Prequel to The Help

I remember seeing a 1950s vintage photograph of a “South of Broad-esque” home, Christmas Eve. This Kodak moment showed a gathering of women in cocktail dresses smoking, laughing, exchanging gifts. The spent wrappings on the parlor floor were ankle-deep. Men were dressed as if they’d come from a church service, fresh out of the candlelight and cold. Everyone was smiling, laughing, and clinking drinks. A happy, Caucasian affair. In the shadows of this warm and cozy photo, the dark faces of The Help sat outside the room: present, but separated. The women wore maid uniforms, pressed and professional. The men were in white wait coats as you might expect to see at the old Colony House. Were they invited to the party, peripherally? Or were they there working? I remember thinking that even at Christmas, there was no common denominator.

There have been several letters to the editor in the Charleston newspaper discussing the book and movie, “The Help;” people relating real-life Charleston stories of affection—even familial feelings—for the black folk who raised them. Rectifying these two “pictures” has been difficult for me.

I am fortunate, though, to have been introduced to Janie Mitchell, Reliable Cook. This book is the equivalent of a prequel to “The Help” because it deals directly with the euphemistic term’s origins: slavery. Janie's career as a reliable cook began with the Rutledges on Calhoun Street where she was a slave. In her journal, which  references events back to March 1862, Janie wrote that the Rutledges called her "their daily gift." Janie said she was "perfectly happy," and continued to live and work there until the family died out. 

Janie's resume includes employment with several of Charleston's most prominent families, ending with the Julius Jahnz home at 34 Smith St. Janie describes an intimate attachment to all her employers and their families. She indicates that the feeling was mutual. She was part of each household, worshipping with some, handing up grandbabies to be christened, being cared for when times were tough and finally, living with the Jahnzes at the end of her life even when she could no longer work.

Janie wrote about the Jahnzes in her journal: “I am well care for in the family when Santa Claus comes he calls for the old cook and he Showers bountiful to me I have every thing heart desire My Madame’s like a mother to me when I did not have a friend She sheltered me her and hers Better half.  I love them all.” While we don’t have a photograph per se of the Christmases Janie mentioned, it is possible to imagine the scene. It is a pleasant image to me.

Did Janie know whose roof she lived under? Absolutely. Did that affect the way she presented the white people she worked for? More than likely. But Janie was a sought-after employee—dependable, competent, trustworthy, a pleasant person and a heck of a good cook. And she was valued as such. Was there probably a separation similar to the one in the 1950s photo in her interactions with whites? Yes. Unfortunately, yes. Those were the mores of the time. But Janie worked the system, and the system worked for her. What may have begun as a business relationship in each instance became a personal relationship, a mutual friendship built on reciprocal respect. If you want to get a fresh perspective on what real Charleston Help was like, at the beginning, read Janie Mitchell, Reliable Cook. It’s an historical “snapshot” well worth taking a look at.

Coffee spoons

Mr. Prufrock (from T.S. Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock") and I have much in common. He and I have measured out our lives with coffee spoons, with trivial matters.

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is my second favorite poem, right behind Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening." J. Alfred's love song has always been maddening to me because he is an educated person who does far too much ruminating and far too little doing. His time is slipping away. He is fully aware of this fact. And yet, he fails to act, choosing instead to lament the heavy burden of his great intellect.

Frost's poem, on the other hand, is quite the opposite.

The protagonist in this poem is just a regular guy, with obligations. He's tired, and he yearns to rest. And those woods! They're so quiet. They beckon. But he pushes on. He has promises to keep. And miles to go before he sleeps.

In our home we have artwork representing both poems. The one depicting Frost's poem is titled, by me, "Miles To Go." This simple woodcut is of a dense northwestern winter forest, dark and deep. There appears to be almost no way in, and once there, certainly no way out. Staring into the trees you can almost hear the silence. The words of the poem are scrawled around the edge of the lithograph in different colored pencils. The printing of the adult artist's inner child.

The art depicting T. S. Eliot's poem hangs near the coffee pot. It, too, is titled something different by the artist, but I call it "Coffee Spoons." The linocut shows two rows of coffee mugs, endless coffee mugs, lined up in an infinite row of all the coffee ever drunk in one life. The cups cast shadows in front of them, as if the day is almost over, not just beginning. These are long shadows. Meloncholy shadows. Castings that warn of time that is slipping away, while I sip.

I look at it every morning when I get a cup of coffee. It might sound like the kind of first vision that would send a body right back to bed. But every morning, I see the silver spoons that sit in almost every black and white mug in that picture. Stirrings.

Both poems are reminders to me that life is but a blink. Like J. Alfred, my hair is thinning. I allow reasons to rationalize my failure to act. I am content with the mundane measurements of life. And like the anonymous promise-keeping gentleman who would rather stop and just rest in those dark, quiet, hidden woods where no one would ever even know I had gone, I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. Both poems are filled with warnings...and with possibility, if I choose to act before my time runs out.

So I offer just two questions as we skate toward Advent. One: what promises do you have to keep, with the rest of your days here on the big blue ball? In your own way, how do you hope to impact this world before you leave it? Your answers don't have to be grandiose. They can be as simple and beautiful as a pay-it-forward attitude like being kind to fellow motorists in traffic. And Two: what silver spoons keep you moving forward toward those promises? What twinkly object keeps your eyes on the prize, and reminds you that it is worth the effort?

I am very interested in your answers. I hope you will share your dreams and goals with me, as well as those things that keep you stuck where you are. I have 10 followers and I am asking each of you, and anyone else who might check in periodically, to leave a comment either here or on my facebook page (Lisa Miles Foster).

Life can be so frightening. Inertia seems to be the option I choose most often. I'd just rather sleep until it's all over, pull the covers over my head and give in to the pull of the woods. But I was not created to be a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas, and neither were you. Do you dare disturb the universe?

Better question: do you dare not to?