Memories of My Father

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today would have been your great granddaddy Schaefer’s 100^th birthday.  He left this world 22 years ago at the age of 78.  Because he died the month after Captain’s and my 20^th anniversary, I can easily calculate the time that has passed without him.  Many of the postings in The Bridge Project feature stories about him and, in some cases, his own writings.  However, I don’t think I’ve ever taken the time to delve into our relationship or reveal just what he meant to me in every stage of my life.  Perhaps it is fitting that I attempt some reflection in celebration of his century mark.  You may have heard a few of these before, but they are so indelibly threaded through the tapestry of my memories that I owe it to you to repeat them. In doing so, perhaps the two of you will come to understand just what a uniquely special person he was.

I could comment on the broader aspects of Granddaddy’s life – his impact on the community of Greenville; his respect for the profession of law; his support for and guidance of his church, First Baptist; and his far-reaching influence on the students he taught at Furman.  (I was reminded of this latter characteristic recently when Captain helped judge the National Mock Trial Finals at Furman.  At breakfast, we sat with two older gentlemen and when I revealed that I was Granddaddy’s daughter, they shared that he was their all-time favorite professor.  Both insisted that he had facilitated their entry into law school and ultimately made possible their careers as attorneys.)  Even after the passing of so many years, his footprint remains wide and deep in all of these areas.  But, you must understand that, for all of his prominence and significance to others, he cherished his roles as husband and father above all else.  And so, I am going to focus on those memories.

I remember the great train race–

With the window rolled down, I can feel the wind in my face as we race down the long, straight stretch of highway in Louisiana on our way to visit Grandmother Bethany in Houston - trying to outrun the train that speeds along the track paralleling us.  Uncle Bryant and I implore Granddaddy to honk the car horn so that the engineer will blast the train horn in response.  For miles on end – honk, honk – toot, toot. Who knows how fast we are really going – it seems like we’re flying – or how much time is passing – it seems forever.  We are children and in our minds it is the most glorious race in the world. We finally come to the place where the track crosses the road.  We have to stop as the train takes precedent.  Granddaddy tells us to get out of the car.  He hoists me up on his shoulders, Uncle Bryant by his side.  We all wave frantically at the engineer as the train lumbers by.  He waves back and holds the cord of his horn for a long, wailing “tooooooot.”  The sound fades in the distance as the train disappears into the west and the blazing sun.

I remember the cut over my eye -

I am no more than four years old and standing behind my grandmother Mattie as she hoes the small garden plot at the base of the back stoop of our apartment at University Ridge in Greenville.  She doesn’t know I’m there.  As she takes a fierce swipe at a clod of dirt, the pole of the hoe strikes me just above my right eye.  The cut is deep and blood spews down my face.  Horrified, she frantically calls Mamaw Mary, who is in the kitchen, to come outside.  They assess the situation and swoop me up and into the bathroom.  No amount of pressure or compress stops the bleeding and Mamaw decides she better check with the doctor. He suggests that she bring me to his office. Before she leaves the apartment, Mamaw gives Granddaddy a call at work to tell him what happened.  By the time we arrive at the doctor’s, he is already there.

The doctor takes one look at my forehead, now swollen with a purplish goose egg above my eye.  He determines that I must have stitches in order to close the gash.  As the nurse places me on the examining table, Mamaw and Granddaddy position themselves on either side, each taking a hold of a hand to comfort me.  The nurse comes back with a syringe of novacaine.  She preps the needle with a squirt of the drug and then sticks it into the wound to deaden it.  At which point, my big, sturdy father promptly faints dead away and drops to the floor.

I remember the waves in the ocean –

I’m maybe five years old, and we are at Ocean Drive Beach.  Granddaddy is carrying me in his arms out into the water up to his waist.  A small wave lolls its way through us. “Aw, that’s just a baby,” he says. “We’re looking for a granddaddy, Bethie.” 

A little larger wave makes him have to jump a bit and as it slaps against him, salty drops hit my face and mouth.  I giggle and he hugs me close.  “Now, that was a daddy…..and if that was a daddy, the granddaddy can’t be far behind.”  We wait.

“I see it!” He points to a wave building about 50 yards out.  It rolls toward us, climbing higher and higher until I think we will be swallowed up.  “Ready – 1-2-3 – JUMP!”  And we go up together and he lifts me high in his arms as the wave smacks us both, water breaking above our heads and dousing us good.  I sputter to get the salty saliva out of my mouth.  Granddaddy wipes my eyes.

“Now, THAT was a granddaddy!” he yells over the din of the crashing wave.  And I laugh out loud as I look outward for the next one.

I remember cooking the crabs –

We are in the kitchen of our beach rental, Albejose, and have just returned from a very successful crabbing expedition.  Mamaw Mary has several large steamer pots on the stove cultivating a boil as the crabs bubble and brood in buckets on the floor below.  Granddaddy’s job is to grab the crabs with tongs and drop them in the hot water.  On Mamaw’s cue, he reaches down into one of the buckets and grasps the tongs around a crab’s body.  He hoists it up and a string of crabs slowly arises, their claws clamped together, all desperately clinging to one another like a streamer of cutout paper dolls.  Inevitably – and intentionally – Granddaddy shakes the bottom crab off the chain and it hits the floor, scampering in what seems like every direction at once.  This sets off pandemonium as Mamaw jumps around the kitchen and we children double over in laughter.

I remember the one-legged dragon –

It’s December 31st and all the neighborhood children gather at 3 Lakecrest for our annual party to say goodbye to the old year and ring in the new.  Mamaw and Granddaddy much prefer coordinating a fun evening for the kids as to attending late night adult festivities.  After playing Bounce for the Bounty (bouncing a tennis ball on the floor in the living room and hoping it lands in one of the vessels containing various and sundry prizes), we gather at the dining room table for our rip-roaring, girls against the guys, game of Up Jinks and for Granddaddy’s much-anticipated annual telling of a tale about the one-legged dragon, Hooray.  He wraps a napkin around his hand, leaving only an index finger exposed.  The poor dragon uses his one good leg to drag himself around the table as the story unfolds.

This year, Hooray must endure mystery soup every evening when he comes home from work.  Mrs. Hooray found a bargain on soup at the grocery store.  The only catch to the bargain is none of the soup cans have labels.  He never knows what she will serve him.  Will it be Courage Soup?  Or Humility Soup?  Or Handsome Soup?  Or Ugly Soup? Poor Hooray!!

(Granddaddy doesn’t tell us that the story is based in truth.  Mamaw Mary found an ad in the newspaper for soup priced at one penny per can.  When she arrived at the store, sure enough there were no labels.  But, that didn’t stop her from buying a dollar’s worth – 100 cans!)

 I remember the Miss SC pageant –

I am a Freshman in college and representing Greenville in the Miss South Carolina Pageant.  Many people in the pageant circuit think that I might have a good chance of winning because of my talent – classical ballet.   I try not to listen, but I do believe if I can win the talent preliminary, I can contend. 

My performance is on the third night of competition and the contestant right before me is Miss Cherokee County.  I’m not particularly worried about her because, after all, she is only going to be clogging for her talent.  It will pale in comparison to my culturally superior ballet routine.  She begins and, as I watch helplessly from the wings, her rendition of this uncouth form of dance is so rousing that she brings the entire audience to its feet – including the judges.  It is, as they say, a very hard act to follow, and she wins the preliminary.

When I see Granddaddy afterwards, all I want is solace.  Instead of consoling me with the salve of an over-protective parent, he gently but painfully reminds me that I didn’t deserve to win – not if the point was to entertain.

I remember advice on love –

It is Christmas day of 1971 and my boyfriend of almost seven years fails to put in much of an appearance, coming to the house late in the morning and staying only for a short while after dropping off an unwanted cookbook as my gift.  Although I make a valiant effort to hide my hurt feelings, Granddaddy can see right through me.  Later in the day, after we finish our turkey and dressing, he invites me to take a walk.  As we stroll up Lakecrest Drive, he offers some fatherly advice.  “Bethie, I know it’s really none of my business, but I feel I must share with you what I’m thinking.  I’m a man and, if there’s one thing I know, it’s what a man does when he loves a woman. If a man loves a woman, he can’t stay away….. he only wants to be with her and nowhere else……and this doesn’t seem to be happening in your case…..your boyfriend seems to want to be any place else.  As your father, I think that you deserve so much more.” 

His counsel that day helps me recognize what I already knew and gives me the courage to end the relationship and move on with my life.

I remember being homesick -

It’s 1972 and I have actually left home (having gone to college only 10 miles from 3 Lakecrest) for the very first time in my life at the ripe old age of 25.  I move to Jacksonville, FL, to go to work for Fidelity Federal Savings and Loan.  At first, I am thrilled to have made the break and be on a new solo adventure.  But, before long a most intense case of homesickness sets in that fills me with angst, self-doubt and depression.  I decide to tuck my tail and come back to Greenville, instructing Granddaddy and Mamaw to put some feelers out about jobs. 

It’s a Friday afternoon, raining like crazy in Jacksonville, and I have my car packed to make the drive to Greenville after I leave work.  The trip should get me home by midnight.  I strike out, heading West on I-20 to pick up I-75 North into South Georgia towards Atlanta.  The weather deteriorates and, by the time I cross the Georgia line and approach the small town of Cordele, the rain turns to sleet.  My car skids on the interstate, forcing me to get off in Cordele and check in at a Howard Johnson’s motel.  The receptionist tells me it is a good thing that I stopped – the highway patrol had closed the interstate fifteen miles to the North.

Convinced that I will be able to continue to Greenville the next morning, I retire to my room, call Granddaddy and Mamaw to update them, and fall asleep.  Dawn brings the reality of 15 inches of snow and a complete shutdown of South Georgia.  I can’t go North or South. 

For the next 48 hours, I am forced to wrestle with the demons of homesickness all alone in my room.  The sustenance I so desperately seek from the physical presence of my parents is replaced with collect telephone calls to them almost every hour.  Granddaddy answers every time and he listens patiently as I try to talk through sobs and gulps.  He tells me that he understands.  He reassures me that what I am experiencing happens to everyone at some point in their lives.  He reaffirms that I am sane, loved, respected and strong.

At some point in these expensive sessions that are probably more painful for him to hear than for me to express, he guides me to a profound conclusion – “Bethie, your mother and I will do whatever you want us to do.  We’ll make calls and find out if anybody has anything to offer you.  But, I’m just thinking……wouldn’t it be better if you wait and come back to Greenville when it’s from a point of strength, not weakness?”

Somehow, his words resonate through the blur of my hopelessness and my heart fills with determination to beat my way out of the wet paper bag of self-pity that envelops me.  When the interstate re-opens, I check out of the Howard Johnson’s and head back to Jacksonville with the intent of growing up.

(Unknown to any of us at the time, a letter was on the way from Furman University requesting that I interview for the position of Alumni Director.  The opportunity came to me completely out of the blue and it gave me the chance to return to Greenville with my head held high – just like Granddaddy hoped.  I often wonder if the universe converged in that snowstorm to stop me from myself!)

I remember advice on marriage –

It's near Thanksgiving in 1973.  Granddaddy and I are sitting in the kitchen at 3 Lakecrest having a chat. I'm trying to convey that I am in love with Captain and anticipate that he will be forthcoming with an engagement ring soon.  Granddaddy listens to me intently.  He doesn't offer congratulations or enthusiastic inane remarks.  Instead, he adopts a pensive mood.....and then he asks me a most unusual question.

Beth.....are you comfortable being in the same room together and not saying a word to each other?"

I have no point of reference at the time to understand the nature or the significance of the question.  Being married 42 years now, it's meaning is quite clear.

I remember the toast - 

For the three months leading up to Captain’s and my wedding, Granddaddy Schaefer is recuperating from a major heart attack.  His doctor advises him to limit all activities, stay home and rest.  This means that he is unable to attend the many festivities surrounding the occasion.  He is determined to gather his strength so that he can walk me down the aisle and give me away.  

The doctor gives him clearance to attend the rehearsal dinner on the eve of the wedding.  We all gather at the Poinsett Club for a beautiful party hosted by great Grandaddy Cottrell and Mamaw Kat.  After dinner, glasses clink and toasts begin.  When it appears that everyone has had their say, Granddaddy Schaefer rises from his chair, tapping his glass with a spoon.  A hush falls over the group.  It is a moment we all wished and hoped for.

He begins – “May all their Tallys have whackers!!!  Save one……and may she be the embodiment of my Beth.”

It is vintage Granddaddy and the room collapses in laughter.

And I remember when your mom and Aunt Bee were born and he becomes Granddaddy –

I think of how he transforms so miraculously into the perfect grandfather and how, when Mamaw Mary dies, he spends the time and energy to be in touch with his “brown-eyed” and “blue-eyed” babies……how letters appear in the mailbox addressed exactly that way.  I remember the times he comes to Columbia to see on occasions great and small…..especially the Christmases he spends with us…..and the one Christmas our movie of choice is “Prince of Tides” and how he squirms sitting between your mom and Aunt Bee when some of the scenes unfold…..and the particular Christmas when he puts all of us on the train to New York City late at night so that we won’t have to leave our car at the station.

And then…..at the end, when he is sick with cancer, I remember the commencement address –

We are in his bedroom and, too weak to give the speech himself, he schools me on delivering his commencement address for the 1994 graduating class of Furman, insisting that I recite every word as he has written it – no exceptions, no embellishments, no editing of any kind.  Of course, his words are so appropriate and aptly composed, there is no need for me to suggest any of my own. 

He tries to wait up for me the evening of the commencement, but I find him sound asleep when I get home.  I wake him only to tell him how much the audience enjoyed the speech …. And to confess that I added a personal comment at the end……how I regretted that they missed the opportunity to hear him deliver the remarks himself….because he is “an extraordinary human being and an amazing father.”

This is but the tip of the iceberg –

My dear boys, I could write so much more.  Each one of these memories seems to uncover others and I am relishing them all.  But, I think by my reminiscences, you will come to understand just how important Granddaddy Schaefer was to me.  I am so grateful, also, that he lived long enough to be a significant influence on your mom and Aunt Bee.  When you get a little older, perhaps they can share with you some of their stories.

I guess it is apropos, then, to say on the occasion of Granddaddy’s 100^th birthday – I am very glad that he was born! 

Once a Parent, Always a Parent

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Sorry to be so long in writing, but for the last while Captain and I have been making our way back to Sugar Mountain from Mt. Dora.  The dust has now settled, bags unpacked, groceries bought, and I can get back to one of my favorite things – chatting with you.

Since my last blog, the memories of your great, great grandmother Bethany keep swirling around in my head.  Perhaps the fondest are of her annual visits to 3 Lakecrest.  Since she didn’t live close by, there was never anything spontaneous about them.  Mamaw Mary always orchestrated a tea or two and made sure to find out about opportunities for Bible study groups or book clubs.  It was also the one time of year when Mamaw insisted that my room be straight.  I invoked a pretty unique technique – taking everything and stuffing it all under my bed.  As long as nobody looked under the dust ruffle, the evidence stayed concealed.  Some might have wondered what caused the elevation in the mattress level, but it was only temporary.  As soon as Bebe left, the room assumed its normal chaotic condition.

Bebe would arrive to great fanfare on the late afternoon train.  She always carried her “magic bag” over her arm, filled with gifts for me and your great uncles Bryant and Gene.  The bag held a certain mystique all the way from the station to home and we could hardly contain ourselves until she settled into her room and unpacked her suitcase.  The three of us children assembled in the living room sitting on the floor at the foot of a large wing-backed chair where Bebe sat as she reached into the “magic bag” and doled out hand puppets that she had made at Ripley House, an assortment of trinkets from Texas, and always cartons of Lifesaver’s for each of us. 

Of all the reminiscences surrounding Bebe, though, perhaps the one that seems to surface most often in my mind didn’t even happen to me.  In fact, it happened way before I was born.  It was early in the year 1945.  Even though the tide of World War II appeared to have turned in the favor of the Allies on both the German and Japanese fronts, battles still raged with no assurances that the conflict would truly end.  Granddaddy Schaefer, an attorney and member of the Judge Advocate General’s corps for the Navy, was stationed in Miami.  He and Mamaw had married at the beginning of the war and, fortunately, had never been assigned a tour of duty overseas.  At the beginning of the year, however, things changed and he received orders to head to Okinawa in the Pacific Ocean. 

Even though they had discussed waiting until after the war to start a family, Mamaw made a secret decision.  She wanted more than anything to have Granddaddy’s child, especially in the event that something should happen to him while in Okinawa.  Without his knowledge, she stopped using any birth control and sometime in late January or early February became pregnant with Uncle Bryant.

 With the confirmation, and after Granddaddy overcame the shock, her excitement grew and she couldn’t wait to tell Bebe.  She placed the call and the conversation went something like this –

“Mother, guess what?”

“What, Mary?”

“I’m pregnant!!!” 

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

“Mother….are you there?”

“Oh, Mary,” Bebe sighed, “You will never know freedom from responsibility again.”

Not exactly the glowing endorsement Mamaw sought, but no truer words were ever spoken.

Over my almost seventy years, I’ve learned that once you have a child, your role as a parent never ceases. Their worries are yours – their joys are yours – their sorrows are yours.  You wear all of these like a coat of armor and nothing can relieve you of it, no matter how old your children get.  This was certainly true for Mamaw and Granddaddy as I always turned to them for guidance and reassurance until they were no longer there.  They were the repository of my ecstasy and despair alike - I never let them be free of the responsibility, but on the other hand, they never signaled that they wanted freedom.  

As long as a parent is alive, you can still have the luxury of being a child.

Captain and I have always been and are now this to your mom and Aunt Bee until we no longer have the capacity.  Your mom and dad will always be this for you.  It is a fact of life.

There is, however, one thing that makes all of the responsibility worth it.  And – that would be grandchildren.  How wonderful it is to have to two of you where my only responsibility is to have fun!!

They Don't Make Them Like They Used To

Dear Boo and Bubble,

My last couple of blogs focusing on women and their natural abilities to minister have spurred some thoughts about the abundance of strong females in your lineage.  Of your four great, great grandmothers on your mother’s side, three outlived their husbands and had to forge lives for themselves and their families afterwards. I’ve shared with you stories about two of them - Captain’s paternal grandmother Lucille Tally (Sat. Nov. 24 – “A Steel Magnolia in the Family) and my paternal grandmother Mattie Kendrick (Friday, Feb. 27, 2015 – “One Heck of a Nanny Goat” and Monday, Feb. 23, 2015 – “A Grandmother’s Gift) - but it occurred to me that as yet, I haven’t spent any time acquainting you with Eva Crew Bethany, Mamaw Mary’s mother for whom I am named. 

Her story mirrors that of the others in that she assumed a role of self-reliance when widowed which then later broadened into one of community service once she no longer had to provide for her children.  Bebe, as I called her, grew up in a Quaker household in the late 1800’s.  My familiarity with this particular form of Christian expression is quite limited and any attempt to explain it to you here would fall woefully short. But there are some historical tenets that stand out such as opposition to slavery prior to the Civil War; a refusal to swear oaths; wearing modest dress; and total abstinence from alcohol.  Perhaps the signature identifier of a Quaker is the element of pacifism, a word that shares a common root with peace, which is defined as “opposition to violence as a means of settling disputes, specifically: refusal to bear arms on moral and religious grounds.” Pacifism not only governs one’s individual actions towards others but also extends to the refusal to participate in war.  (I remember Mamaw telling me the story of how, when your great, great, grandfather James Foster Bethany came courting Bebe in Texas, he would un-holster his gun and leave it on the mantle out of respect for the family’s Quaker faith.)

By the time I came along, Bebe had become a Methodist, but she still exhibited vestiges of her Quaker roots.  Not even a drop of liquor ever passed her lips.  Her clothing, although fashionable, never flaunted fancy patterns or flamboyant colors.  And, I don’t think that she ever cut her hair.  I remember watching her brush it while she sat at her dressing table.  It flowed down well past her waist and she would wrap it into a beautiful bun on the crown of her head.

James Foster died suddenly in 1936 as The Great Depression engulfed most of the country.  At the time, he represented a syrup company and rode a circuit out from Houston soliciting orders from local grocery stores for his product.  His untimely death left Bebe with no inheritance and no means of support. Even though her children were older – Mamaw’s older sister Dorothy was married and pregnant with her first child while Mamaw had just started her freshman year in college at Rice Institute – Bebe found it necessary to establish some source of income.  The times were tough and definitely not favorable to women in the workforce.  Somehow, she convinced the company to allow her to assume his syrup route.  As she had no car, nor the ability to drive one, this meant hiring a driver to take her everywhere.  I’m sure her success in this endeavor came as quite a surprise to many, but not to the ones who knew her best.

Sometime in the 1940’s, Bebe joined the staff of Ripley House, one of the nation’s first community centers, in Houston’s second ward on the east end of the city and for the entire time I knew her, she and Ripley House were synonymous.  She lived in a small apartment in the building and, among other responsibilities, oversaw the children’s puppetry program.  Because of the distance between Greenville and Houston, my trips there growing up were few (see “The Great Train Race” – Thursday, Nov. 1, 2012), but I can vividly recall singing “White Christmas” from the stage in the dining hall in my purple tulle ballet recital costume and, if I close my eyes, I can see the black and white checkered vinyl floor in the hallway and picture Bebe’s apartment right down the hall from a kitchen where she did her cooking. 

In preparation of writing this to you, I did some research on Ripley House and found a fascinating article about its history on the internet at http://houstonhistorymagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/mcwhorter-Ripley-House.pdf.  It told me many things I did not know.  

Ripley House arose out of a broader national movement in the early twentieth century called “Settlement Associations.”  For several years prior, major cities in the U.S. created Settlement Houses which modeled after Toynbee Hall in London.  Established by Samuel and Henrietta Barnett, Toynbee was located in “one of the poorest, most crime ridden, and underserved areas of London.” The concept of the Hall sought to “bring the most privileged – the future elite – to live in the poorest area of London, a privilege for which they had to pay.”  The goal was to educate the country’s future leaders about the need for social change by offering them a close up and personal experience in the very place where change was actually needed.  The hope was to move them from concept to reality.

At the time, Houston experienced a period of accelerated population growth. The influx of people came from other states and countries, many of whom settled into the aging and deteriorating Second Ward.  As is always the case, the wealthy, more established families migrated away from the city and into the suburbs, pulling resources away with them.  Very few social welfare programs existed to address the needs of the new Houstonians.

In February of 1907, “a group of twelve influential and civic-minded Houston women met at the home of James A. Baker, under the leadership of his wife, Alice Graham Baker (grandmother to future Secretary of State James A. Baker III).”  The ladies determined to form a “Settlement Association” based upon models from other major cities where actual Settlement Houses had been successfully implemented.  In forming the Houston Settlement Association, they hoped to “engage and involve Houston’s elite in one of the city’s most underserved neighborhoods” and “extend educational, industrial, social, and friendly aid to all those within our reach.” There was a corresponding belief as well that “the citizens they served should also take an active role in working towards their own betterment.” 

From the turn of the century until 1940, there were several precursors to Ripley House, most notably the Rusk Settlement which ultimately grew into a facility large enough to house staff on its second floor and rooms for club meetings, pool tables, and a dispensary with a full-time nurse on the first.  Originally, the population that the Settlement served had come from Russia, Ireland, Germany and twelve other countries as well as significant number of native-born African Americans.  But, in 1910, with the beginning of the ten-year long Mexican Revolution, masses of Mexicans crossed the border and settled in Houston’s Second Ward.

With the recognition of this change, the Rusk Settlement began the critical service of classes in English literacy for both adults and children. A job placement program was created as well as expanded daycare service.  There was outreach into the community to visit the homes of pupils who had ceased attending school.  The Settlement organized all-Mexican Girl and Boy Scout Troops.  There was a tremendous lack of basic services to the surrounding neighborhoods and the Settlement offered free shower facilities to those families who had no running water or sanitary service in their homes. 

In 1940, through the generosity of philanthropists Daniel and Edith Ripley, a different kind of social welfare center opened up in the East End that served as an early model for community centers to follow. The Ripley House, built approximately one half mile east of the Rusk Settlement, was made possible by an endowment left by the Ripleys to construct a building that would benefit the women and children of Houston. Their foundation had searched for just the right partnership, which they found in the Settlement Association. As part of the agreement, the Ripley Foundation constructed the new facility, which then became the new headquarters for the Settlement Association.

It was not built without controversy.  By then, more established Anglo families had returned to the section of the Second Ward where the construction site was located.  When the local paper announced that “Ripley House would be a facility for the underprivileged people of Houston,” residents in the neighborhood protested saying they were not in that category.  Once construction began, pickets formed daily.

However, by the time the building was dedicated in March of 1940, there was great fanfare and a crowd of 2500 people celebrated.  Perhaps this was due to the farsighted decision by the Ripley Foundation to hire renown Houston architect Maurice Sullivan to design the building.  His research on existing settlement houses on the East Coast provided the inspiration for a state-of-the-art facility that included a diagnostic clinic with exam rooms and x-ray machines, game and club rooms, a kindergarten and a nursery school, space dedicated to the arts, an auditorium, and a gymnasium.  The cost per family to have access to all of this was only $2 per year.

In 1943, the Foundation hired Franklin Harbach to assume the directorship of Ripley House which he did for the next forty years.  He came from the Henry Street Settlement on the Lower East Side in New York and was extremely qualified to manage the challenges of integrating Ripley House into its surrounding community.  It was early into his tenure that Bebe came to work there.

From then on, Ripley House became her home, her job, her life until 1966 when she died in her sleep in that little apartment.  Franklin Harbach was the one who called to tell us. For those 20 years, she dedicated her life to the underprivileged children in the surrounding neighborhoods, perhaps demonstrating more than anything her Quaker roots of peaceful, constructive solutions to problems.

(Years ago, when your Aunt Bee was trying to determine where she wanted to continue her ballet career, the choices boiled down to Houston and Boston. She and I flew to Houston to explore that possibility.  One of my very close high school friends, Karen Hartnett, lived in Houston and happened to be on the board of the ballet there.  She graciously invited us to stay with her for our visit.  After we had finished our official duties, I asked Karen if she would mind helping me find Ripley House.  I knew the street address by heart – 4401 Lovejoy.  Perhaps Google Maps were in existence then…..I’m not sure….but somehow she navigated us through the streets out from town to the eastern part of the city and into the Second Ward.  We found it – not as large or as grand as I remembered, but still there.  That was the last time.  I think it has now been torn down.)