traveling with the bookmobile lady
by nancy russell forsythe

My mother, Frances Rushton, was a truck driver. I loved to tell people what she did and watch their eyes get wide.

When I started to school in 1951, Mama became the bookmobile librarian for Stanly County. Her first vehicle was a little, yellow truck that had compartments on the outside. Like a small airplane, its wings would open up to four rows of books on either side. In five years she tripled the number of readers in the county. So the library board in Albemarle, North Carolina purchased a huge, green and white truck, one that people could walk into, with interior walls covered in books.

Sometimes after school, Mama would take me along on the bookmobile. Like a celebrity, I sat in the high seat beside her, waving to people. I could see older folks and kids, white and colored, emerge from corn fields, garden patches, and rutted dirt roads. At one stop, a boy always rode up on a swayback mule.

“There she is, the Bookmobile Lady. Hurry up, get in line,” they yelled.
Mama said everyone deserved the right to read, according to Benjamin Franklin, the nation’s first librarian. If you lived in a drafty shack like old Addie Burris, or if your face was dark like the students at the colored school in Kingville, you could take books home to read.

Actually, one of the stops I liked best was the Kingville School, because that’s where I saw Mrs. Blondell, the English teacher. Mrs. Blondell, who grew up in Washington, D.C., always sounded cultured and dignified. I liked the way she dressed in tweed suits or silky dresses. Her panther-black hair was pulled into a chignon at the back of her head, and she reminded me of Daddy’s favorite singer, Lena Horne.

One Friday, Mama picked me up outside school. “Annie Neal, you want to ride with me to Kingville School? I’m getting the teachers’ lists for books.”
When we reached the old white-washed building, teachers began filing into the bookmobile with requests in hand. As the last of them left, Mrs. Blondell stepped inside. Mama was checking lists, and I was sorting cards into the alphabetical plastic dividers attached to a foot-long board. At age eleven, I acted like an official library assistant. When books were checked out, I stamped return dates on the lined paper fastened to the back, inside covers.
Mama looked up. “Mrs. Blondell, what can I get for you today?”

“I have a special request.” The teacher hesitated. “ I need permission to use some reference books uptown at the main library.”

“You do?”

She paused again, as if gathering courage. “My English class is studying Walt Whitman. He’s my favorite, since he wrote and worked in Washington.” Mrs. Blondell smiled. “I know I can’t bring my class to the reference section, so I thought I could do research in the Encyclopedia Britannica and Who’s Who in American Literature.” She added, “I used the Library of Congress, when I was a student.”

Mama nodded. “Let me talk to the head librarian about your coming uptown to use the reference section.”

Mrs. Blondell leaned closer. “I suspect this is a special request.”

My mother looked straight at her. “We’ll see.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rushton.” The teacher turned to go.

As we put the checkout supplies into desk slots, I wondered about her request. “Mama, why would Mrs. Blondell need permission to use the reference books at the town library?”

Even someone my age was trusted to take those heavy volumes off the shelves. I could almost smell the faint musty odor of their fragile pages and feel their pebble-like leather covers.

Mama shook her head. “It is a little unusual, because she is a Negro.”

“What’s wrong with . . .” I began to ask.

“Just come on now. We’ve got to get this truck uptown so you can get a ride home with your daddy.”

I knew that my mother changing the subject meant “enough said.” But the questions lingered. Two years ago, my father, who was a radio announcer, brought home a story off the teletype machine that said colored children could go to school with whites, but it hadn’t happened yet in Albemarle. In Charlotte, some Negro men had demanded to eat at the airport’s restaurant. Daddy said they were served because the airport was run by the federal government. What about the library?

That evening, Mama drove up from work, slammed the back door and glared at Daddy and me. We were watching TV in the den off the kitchen.

“I’m as mad as sin,” she said in a steely voice.

“What you talking about, Frances?” Daddy asked.

“It’s about reference books that Mrs. Blondell wants to use.” She sank into a chair in the den. “Nealson, after you picked up Annie Neal, I stopped by to see Mrs. Aycock."

She was the head librarian, and Mama told us the meeting went something like this . . .

“Mrs. Aycock, do you have a minute?”

She waved my mother into her office. Sitting in front of the large oak desk, Mother explained Mrs. Blondell’s request.

“Frances, you really do a wonderful job and people love you to death.” Mrs. Aycock sighed.

“Thank you, but what about Mrs. Blondell? Should I take the reference books to her or should she come in here?”

Her boss stiffened and looked down the nose of her reading glasses. “Well dear, you need to explain the policy to her.”

“The policy.” Mother kept her eyes on Mrs. Aycock.

“I’m sure you know how to handle it.” The head librarian frowned and began to shuffle some papers.

Mother got up, and before reaching the door, said, “Let me see if I understand you. Because Mrs. Blondell is a Negro, she can’t come into this library to use the reference books, and because of the rules, I can’t remove them to loan to her?”

“Now I think you understand,” Mrs. Aycock said coldly.

“Do you realize that this woman has used the Library of Congress in Washington, DC?”

“Washington, DC is not Albemarle, or haven’t you noticed?”

As we ate supper in the kitchen, we watched the six o’clock news on the television in the den. The Charlotte reporter talked about the weather, livestock, sports and finally . . . the Ku Klux Klan.

I stopped chewing a piece of country style steak. The KKK was a frightening sight – white-robed men riding on horses and carrying torches … burning crosses in corn fields … shouting from bullhorns. I had seen pictures of them in the Charlotte Observer, and Mama and Daddy talked about a colored man from Myrtle Beach being shot by the Klan. Now the TV was saying that the Klan was in Charlotte trying to recruit new members. I watched, as the Grand Dragon handed out leaflets. Policemen were off to the side, slapping their night sticks into their palms. Then the reporter announced that the KKK could show up in Salisbury and Albemarle over the next couple of days.

“Daddy, what are we gonna do? They might come here.”

“They’re not breaking any laws, honey.”

“But, I’m scared.”

The next morning was Saturday, and I was on the sofa in the den listening to the Top Twenty Platter Party, hosted by my own father on WKBZ. Mama left early to go to the library, saying she forgot something yesterday. When she got home about eleven, she was carrying two large, paper bags.
I groaned as she switched off the radio. “We’ve got to get busy here. I’m getting down the china, and you might need to polish that silver, Annie Neal.”
I sat up. “What on earth for?”

“We’re having a visitor. I ordered a coconut cake from the bakery.”
From the bags she pulled out two large reference books, dusted them off with a dish towel and placed them carefully on the kitchen table.

“Mama, you stole those books.” I eyed her suspiciously.

“No, these are on loan to me.” A faint smile crossed her face. “And nobody knows I have them.”

We both knew that reference books were not to be checked out of the library, and I knew Mrs. Blondell was coming to our house.

Mama was taking china from the cabinet. The silver was out, and the jar of polish was on the counter. We had a lot to do in a short time, and I didn’t like what was happening. I thought Mrs. Blondell was a great lady, but we had never entertained a colored person. Would she come right up to the front door? She should go around back. Better yet, she ought to come at night, when the neighbors wouldn’t see her. The library might find out. Mama could lose her job. She could go to jail for stealing.

Daddy came home from the radio station, carrying the coconut cake. So he was in on this, too, I thought. He got out the card table and folding chairs, spread a lace table cloth and put down linen napkins. Around one thirty, I began to sneak around to each window in the house, closing the blinds. Soon my father noticed.

“Don’t you dare do that, Annie Neal. I’m proud of your mother,” he said and marched behind me as I went through the drill of opening all the blinds.
At two o’clock, Mrs. Blondell, dressed in her Sunday best navy blue suit, got out of her car and walked to our front door. Daddy greeted her as she held out her hand. He shook it and then Mama did. It was the first time I had seen white people shake the hand of a Negro.

“I appreciate what you’re doing, Mrs. Rushton.” The teacher handed Mama a blazing, gold chrysanthemum plant.

Mama took it, saying, “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”
We sat at the table, ate cake and sipped iced tea. Mrs. Blondell told us about living in Washington and how she wanted some of her best students to go there to college.

“How did you get to use the Library of Congress?” I asked her, since it seemed strange that she had been allowed.

She smiled. “Annie Neal, in the nation’s capital, every citizen has the right to use library books.” She paused and looked at my mother. “I hope that you, your daughter and my students will all be able to visit that building one day.”
Mama nodded. “We’re honored to have you use the county library’s books at our house today.”

Then she brought out the prized books and suggested that Mrs. Blondell may want to do her research in private. My parents and I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

When Mrs. Blondell was finished, Mama saw her to the door as I peered out my bedroom window. I couldn’t help but look up and down the street to see if any neighbors were out. Some were raking leaves and glanced up as Mrs. Blondell walked to her car. I could see them frown and then quickly look at the ground. I was still worried about my mother’s “borrowing” the books and what might happen to us when word got around town about Mrs. Blondell’s visit.

The next day on Sunday, we went to the First Baptist Church, located one block from the square. Before entering, I looked in all directions and was relieved to see no burning crosses and men in sheets. After church I overheard people whisper that the Klan could still be headed to Albemarle, and all the police were on alert. When we drove up our driveway and entered the back door, I felt safer.

Mama stopped in the kitchen, pulled off her gloves and said, “Open the door in the living room, honey. We need some sunshine.”

Pulling the front door open, I suddenly jumped back. Clutching my chest, I saw a package wrapped in brown paper, propped up against the front step.
“There’s a time bomb out here!” I screamed, remembering that Martin Luther King’s house had been blown up. “It’s got to be from the Klan.”

“What are you talking about?” Daddy called out.

“The Klan must have found out Mrs. Blondell was here. I bet the neighbors told.”

My parents rushed to the front door. Mama picked up the package, brought it in, shook it and put her ear to it.

“Annie Neal, you’ve been watching too many detective shows. This doesn’t tick.” She carefully set the package down on the coffee table.

“Please, please don’t open it.” I retreated to the corner of the living room.
Daddy sat next to Mama on the sofa, and she began unwrapping it. “It is addressed to Mrs. Rushton.” She glanced at me. “Such foolishness about the KKK.”

I noticed how slowly she undid the string holding the brown paper. Taking off the wrapper, there was a cardboard box inside. I put my hands in front of my eyes and heard the rustle of paper. Then, a gasp.

“My goodness, how beautiful,” Mama sighed.

I peeked through my fingers. “What is it?”

Mama lifted out a large volumn, bound in rich, maroon leather. The edges of the pages were golden, as was the embossed title on the cover - Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman. Daddy and I gathered around as she opened it.
Inside was written in elegant script, “Roberta Blondell - 1942.”

My mother read from the next page, “To my friend, Frances Rushton – 1956.”
We huddled close to each other and looked through the volume of poetry. We even took turns reading aloud from it.

Mama smiled and said, “She shouldn’t have given me this. It’s too much of a treasure.”

“But you can’t give it back,” Daddy advised. “It would offend her.”

All that afternoon and night, I went back into the living room to pick up the book, run my fingers over the leather cover, smell its richness, open it and read it.

The Ku Klux Klan never appeared in Albemarle that Sunday.
At the breakfast table on Monday, Mama told me, “Before your Daddy left for work this morning, we talked about the book and decided it is too beautiful to keep here at home.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“You’ll see,” was all she said. “Hurry up. It’s time to leave for school.”

Mama grabbed the two heavy paper sacks that she brought home on Saturday. I smelled the leather volume of poetry one last time before carrying it to the car.

That afternoon, my mother picked me up. As I started to jump into the front seat of the bookmobile, she told me to go back into the library section. I opened the back door and climbed the steps. There on the checkout table was Leaves of Grass, with a hand-lettered sign saying,

“A Gift to the Stanly County Library,
From Mrs. Roberta Blondell.”

 

Nancy Russell-Forsythe, Ph.D. is a writer of short stories and non-fiction articles, as well as a psychologist. After moving to Asheville in 1998, she decided to refocus her life and work; Nancy began writing fiction based on her colorful parents, a country western radio personality and a bookmobile librarian, and her hometown of Albemarle, NC, in the 1950’s and ‘60’s. She is working with local author and teacher, Tommy Hays, as a member of the Great Smokies Writers’ Group.
[ nrussell@lbltd.com, 828 681-8999 ]