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January 9, 2007 Folklore Dedicated to the
Memory of George Hooks (February 1, 1887 -
January 6, 1951) By Myrna Roberts |
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Several times during this new year, I have watched and
listened to various people, mostly TV evangelists, who say that we are moving
into a great philosophical harvest season.
They declare this harvest and then dance a little gig, then they
proclaim a great time of rest that we’re fixin’
to go into. Then they dance some more. What a glorious time!!
2006 was a hard year for everybody and we’re all tired. Most saved
folk are simply refusin’ to
have more of the same! . . . swearing by the mercies of God that things will
be “better in 2007”. We wipe the sweat
from our brows and again declare rest and harvest. Then dance that victory
dance. Whew God is so good! Well, right before you dance that dance a third time;
and declare rest and harvest in the same breath, will you take just a few
moments to let me tell you what I’ve learned about harvest? It’s just a simple little story and I
promise it won’t take long. *** One day, just a few years ago, I ran up on my cousin,
Steve, and asked him the most serious question I ever uttered to him. You see, Cousin Steve was older than my
parents, so I was honor-bound to give him the utmost respect. We were in our family cemetery, burying
another cousin – one of Steve’s cohorts.
Since Steve was so much older then I, and since he spent his time in
Wichita and I had spent mine in Wanderlust, USA and abroad, I figured that he
would think I was just another crazy harebrained wacko. The stable sensibility of his generation is
sometimes put off by my radical activism.
Therefore, I said what I had to say quickly before he had a chance to
dismiss me. Simply put, I had put
Steve in a box that he didn’t belong in.
I had done unto him BEFORE he’d done unto me. Like I said, I ran up to Steve and said in one long
breath, “Cuttin’ Steve, my name is
myrna roberts – you know my mamma and daddy – Bernice and C.J. -- and my
purpose in life is to teach, train and tell our children who they are – in
short, I write history and I’m a genealogist – Ah’m finishin' ma masters
degree in human relations and I wanna know what you can tell me ‘bout ‘cho
da-de that I can tell your great gran chil-ren – you see I take history very
seriously and I’ve studied, empirically, this entire region and I’ve
determined that there are certain key people in our history that really made
things happen and yo da-de, George Hooks, was one o’ them people ‘cause he
was born in the 1800s an’ he made the trip out here from Alabama to Oklahoma
an’ he knew a whole bunch o slaves and if he knew them slaves he knew their
survival tools so Ah think his story deserves to be told. . . Sir.” Steve stopped in mid stride, swung around and stared
into my eyes for a thousand years. He
gazed so deeply into my pupils that I was sure he saw every one of my fore
parents somewhere in the depths of my face.
That’s when I knew I had misjudged him. He had heard every single solitary word I
said. He knew what I was talking about
better than I knew what I was talking about.
I had to back up a step or two because Steve was just as passionate as
I was and the intensity was too potent – too pure. Then Steve said, “I know who you are girl. I’ve known you all your life. Now what, exactly, do you wanna know?” I thought that was funny ‘cause I was at
least 40 years old and he was calling me ‘girl’. “Sir,” I said, “If you just had one idea, just one
thought to funnel through to our babies both born and unborn. . . this one
idea will be the thing that makes George Hooks live forever . . . this is the
one thing that your dad did that exemplified his pioneer spirit. But this isn’t about George Hooks; this is
about saving our children! Give me the
one legendary thing that George Hooks knew that will bless us for a thousand
years. Cousin Steve thought for a mere second while he pinched
his chin. Then he took up a farmers’ stance.
His left hand bent at the elbow, fist extended in front of his body
while he tossed his right hand to and fro, first over his left arm and then
away to the right. He made a continuous
motion back and forth with his right hand, as if he was sowing seed . . .
pretending to toss seeds on the ground. . . .
Steve said, “My daddy planted huge fields of corn. When he sowed them corn seeds, eeevveerryy
now and again. . .” He said that as he tossed right hand over left,
“Eeevveeryy now and again, he would throw a watermelon seed in with them corn
seeds . . . and them watermelon seeds
was like a little slice of heaven.” Steve smiled a nostalgic smile as he stared into the
distant past. “Yes sir, that
watermelon was like a slice of heaven”.
With that said Steve spun on his heels and walked away. That small conversation was the first adult
conversation I had ever had with Steve . . . and I didn’t know it yet, but it
was also my last conversation with Steve.
I wondered what he meant. . . I
thought that maybe the watermelon seed somehow cross germinated with the corn
and made a hybrid juicy sweet corn; in some strange way the watermelon seed
must have changed the texture of the corn.
I shrugged my shoulders and stared at Cousin Steve’s back as he
strolled through the graves of the cemetery.
I tried my best to understand but I couldn’t. Cousin Steve’s wisdom had escaped me. I knew he had told me something great, but
I just couldn’t understand. A few months later, maybe that year, maybe the next, I
visited that same family cemetery again.
This time we were burying Cousin Steve. I found myself caught in a time warp,
standing in the same place wondering the same thing. . . “What was the deal
with the watermelon and corn seeds?”
That’s when Renee, Steve’s daughter, asked, “Does anyone have
something special to say about my daddy?" I had to snap out of it. I shook off my quantum physics stupor and
spoke up. I told the crowd of mourners
about the seeds and asked them what it meant. Steve’s siblings, Millicent and Theron, laughed out
loud and spoke up. “No,” Millicent
chuckled, “The seeds don’t mutate in that way. When you start pullin’ that corn – that’s what
you call it when you harvest corn, ‘pulling corn’ ...” Theron chimed in, “Harvest time is vvvveeeerrrryyyyy
labor intensive. It just ain’t
easy. When we were children we didn’t
have all the modern conveniences that you have now. We worked hard in those fields. It was hot and miserable. I mean it was horrible. An’ when you
pullin' that corn in that hundred degree heat and fool around and fin’ one o’
them watermelons, we would crack it open and dive in on the SPOT. It was cool even in the heat. It was wet ‘cause it ain’t nothin’ but
water and sugar and that sugar gave you a tremendous burst of energy. .
.” Theron took on that same nostalgic look
that Steve had. “Yes sir”, Theron said
as he sliced through the air with his open palm, “It was like a little slice
of heaven.” Then Millicent said with a voice of authority, “What
Steve was telling you was to always remember . . . when you plan for a
harvest, you had better PLAN for your rest periods in the midst of the labor
‘cause harvest ain’t NEVER easy.
Harvest is just as hard as breaking ground and sowing seed. You should sow rest and refreshment in with
the crop on the front end and not as an after thought. Not only is harvest labor intensive, it’s also
time-sensitive; therefore the rest periods are short and few. *** Having said all that, Ah’m jus’ sayin' think on it some.
Thas all I’m sayin, jus’ think on it some. |
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The Family of George & Perchie Hooks of Tatums, Left to Right:
Morris, Perchie, Steven, George, Millicent; circa 1930-31. Photo provided by Theron Hooks (not born yet). |
