Consider the Ravens

The Promise

They were young when they got married. My father, although I don’t know much about him, was tall and handsome with bright green eyes and dark brown hair. Most of the time he would grease and comb it back on the sides so it wouldn’t move. Once in a while, a little curl would fall out of place and dangle on his forehead giving him that rustic, James Dean look. My mother was thin and frail with dark, almost black, haunting eyes. Her brown hair was about shoulder length. She would often wear it curled down around her face. Women didn’t wear much makeup in the 1960s, although my mother did wear red lipstick. The color would contrast her eyes making them seem almost endless, like you could get lost in them. They were married in the summer of 1963. She was beautiful and quiet. He worked as a heavy-equipment operator; she was a homemaker. They did what they could, but money was tight.

There was talk of abuse and sadness in that first year of marriage. He drank a lot, and it got him into some serious trouble, which made the marriage all the more difficult. The sadness, heavy on my mother’s heart, soon changed with news of a baby to be born in the spring. Only twenty-two, the thought of becoming a parent filled my mother with joy. The moments of uncertainty seemed to take a back seat to preparing for the new arrival. Plans were made to welcome this new little life soon to be born. Not knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl, Mother hoped in her heart for a girl. In the spring of 1965, her wish came true.

I was born in Akron, Ohio, to Phyllis and Elmer Cole. It was a happy day for my parents, full of excitement. A new baby, there is nothing like it. I had a head full of dark brown hair and green eyes, like my father’s. My grandparents were thrilled. Maybe this would be a new start for Phyllis and Elmer. Maybe things would be better. Newborns bring out the hope in all of us. Unfortunately, that was all about to change. My story was about to begin, and no one saw the tragedy that would set the course of my life into motion and change the lives of so many others…but God did.

*****

It was evening; something wasn’t right. My mother and my grandmother sat in the kitchen. As my mother put her head down on the table, she began to cry. She told my grandmother she was unhappy. Things hadn’t changed with my father. If anything, they had gotten worse. The only reason she wanted to live was because of her new baby girl. My mother made my grandmother promise, If anything happens to me, will you look after Sandy?

I promise, she replied.

That was the conversation that night. The next day, my mother was gone. As much as she wanted to be there for me, it wasn’t meant to be.

I was only six weeks old. I’m not exactly sure of the cause of death. They say it was a postnatal complication from childbirth, most likely an infection. I always asked myself why nobody helped her. Maybe there was no money? Maybe no one knew the seriousness of her condition? I suppose that question will never be answered.

My father was left to care for me on his own but was sentenced to serve time in the Mansfield State Reformatory in January of 1966. He had been criminally charged with two counts of breaking and entering and one count of grand larceny. Based on concerns with my father, who now had a criminal and behavioral history, combined with the fact that he was unable to meet my basic needs, Summit County Children’s Services (SCCS) was granted permanent custody of me in February of 1966. I never got to know my birth mother. My father, now serving time, was unable to care for me, so my grandparents assumed primary responsibility for my care, to which my father agreed.

In March of 1967, my father was released from Mansfield. He had expressed a desire to become part of my life again, so the agency developed a plan for me to remain with my grandparents and for my father to have opportunities to visit me. These visits were supposed to be monitored by SCCS, but this rule was not always followed.

He had come to the house one day wanting to take me. My grandparents wouldn’t let him in the door. He was drunk and unruly. They were scared, so they called the police. I’m sure my father was angry, heartbroken with the loss of his wife, and frustrated because I had been taken away from him. He was in no condition to care for a baby; he couldn’t take care of himself. I know my grandparents did the right thing. Because of the uncertainty of my safety, visitation was now to be provided at the SCCS. The last visit I had with my father was in December 1967. I wouldn’t see him again for many years.

It wasn’t easy on my grandmother. She had made a promise to my mother. It was a promise that she took very seriously. That promise would soon haunt her for many years to come. I was loved in the care of my grandparents. All of the uncertainties were behind me, so everyone thought.

Grandma’s House

The covered porch was the first thing you saw on the front of my Grandmother Beulah’s tiny six-room house. A long winding dirt driveway looped around to the freestanding wood garage that stood next to the house. There was no indoor plumbing, which made trips to the outhouse a cold jaunt on those long Ohio winter nights.

Behind the house, near the outhouse, was a large garden, and beyond the garden were trees and fields. During the summer the fields were full of Queen Anne’s lace. Large bright yellow and orange sunflowers lined the side yard, their heads tilted by the heaviness of the bloom. By late summer, the wildflowers from the field were almost as tall as me.

I had fun playing with my uncles, Billy and Bobby. They were my mom’s brothers and also lived with my grandparents. They were older than me by about ten years. Despite the age difference, my uncles enjoyed having a little sister around. They kept me busy playing outside in the big field behind the house.

The summer that I remember was filled with all kinds of good things: fresh corn on the cob from the garden and red tomatoes that we used to make tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches on thick, soft white Wonder Bread. Slices of watermelon were sprinkled with salt and served ice cold. There was always something good to eat.

It was hot during the day but cooled off in the evening. We caught lightning bugs and put them in glass mason jars with holes poked in the lid so they wouldn’t die. I watched them for only a while and then released them to fly away. I loved to watch them glow as I would send them flying like little twinkles of lights against the black night sky.

My Grandpa Floyd’s rusty old red pickup truck sat abandoned at the back of the field by the garden. At times, I would climb up on the hood, which was warm from the afternoon sun, and play with the worn-out windshield wipers, moving them back and forth against the chipped and scratched glass. I always managed to get up onto the truck, but getting down was the tricky part. I would have to swing my leg around through the open driver’s side window. Many times, I would get stuck with one leg in the window and one dangling off the side of the door. Holding on as tight as I could, I would eventually make my way into the cab of the truck where I had fun pushing the buttons on the AM radio and honking the horn to see if anyone noticed me.

Grandpa always wore his bib overalls, plaid shirt, and baseball hat. He had no teeth, which made it hard to understand him when he talked. Most people just smiled and shook their head in agreement with whatever he was trying to say. He was my dad’s father, a widower. My grandmother, who was my mom’s mother, was also widowed. Grandma’s previous husband, Carlos, was killed in a car accident in Southern Ohio in 1960. Not many families can say the paternal grandfather and the maternal grandmother married, but mine can. I didn’t understand it at the time, but they married in order to satisfy the state so that they could keep me. My grandmother was the only mommy I knew at the time, and she had no objection to me calling her mommy.

There were issues with my grandpa’s past. Several of his children had been removed from his custody. SCCS had taken note of that while they reviewed where to place me. SCCS had to be sure I would be safe, so my grandparents were monitored to ensure that happened.

Although at the time I didn’t know any different, my grandfather also struggled with being an alcoholic. He continued to deal with his own issues from his past while trying to do what he thought was best for me.

*****

I was somewhat of a tomboy, and I enjoyed being outside where I had the freedom to explore the property that surrounded Grandma’s house. One afternoon I found myself playing with the stray dog that roamed our neighborhood. I had no idea where he lived and I don’t recall his name. They say he liked to follow me. No matter where I went, that dog went too.

Behind the house were some recently used paint cans. Billy, my uncle, hadn’t had a chance to get rid of them yet. No one was around when I happened upon those cans. If someone would have seen me, they surely would have hightailed it over to save that poor dog from what I was about to do.

Blue was the color, and there was just enough paint left to spark my whimsical, creative curiosity. By the time I was finished making my world a more colorful place, I had painted my dog! Not just a small area of the dog was covered but the whole pup. You can only imagine the horror when my uncle discovered what I had done. Billy spent many hours cleaning up my artwork, all the while lecturing me on how not to do that again. Finally, the poor thing came clean. I hear Old Blue eventually ran off and was never seen again. I can’t say that I blame him.

I had a love for animals, and I would bring them home whenever I could. The stray cat that frequented the yard was no exception. Taking that cat by the tail, I would fling it over my shoulder and walk around with it. They say he never scratched me. Why he didn’t is a mystery.

Grandmother’s house seemed so small compared to the land around it. As you entered the house, the kitchen was to the right. You could only fit two people in that tiny kitchen at the same time. There was a small window at the end of the narrow room which looked out onto the front porch and driveway. In the dining room there was a large black wood-burning stove that took up a large portion of the space. I was always careful not to touch it. Flowered wallpaper covered half of the walls. The seams around the edges were yellow and just beginning to turn up from lack of adhesive. If coaxed, the whole sheet would come down with just one pull.

Getting to my bedroom required going through the dining room, through my grandmother’s bedroom, and into a tiny room at the very back of the house. My room was very small, but I didn’t know any different, and I didn’t seem to care. I was happy. Late at night, I would wake up, needing to use the outhouse. Dreading having to leave my nice warm bed, I would hold it as long as possible. I remember one night I couldn’t wait any longer. I jumped out of bed, practically tripping over my long nightgown. Throwing on my coat and boots, I rushed out the kitchen door. Fortunately, there was a light located on a utility pole that stood at the side of the yard. That light was a big help as it lit up the paved path so I could see where I was going. Making my way back to the house, I was now wide awake! It was always hard to fall back asleep after being jolted like that with the cold night air.

Entering the house, I passed through the dining room and the black wood-burning stove as I headed back to my room. I couldn’t help but jump onto my grandparents’ full-size bed. As I darted through the door, I threw off my coat, kicked off my boots, and plopped myself right on top of them, snuggling up under the covers. There was hardly room for two in that bed, let alone three, but they didn’t mind. I loved the feeling of being warm and secure with them in that bed. I laid there listening as my grandmother’s breathing slowed. It was soft and rhythmic. Grandpa had already drifted back to sleep. I could tell because he was gently snoring in his offbeat kind of way. I was happy, and I felt safe. I have many good memories of spending time with my grandparents; this night was just one of them.

Before Christmas, Grandma liked to decorate the house. I enjoyed helping her put ornaments on the little tabletop tree that she always set up in the living room. Once the tree was finished, we would spend the rest of the afternoon baking cookies, which was my favorite thing to do. My grandmother asked, What would you like Santa to bring you? My answer was like that of any other young girl my age. I wanted a guitar and an ironing board and a new pair of shoes. And that’s just what I got!

My grandmother did the best she could caring for me. It wasn’t easy. I was now three years old and I kept her busy. She loved me. Even if she hadn’t made that promise to my mom, she wouldn’t have done anything differently.

The Accident

Times were different back in those days. No one wore seatbelts, and children were very rarely restrained in car seats. In the 1960s, car seats were created to contain children rather than protect them during a crash. Needless to say, I was not in one. Our neighbor, a nice black lady, had a car, and Grandma and I, on occasion, would tag along with her to the store.

She was my friend. Many times, I would make my way to her house by cutting