Granny Mary
One of my first memories (if not the first memory) of my childhood is of my sister and I going into a room to see an old woman lying in bed. The room was in my aunt Boo Boo’s house, the first door on the left-hand side of the hallway, right across the hall from the kitchen/dining room. The woman was lying on the right-hand side of the bed facing me (which would have made it the left-hand side).
A few days later, I was in that same room and I saw a dark green plaid suitcase there with the name Jerry Sergent on it. I thought, he has the same last name as I do.
It took many, many years for me to realize that the woman in the bed was my Granny Mary, my paternal grandmother, that she was on her deathbed, and that my sister and I were being taken in there so she could say good-bye.
My Granny Mary began life on June 17, 1904 as Mary Frances Peavley, the daughter of James Peavley and Dora Crawford. She was probably named after her grandmother, Mary Frances Trosper. (Coincidentally, my other grandmother was named Ary Frances.) She was born in Knox County, Kentucky, in southeastern Kentucky. I know nothing about her early life, but from what was going on in history at the time, I can tell that she was ten years old when World War I began, and thirteen when the United States became involved. She would have survived the influenza epidemic of 1918-1919.
I don’t know how they met, but on February 13, 1925, Mary wed John Marvin Sergent (born on September 26, 1902). Mary was 20 and John was 22. John was a worker for the railroad, probably the Louisville and Nashville line (L & N). John was from Harlan County, and after their marriage, they made Harlan County their home. Their first child, Eva Ruth (my aunt Boo Boo), was born February 12, 1926, one day before their first anniversary. Following in succession were four sons: Wallace Keith (born January 25, 1929, died September 14, 1990), Arlie Kyle (born October 16, 1930, died December 18, 2006), Charles Tony (born August 24, 1932, died September 11, 1993) and Jerry Eldon (born November 17, 1939.) When Charles Tony grew up, he married Thelma Chitwood and had two daughters, one of whom is yours truly.
Tragedy struck on November 1, 1941. As I have pieced together the details I’ve received, this is what happened: My grandfather had left Granny Mary at her parents’ house in Barbourville, Kentucky. He was driving and had failed to wipe the condensation off of his window . . . and as a result, he did not see a pusher locomotive as he crossed a set of railroad tracks near Bailey’s Switch. He was hit and died instantly.
Eva Ruth was 15. Wallace Keith was 12. Arlie Kyle was 11. Charles Tony was nine. Jerry Eldon was sixteen days away from his second birthday.
As if that weren’t bad enough, 36 days later, a group of men were awakened to the sound of, “Air raid, Pearl Harbor – this is no drill.” Sometime between one and three o’clock that Sunday afternoon—probably while the family was resting from Sunday dinner—Granny Mary probably would have heard the following words: “We interrupt this program to bring you this important news from United Press. Flash: Washington: The White House announces Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.”
So not only did my Granny Mary have to cope with the loss of her husband, she was suddenly plunged into a world at war.
Somehow they made it through. My father once told me that peanut butter got him through the Great Depression. He never talked about growing up with his family, but throw in the loss of a father along with the hardships and deprivations of war on the home front, and I imagine it must have been pretty rough (and that is an understatement).
The war ended, and in the spring of 1947, Mary made another life-changing decision: she and the four boys moved north to Detroit, Michigan. By then, Eva Ruth was married. Wallace would have been 18, Arlie 16, Tony 14, and Jerry seven. To move from the mountains of Kentucky, where the largest town was less than 10,000, to the city of Detroit, was quite a culture shock, and I’m not sure if Granny Mary and her sons ever really adjusted. They went back home in the summer of 1948. My Uncle Jerry has told me that my father lost a year in school by being in Detroit, but that as a result, he met my mother—and that I owe my very existence to the fact that my father spent a year in Detroit.
In later years, my Granny Mary saw her sons grow up, marry, and in some cases, leave Harlan County. Wallace moved to Cincinnati, as did Jerry when Jerry became old enough to go to college. In 1953, my father was presented with a letter beginning, “Greetings from the United States,” and ordering him to report to Fort Meade, Maryland. Thus began his two-year stint in the Army, where he rose to the rank of Sergeant. (Yes, my father was discharged from the Army as Sergeant Sergent. I do not know if he ever met Major Minor from Catch-22.) There were two gifts he sent home to his mother. One was a cuckoo clock. According to Wallace’s son Wallace, Jr. (whom I know as Sam), when Granny Mary unwrapped the clock, the first thing she saw were the clock weights. She shrieked and threw them out the window, crying, “Good Lord, he’s sent home hand grenades!”
The other gift was a beautiful set of dishes, white china painted with violets. When my parents got married, Granny Mary gave her those set of dishes as a wedding present. I remember using the dish set at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other occasions, and I now own the remaining dishes.
Several schoolchildren in the 1950’s and 1960’s would have been treated to my Granny Mary’s cooking, because she became a cafeteria cook. I suspect that her school lunches whetted the appetite much more than today’s do.
In February of 1967, she was diagnosed with cervical cancer. Nine months later—ironically, the time required to grow a new life—she died, at Boo Boo’s house, in one of Boo Boo’s bedrooms, on October 30, 1967. She was 63. In 1967, I know nothing of what the treatment of cancer was. Perhaps radiation, or perhaps nothing. Had she been ill today, she may have had a better chance of living longer with today’s treatments.
My mother has told me that Granny Mary was a sweet woman. She had to have been a very strong woman, to raise five children—four of them boys—alone. Sadly, I know nothing about that Granny Mary, the one who put her heart and soul into her family.
I was born in 1963. Granny Mary had to have seen me in the hospital. She had to have known that my mother was having another baby. Maybe she gave her advice for the second baby. I’m sure she came to the hospital when I was born and looked at me through the nursery window. When I came home, I’m sure she was part of the welcoming committee. She probably changed my diapers. And she probably put up with my legendary temper tantrums. I’m sure she held me, let me sit on her lap, talked to me . . . and I probably talked to her.
But I know nothing of any of that. The only memory I have of her is seeing her on her deathbed.
Her genes are part of my DNA. Her decisions directly impacted my life. The way she raised her son influenced how her son raised me.
I am just sorry that I know nothing firsthand about my Granny Mary. I will have to be satisfied with knowing of her secondhand.
