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| Sharon, Age 3, with Cousin Gloria |
In 1954, at the age of three years old, my mother put me on a plane
in Washington, D.C., and sent me to Connecticut to live with my deaf grandmother, my aunt, uncle, cousin, two Chihuahuas, and a
parakeet. At night, I would cry because I missed my family. As I sobbed,
my grandmother would take me in her arms and hug me, making grunting
noises. I’d fall asleep to her wordless lullaby of love, wondering if
I’d ever see my family again, not knowing that my parents were
divorcing.
A year after being shipped north, I was
reunited with my family. Another year later, we moved out of my aunt’s
basement and into government subsidized housing. Now when we visited my
aunt’s house, I had to share my grandmother with my siblings. On
birthdays and graduations, she created scavenger hunts for us, leaving a
trail of written clues. She must have spent hours planning the hints,
writing them out in her beautiful calligraphy, and placing them
throughout the house.
As I grew older and wrestled with
the demons of poverty and abuse, my desire to break away from my home
life dwarfed my relationship with my grandmother. Opportunity arrived in
the form of a large scholarship to a university in Texas, over a
thousand miles away from my mother. During the first semester of my
freshman year, my grandmother became ill and died at home at the age of
eighty-nine. Claiming that she didn’t want to “disrupt” my studies, my
mother withheld the knowledge until I came home months later. I was
devastated. I never had the chance to say good-bye to the woman who
loved me unconditionally.
As I hit my fifth decade, I
began to reflect on my life and lack of closure regarding her death. I
felt compelled to research my family tree, beginning with my
grandmother. My only clues were embedded in childhood memories of
kitchen table conversations between my mother and aunt. The family
legend, told and re-told, with hand-signed consultations for
verification, was that my grandmother was born hearing and healthy to a
wealthy family.
“Oh yes, her people were landowners,” my aunt said.
“She had pet peacocks,” my mother added, “and a pet pig that came when she clapped her hands.”
“She
came down with spinal meningitis when she was three. If her parents
hadn’t been so rich, she would have died,” my aunt said between puffs on
her cigarette.
“Grandma’s parents sent her off to a
boarding school for ladies,” my mother recalled. “She was too wealthy to
be with the other girls, so she stayed with the teachers.”
As I searched for family records, calling my sister and brother for confirmation, tantalizing tidbits emerged.
“After
she graduated, she went to work in Washington, D.C., addressing
envelopes for a Congressman because she had such beautiful handwriting,”
my sister said.
“Grandma and Grandpa were fixed up on a
blind date. He was a wild young man with a motorcycle, a graduate of
Gallaudet University. He was deaf from scarlet fever.” My brother, the
oldest child, recalled vividly. “They fell in love and married against
her family’s wishes. She was supposed to go back to Kentucky and marry a
cousin, but she wouldn’t leave her gardener.”
Oral
history wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. It helped that I
recalled the name of the town where we’d visited another uncle, aunt,
and cousin on the way to Texas: Stanford, Kentucky. Using an online
genealogy site, I was able to see U.S. Census records dating as far back
as the 1700’s. I rooted around in the 1800’s with no luck. One night, I
received an excited call from my best friend from high school and
genealogy genius. By searching in an online National Society Daughters
of the American Revolution registry, and entering two of my family
names, Engleman and Harris, my friend found my Stanford, Kentucky
ancestors and my family lines tracing back to the Revolutionary War.
Thanks to the DAR, I had the first clues in my very own family scavenger
hunt.
The elusive “ladies’ school for the deaf kept me
awake at night. More weeks, more digging, more walls. After months of
research, I was ready to quit. But I kept feeling as if my grandmother
was standing behind me at the computer, smiling and urging me to find
her. At last, I found the Kentucky School for the Deaf (KSD), in
Danville, Kentucky. It was the first public school for the deaf in the
United States, originally called the Kentucky Asylum for the Tuition of
the Deaf & Dumb when it was built in 1823. I emailed the school,
asking for information on a possible alumna named Bessie Engleman.
In
the meantime, I kept mousing around in the 1900 Census files for
Danville and randomly selected Enumeration District 88 (ED 88). When I
retrieved the image, I discovered that the majority of people counted in
ED 88 were enrolled at the Kentucky Institute for Deaf Mutes. My eyes
adjusted to the old-fashioned script of the census taker, and there she
was on line 19: Engleman, Bessie, White, Female, born in 1883. Within
days of that find, a KSD staff member sent me an email telling me he had
found her original admission card.
Bessie Engleman was
student number 933 admitted to KSD. The daughter of George and Susan
Harris Engleman became deaf from meningitis at sixteen months, not age
three, as the family legend told. The middle child in a three girl
family, KSD admitted her from Lincoln County, Kentucky when she was
eight years old in 1889 and graduated her in 1902 when she was
twenty-one years old. Nine years later, she married Carl E. Rhodes on
September 20, 1911 and lived in Washington, D.C. in 1918.
I
now had enough information to find my great-grandparents, my
great-great-grandparents, and beyond, because all my grandmother’s
“people” lived in Lincoln County, Kentucky—and married their cousins. In
some census records, I found Harris and Engleman in-laws, brothers,
sisters, and cousins, all living in the same household.
My
curiosity was piqued. If the oral history about my grandmother was
fairly accurate, why wouldn’t the part about my grandfather be true,
too? Gallaudet University’s alumni office found my grandfather’s records
on microfilm. According to the Secretary of the Department of the
Interior, my grandfather, Carl E. Rhodes, was deemed a “…proper person
to be received into the Columbia Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, and
to be instructed and maintained therein at the expense of the United
States…” The same department responsible for the welfare of Native
Americans in the 1800’s was responsible for my grandfather’s education.
He attended the Kendall School from 1892 to 1903, but did not attend
Gallaudet University, contrary to family stories. And, he wasn’t deaf
secondary to scarlet fever. Congenitally deaf, a midwife home-delivered
the sixth child, Carl E. Rhodes, to a grocer named James H. Rhodes and
his wife, Elizabeth Cockrell Rhodes: my great-grandparents.
Despite
their incredible obstacles in life, my grandparents attended school,
graduated, obtained good jobs, weathered the anger of my grandmother’s
wealthy family, and raised six hearing and speaking children to become
productive members of society. During the depression and beyond, my
grandfather was employed by the federal government as a gardener, often
tending to the roses and other plantings at the White House. My brother
owns a book, handed down from my grandmother, with a photograph of my
grandfather working as the Assistant Head Gardener in the U.S. Botanical
Gardens.
What predicts who will be disabled in
life? What foretells if a disability will cripple an individual
emotionally? When I was a little girl and refused to cave in under my
mother’s abuse, she would say I was stubborn, “just like your
grandmother.” Instead of being humiliated, I was proud to be linked in
some clear way to the woman who raised me, who loved me, and whom I
adored. Today, looking back across half a century, I have a few clues to
her inner strength and resilience. When I think of her, which is often,
I thank her for teaching me that having a disability does not mean
inability and for holding me tight and rocking me to sleep with her
lullaby of wordless love.
Newly divorced Professor Evie Brown notices her student Cameron Slade and how attentive he seems, so totally unlike her ex-husband. Cameron is also delicious to look at, all taut body, broad shoulders, and hot eyes. He’s forbidden territory, but one late afternoon as she pleasures herself in an empty lecture hall, she looks up to find she’s not alone. He’s there…watching her.
And then there’s Sophie Walker. Ever since Evie met the sensual woman, she’s allowed her inhibitions to unreel, one by one. It’s Sophie who’s been sharing Evie’s erotic awakening, Sophie who she yearns for. Or is it?
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Excerpt:
Suzanne Jefferies loves to write romance. As a member of ROSA (Romance Writers of South Africa), she knows that she’s not the only believer in romantic tension and emotional power smacks to keep the romance reader hooked. A movie fanatic, she spends most of her time as a writer-for-hire. Working in communication, she has done more than her fair share of corporate and investor PR, and now freelances in between editorial jobs for big. glossy company magazines. The Joy of Comfort Eating, her first contemporary romance novel, won the 2016 Imbali Award for excellence in romance writing.
