. He felt deeply the responsibility that comes with being husband and father.

In early September, May awoke to a dull pain in her lower back. At first, she was not particularly alarmed. She was largely ignorant of the birth process, but she had picked up bits and pieces of information along the way. Female friends and neighbors got together to sew or quilt. Whenever there were two or three married women in a group, the discussion inevitably turned to a comparison of labor pains. These discussions took place among women experienced in such things. Single women were excluded by reason of decency. Men were certainly excluded, because nice women didn’t discuss such things with men–not even the men who were the cause of the labor pains.

May had heard that first babies often take their time getting born. As she lay on her side in her bed, her belly huge and distended, her ankles and feet swollen, she tried not to think of the pain. She tried to think good thoughts. She remembered a sermon their pastor had preached about motherhood. He had said that mothers were true heroes. May didn’t feel particularly heroic. In fact, she was aware of a flicker of fear that nagged beneath the good thoughts. She felt very young and far from her mother. The preacher had said that when women give birth, they descend into the valley of the shadow of death. May’s mind veered toward Psalm twenty-three: Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me. The preacher said that mothers pluck the roses from their own cheeks and plant them in the rosy faces of their husbands’ babies. As May recalled, that sermon had made every man in the congregation squirm in discomfort. She felt her first hard contraction.

May had a close call in the valley of the shadow. She very nearly died giving birth to their son. During the hard labor, Melford paced from one end of the house to the other. He would stay by May as long as he could stand it, and then he would have to leave the cramped little