FAMILY – CHAPTER TWO – HELEN
CHAPTER TWO
Helen
Helen Gertrude (Eagerton) Mason
Born: September 12, 2021
Died: March 09, 2008
86 years, 5 months, 26 days
One
Before I begin Helen’s story, I want to make clear that this is not just the story of my mother, but of someone whose life reflected the limits and expectations of her time. I have tried to see her not just through the eyes of her son, but as she was within the world she inhabited, a world that too often defined women by what they did for others rather than who they were themselves.
In this work my mother will be known as Helen. She never liked the name Gertrude and in her later years she dropped it completely. As a girl she was often called Gertie, a shortening of her given name that she disliked just as much. Clarke called her Shorty, a name she endured because of her height of only five feet two inches.
As I look back on her life, at least as I know it, she seemed to be plagued by names that did not suit her. Some were awkward, and in the case of Shorty, openly demeaning.
The name Gertrude was fashionable in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It carried a sense of tradition, style, and intellect. Notable women of the 1920s bore the name, including Gertrude Stein and Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney. But for a girl born in the Deep South it seemed out of place. Perhaps the name simply fell out of favor with time, which is why she chose to abandon it.
Helen was born in Montgomery, Alabama, to a World War One veteran, Millard Eagerton, and his wife Clara. She was the oldest of four children. Over the next several years the family grew with the addition of Faustine, Margaret, and Horace.
Millard had served in France during the war in an artillery brigade. When he returned home, he and Clara settled in Montgomery, where he worked as a streetcar conductor. Montgomery was the first city in the Western Hemisphere to operate a citywide electric streetcar system. Known as the “Lightning Route,” it had begun service in April 1886 and continued until April 1936, when it was replaced by buses.
The Eagerton family lived at 25 Ann Street, a semi-rural part of Montgomery where they kept a cow, chickens, and a small garden. I know little of the area as it was in 1921, but today there is a Baptist church on one side of the street and a brick ranch style home on the other. Even now one can see traces of what it must have been like when Helen was born, with open lots and space for livestock and vegetables.
During her childhood Ann Street was still a dirt road. The family’s wood frame house had electricity and running water, which was unusual outside of town at the time. It was a modest place with a front porch, nothing elaborate but serviceable and cozy. I do not know much more about the house itself, but mother often spoke of her fond memories there and of her childhood in Montgomery.
As the oldest child, Helen was present for the birth of each of her siblings and was expected to help her mother Clara with household chores, including caring for the younger children. She recalled to me that Margaret, the youngest was essentially handed to her shortly after birth. At about seven years old she was expected to look after her baby sister whenever she was not in school. Clara had her hands full managing the household, and it was common in those years for older children to care for their younger brothers and sisters. Later in life Helen and Margaret remained especially close and shared much time together.
Maxwell Field, later Maxwell Air Force Base, was established in Montgomery around 1920 as an aviation training base. Mother remembered that as a child, whenever the sound of an airplane engine was heard, people up and down the street would step outside to watch the magical machine pass overhead. She told me this story many times, and I share it because it captures the wonder of the moment. Aviation was still new, less than twenty years old, and in those days horses and wagons were as common on the streets as automobiles.
Two
In 1936 the streetcar line in Montgomery shut down, and with that Millard lost his job as a conductor. There were choices to be made. He might have stayed in Montgomery and searched for new work. The family could have returned to Coffee County near Enterprise, Alabama, and gone back to farming. Instead, Millard chose to move his family south to Chumuckla, Florida.
Because of his service in the Marine Corps during World War One, Millard was given preference for work at the Construction and Repair Department on board the Pensacola Naval Air Station. This department, later called the Naval Air Rework Facility, became his workplace for the rest of his life. He was employed as a mechanic repairing airplanes and equipment, and this steady job provided security for the family.
Chumuckla was forty miles from the Navy Yard, a long commute in those days, but it gave Millard something more than a paycheck. He was able to purchase forty acres of land and a house. The family could keep livestock, plant crops, and live with the independence that came from farming while Millard’s wages brought in a reliable income.
Northwest Florida was ruled by the pine industry. Lumber, turpentine, and pulp shaped whole towns like nearby Pace, named for the mill owner James G. Pace. For families like the Eagertons, this world offered both opportunity and hard labor.
Life in Chumuckla during the 1930s was simple and demanding. The Eagerton’s forty acres required constant work: milking cows, feeding animals, drawing water from the well, and cooking on a wood stove. Corn, peanuts, and cotton were grown in small patches, and nights ended early by the glow of kerosene lamps. Red clay roads stretched between scattered farms, and any trip to town meant a long day’s journey.
Community life centered on church and school. Sundays brought neighbors together for worship, fellowship, and news. The local schoolhouse served children of many ages, lessons written on chalkboards and slates. Social events were few and modest—revivals, picnics, and the occasional trip into town—but they gave families something to look forward to.
For Helen, the move to Chumuckla was her first encounter with hardship and self-reliance, lessons that would shape her view of the world. The pine forests stretched endlessly, cicadas and whippoorwills filled the air, and the distant hum of sawmills mixed with the sounds of farm life. It was a place where children learned responsibility early, where survival depended on family effort, and where the rhythms of church, school, and land defined daily life.
Three
For Helen, the move to Chumuckla marked the beginning of a new life. Montgomery had been a small city with streetcars, schools, and neighbors close at hand. Chumuckla was something very different. It was red clay roads, scattered farms, and the smell of pine heavy in the air. Life there was harder, more isolated, and more demanding, yet it shaped her in lasting ways.
As the oldest child she was expected to work alongside Clara, tending the garden, helping with the livestock, and caring for her younger brother and sisters. Millard’s wages at the Navy Yard kept food on the table, but the land was expected to provide much of what the family needed. For Helen, girlhood quickly gave way to responsibility.
Helen was about fifteen years old when the family moved to Chumuckla. The local school did not offer high school, so she attended Tate High School in Cantonment, Florida, about twenty miles from Chumuckla. The distance was considerable in those days, but Helen made the adjustment quickly. Her slender figure, bright eyes, and natural attractiveness helped her fit in with ease, and she soon found herself accepted and popular among her classmates.
It was at Tate High School that she met Clarke. From the beginning he noticed her, and once he set his sights on her there was little doubt about the outcome. Clarke had boyish good looks, a growing self-confidence, and the beginnings of the charm that would serve him for the rest of his life. He pursued Helen with determination, and she, still so young and impressionable, responded to his attention.
Clarke won her heart, and with it her love, something that would bind her to him for most of her life, even if it did not always bind him to her. For Helen, the relationship was filled with hope and the dream of a future. For Clarke, it was one more prize to be claimed, and once won, he moved on as he always did, leaving Helen to carry the weight of promises that were not always kept.
Helen was taken with Clarke, and before long he brought her to meet his family. The visit opened her eyes to a world far different from the one she had known.
Helen had grown up in what could be called a modest middle class household. There was always food on the table, clothing that was decent and presentable, and even some of the modern conveniences of the time such as electricity and basic appliances. Life was not lavish, but it was secure.
Clarke’s world could not have been more different. He had grown up in abject poverty, and what Helen encountered at his family’s home left a lasting impression. A typical family meal, she later described, might consist of pork or chicken, but not the good cuts. Instead there would be pork chops that could not be sold, or chicken backs, necks, and feet. More often the meat on the table came from the woods and fields: squirrel or rabbit, sometimes even a gopher tortoise. Whatever could be hunted or caught became the meal.
Vegetables came from the garden, usually greens, and rice was always present in abundance because it was cheap, filling plates when little else was available. Biscuits might be on the table, but seldom anything store bought. Even then, the food was not enough to satisfy everyone. Meals were a competition. Each person took what they could before someone else got to it first, and those who hesitated often left the table hungry.
For Helen the experience was shocking. What had been ordinary and secure in her own home contrasted sharply with the scarcity and struggle she saw in Clarke’s. It was her first real glimpse of the difference in their worlds, a difference that would shape the course of their life together.
This was during the Great Depression, when life was difficult for nearly everyone. Yet Millard Eagerton had secured a good job, and while it was not one to bring wealth, it was steady work. His wages kept the family in their home, clothed, and with food on the table. There was never extravagance, but there was always enough.
That steadiness stood in sharp contrast to the world Clarke came from. The Mason family lived on the edge of want, scraping by on whatever could be raised, hunted, or gathered. Clarke grew up in a household where food was never guaranteed, where clothing was worn until it was threadbare, and where survival meant seizing what was available before it was gone.
For Helen, the difference between her own upbringing and Clarke’s was striking. She came from stability, from a home where meals were regular, where there was a sense of order, and where the basics of comfort were present. Clarke’s background was marked by scarcity, disorder, and the hard lessons of poverty. Their meeting at Tate High School brought these two worlds together, and while Helen was drawn to Clarke’s confidence and charm, she would soon learn that the divide between their families was more than circumstance It reflected values and habits that would follow them for the rest of their lives.
Four
Now, as I was many years from being born, I know little of the details of Helen and Clarke’s courtship and marriage except from fragments of stories shared over the years. What I do know is that they married in early 1939, likely before finishing high school. Judging from the timing, since their first child, John Allen, was born in late December of that same year, it seems probable that Helen was already pregnant when she and Clarke wed. If so, it would explain much about the hurried marriage and the challenges that followed.
They began their life together in a small house near the rest of the Mason family along Nine Mile Road on the western side of Pensacola. It was not part of the city proper, but a rural settlement surrounded by fields and pine woods. It was a hard and simple life; unlike anything Helen had known before. She had entered a world where every day was work, where comfort was scarce, and where poverty was a constant companion.
The Great Depression had settled heavily over Northwest Florida. In towns like Pensacola and in the countryside beyond, most families lived close to the edge. Money was scarce, and so was food. In the rural pine country, people survived by growing gardens, raising a few chickens or hogs, and trading what little they could produce. Many families lived in unpainted wooden houses with tin roofs, without running water or electricity. Water came from a hand-pumped well, and baths were taken in tin washtubs filled with water heated on the wood stove. Laundry was scrubbed on a washboard and hung on lines strung between trees. Clothes were patched and re-patched. Meat was a luxury, often wild game and stretched with rice or bread to make it last.
Life for the poor was measured by endurance rather than progress. Work was seasonal, wages low, and hope often deferred. Men labored in the woods cutting timber, at the mills, or wherever day work could be found. Women worked endlessly to make homes livable, cooking, cleaning, tending gardens, and raising children in conditions that allowed little rest.
By contrast, a typical middle-class family of that same time and place lived a very different life. Millard Eagerton’s position at the Pensacola Naval Air Station provided steady pay, government benefits, and a measure of security that few families knew. The Eagerton’s’ home in Chumuckla had electricity, a water heater, and a bathtub. There was always food on the table and clean clothes for the children. While they were not wealthy, they had stability and comfort enough to call their lives fortunate in a time when so many had almost nothing.
Helen’s marriage to Clarke pulled her from that modest comfort into the rough world of the rural poor. She had taken care of her younger siblings as a girl, but she had never known what it was to live without running hot water or indoor plumbing. Baths now meant heating water on the stove and pouring it into a basin or tub. Dishes were washed the same way. The small house had few conveniences, and every chore demanded effort and time.
Now there was also a baby to care for. John Allen’s birth came at the end of 1939, and Helen, barely eighteen, found herself a wife, a mother, and a caretaker all at once. Each day brought a new round of work. She tended her son, helped on Nat and Wilma Mason’s small farm, and tried to keep her own small home in order. Clarke worked in Pensacola at a furniture store, gone most of the day, while Helen stayed behind, isolated and burdened with responsibilities far beyond her years.
She had dinner ready when Clarke returned home, maintaining the routines expected of a young wife in those times. Yet she must have felt the strain of the life she had entered, the weight of poverty, the harshness of Clarke’s nature, and the loneliness of being far from the warmth and security of her parents’ home in Chumuckla. It could not have been easy for Helen, and it is likely that only the customs and expectations of the day kept her from leaving and returning home to Millard and Clara.
Five
The year 1940 was difficult for Helen and Clarke. The Great Depression had dragged on for more than a decade, and though signs of recovery were beginning to appear, the South still felt its grip. Rural communities around Pensacola were slow to rebound. Jobs were scarce, wages were low, and poverty was a fact of life for many families. The Eagertons had managed to stay afloat through Millard’s steady work at the Navy Yard, but Helen and Clarke were not so fortunate.
Helen found employment at the Sears and Roebuck store in downtown Pensacola, earning ten cents an hour. It was steady work, and though it provided little, she was thankful to have it. Clarke worked only a few blocks away at Marston and Quina Furniture, a large and well known store on Palafox Street. Each morning they traveled into town, leaving John Allen with Clarke’s mother Wilma during the day. Even with two incomes, their combined wages barely met expenses. Food, rent, and clothing consumed nearly everything they earned, and any unexpected cost could send them into debt.
The national mood was anxious. The Depression had worn down the spirit of the country, and stories of wars in Europe and Asia filled the newspapers. Factories in the North were beginning to stir again as orders for war materials increased, but the South remained largely agricultural and poor. For men like Clarke, the promise of military service held both patriotic and practical appeal. It offered a steady paycheck, food, and the hope of something better than scraping by on the edge of poverty.
In 1940 Clarke tried to enlist in the armed forces, but he was rejected as unfit for duty because of flat feet. The rejection struck him deeply. It was not simply the loss of opportunity; it was a blow to his pride, one that would echo through his life in the way he sought control when he could not command respect. He had been searching for a way out of hardship, and the military might have provided it. Being turned away left him angry, bitter, and embarrassed.
Helen bore her own burdens quietly. Each morning she put on her work clothes and went to Sears, often standing on her feet for hours at a time. Her pay was meager, but it gave her a sense of independence and purpose. More than that, it gave her a reason to leave the small house on Nine Mile Road and escape the constant tension that filled it. Life with the Mason family was stifling. Clarke’s mother ruled her household with the same sharp tongue that Clarke had inherited, and Helen found little peace under that roof.
She was surviving but not thriving. Clarke’s personality filled every space. He was demanding, restless, and accustomed to being obeyed. Though he never raised a hand in anger, his words and manner carried authority that left little room for disagreement. Helen, for her part, was intelligent, capable, and increasingly independent. Their small frame house became a battleground of wills. Clarke fought to assert his dominance; Helen fought quietly for her own voice.
The course of their lives changed in December 1941 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and the United States entered World War Two. Almost overnight, the nation was transformed. Factories that had been idle roared back to life. Men enlisted in droves, and women joined the workforce in record numbers to support the war effort.
Clarke was among those drafted. After his earlier rejection, the military’s new need for manpower swept away previous disqualifications. He was called into service with the Navy and sent to Fort Dix, New Jersey, for basic training. From there he traveled to San Francisco and was assigned to an LST, one of the landing ships that carried men and equipment into battle in the South Pacific.
Helen was left behind to care for their young son. John Allen was full of energy and mischief, a challenge for a mother on her own. I know little about her life during those years, but it could not have been easy. Communication with those overseas was limited, and months could pass without word. Helen worked when she could, cared for her child, and leaned on her family for help.
Wilma, Clarke’s mother, left Florida during the war to work in Philadelphia, taking her youngest child, Louise (known to all the family as Sis) with her. Wilma had secured a job loading ammunition onto ships at the Navy Yard there. Helen spent at least part of the war years in Chumuckla with Millard and Clara, though how long she stayed there I do not know. The long separations and uncertainty must have been a constant strain.
Somewhere during that time, perhaps before Clarke’s deployment to the South Pacific or during a brief leave home, Helen became pregnant again. Their second child, Mitzie, was born in August 1944. To the best of my knowledge, Clarke was away at the time of her birth, and the details of those days are lost to me. What remains is the simple truth that Helen brought another child into the world in the middle of war, hardship, and absence, carrying on with quiet strength as she always did.
Six
As I have mentioned before, the details of Helen’s life before my third or fourth birthday are mostly lost to me. I was either not yet born or too young to remember much of anything. Many of the images that I now associate with those early years come not from memory but from photographs and silent 8 millimeter home movies that I saw later. My understanding of those scenes was shaped by the adults who narrated them for me. Other impressions were gathered through stories told over the years by family and friends who remembered those times more clearly than I ever could.
What I do know is that after the war ended and Clarke returned home, life entered a new phase filled with changes and uncertainty. The family moved first to Albertville, Alabama, and later to DeFuniak Springs, Florida. Somewhere between those moves there was a divorce, a reconciliation, the building of a house by the lake, and my birth. Those were difficult years, though much of that difficulty was hidden from me at the time.
My first true memory, at least as best as I can recall, is of sitting in my mother’s lap in her rocking chair in the bedroom at the house on Back Lake while she read to me. My mother loved to read. It was one of her enduring joys, and one of the greatest gifts she passed on to me. I can still picture the soft rhythm of the chair rocking back and forth, the sound of her voice, and the comforting warmth of being held close. Those moments remain among the happiest and most peaceful of my early life.
Helen stayed with me from the time I was born until I began kindergarten at the Mary Love School in the fall of 1960 when I was five years old. That summer she took her first job of my lifetime, working for the United States Census Bureau, recording information about the people living throughout Walton County, Florida.
I recall only fragments of that summer, but certain images remain. I remember her driving the 1960 Rambler station wagon along dusty roads, stopping at homes scattered across the county. Often I sat in the car while she went inside to speak with families and fill out the census forms. When the heat became unbearable, she would let me come inside with her. At other times I stayed in the car with the windows rolled down, reading children’s books or watching the world drift by.
That was the first summer of real memories for me. The recollections are scattered and incomplete, yet they mark the beginning of my awareness, the point at which I became a sentient observer of my own life. Nothing remarkable happened that summer, yet the fact that I remember it at all makes it significant. It was the moment I began to see the world not only as a child within it but as someone beginning to understand it.
Seven
Kindergarten was a half day, Monday through Friday. The school was run by Mary Love Andrews and Emily Daneley. They maintained the small private kindergarten with just the two of them and an African American woman who cleaned and prepared snacks for the children. There were about twenty five to thirty children enrolled at any given time. My mornings were filled with stories, songs, games, and lessons that made learning feel like play. There were also the daily naps, which I did not enjoy at all.
While I was at kindergarten, Helen worked as the secretary at the First Methodist Church, where we also attended Sunday services. At the end of the school day, I would walk the few blocks to the church office and spend a couple of hours there until she finished work. During that time, I would read, color, or sometimes explore the church grounds, fascinated by the quiet, the musty smells, and the light streaming through the tall windows.
The church job was good for Helen. She seemed to thrive when she had meaningful work to do each day. She managed the office with precision and grace, handling the Sunday bulletin, scheduling the pastor’s visits and office hours, maintaining the church accounts, and organizing everything that kept the small congregation running smoothly. For her, it was more than a job; it was a place of belonging, a space where her skills and temperament found purpose beyond the daily demands of home and family.
Mitzie was in high school, in the eleventh grade during that year of 1960 to 1961. Clarke was away most of the time, traveling for work, and so it was just the three of us at home from Monday morning until Friday afternoon. The days passed quietly and predictably. The weeks were calm and steady, the kind of ordinary rhythm that brings a sense of peace to a household. But that calm never lasted. It always ended when Friday came.
The weekends were like living in a different world. The air in the house changed as if a storm were moving in, and in some ways it was. It felt like climbing a mountain and sensing the air grow thinner, the chest tightening as the body struggles for breath. There was tension everywhere, and we all learned to move carefully, speak softly, and watch our steps, hoping to avoid drawing Clarke’s attention. What had been peaceful during the week became uneasy and frightening by Friday evening.
Helen worked hard to prepare meals that would please him. They had to be good, or he would complain loudly. Mitzie could count on being watched closely whenever she went out on a date. She was required to give a complete itinerary, with exact times and locations. Clarke often insisted that she call in during the evening, and he was known to show up without warning to confirm that she was where she said she would be and with whom she had claimed to be. It was humiliating and oppressive for her, and I understand now why she was so ready to escape to college the moment she graduated from high school.
Eight
The fall of 1961 marked my first year in grade school at Maude Saunders Elementary. I was six years old and full of restless energy. Mitzie was a senior at Walton County High School, which stood on the same block as my school. It was the only year that we attended school at the same time, and I remember feeling proud that my big sister was nearby. We rode the bus together each morning, and Mitzie always made sure I found my way safely into my classroom and back onto the bus in the afternoon.
Mother was still working at the church, though her hours had grown a little longer by then. Mitzie and I often spent the late afternoons together after school. Those were quiet times, filled with ordinary routines and little excitement. There is not much that stands out from that school year, except for my teacher, Mrs. Gillis, an elderly woman who seemed to dislike children, or at least me.
Mrs. Gillis was strict and sharp in her manner, always watching for something to correct. I was bored to tears in that classroom, restless and fidgeting in my seat. Everything she taught was material I had already learned in kindergarten, or sitting with my mother in her rocking chair, and she could not tolerate my inability to sit still. It seemed that almost every day she found some reason to paddle me. I dreaded school because of her, and even now I remember the smell of chalk dust and the heavy silence that filled that room whenever she lifted her paddle to strike me.
At home, things were mostly calm during the week. When Clarke was away, our lives were steady and predictable. The house was peaceful, and there was little to upset anyone. Mother, Mitzie, and I lived in a kind of quiet rhythm that made sense to us. But everything changed when Clarke came home on Fridays. The calm turned to tension.
I began to notice, even at that young age, that Helen changed in subtle ways as the week went on. Early in the week she was calm, collected, and cheerful. By Thursday she was quieter, less patient, more easily startled. I did not understand it then, but I know now that she was bracing herself for his return. She was trying to hold everything together in the face of something she could not control.
In time I came to realize that my mother was struggling with more than exhaustion. She carried the weight of depression and anxiety, though we had no words for it then. There was no one in DeFuniak Springs she could turn to for help. Therapy, as we know it now, did not exist in that small town. She coped in silence, keeping her pain hidden until it would spill over in tears or sudden anger at small things. I was too young to understand, but I suspect that Mitzie knew more than she ever said.
Every evening there was a phone call. The telephone would ring, and when Mother, or one of us answered, we would hear the operator say, “I have a collect call for Helen Mason.” We always declined, saying politely, “She is not in right now, may I take a message?” Then Clarke’s voice would come over the line, giving the number and the hotel where he was staying. It was a small deception to avoid paying for long distance calls, a trick that many traveling men used in those days. After the call ended, we would know where he was that night, and that was that.
What I did not know at the time, though I am certain that Mother knew and Mitzie at least suspected, was that Clarke’s travels were not spent in loneliness. There were women in most every town, and he knew them well. I came to understand this later, when I traveled with him during the summers. The hotel clerks, the waitresses, the secretaries in the offices he visited often greeted him with a familiarity that left little doubt about the nature of their relationship. The banter between them was too personal, too practiced.
I do not know the full story of the divorce that took place before my birth, but I am sure now that his behavior was the cause of it. His charm and arrogance drew women to him, and he saw no reason to resist. It was a pattern that continued throughout his life, right up until the day he collapsed and died. For Helen, it was a burden she carried in silence, year after year, as she tried to keep a family together that he so often seemed determined to pull apart.
Nine
Mitzie left for college at Florida State University in the fall of 1962. Her departure left Mother and me alone at home, with Clarke returning only on weekends and holidays. I was seven years old and in the second grade at Maude Saunders Elementary School. My teacher, Mrs. Beasley, was kind and patient. For the first time in my young school life, I made it through an entire year without a paddling. She understood me in a way that Mrs. Gillis never had.
Mother continued working at the church, and life moved along quietly through the weekdays. The rhythm of our days settled into a comfortable routine. Some evenings we went to a movie, either at the local drive in or at the Ritz Theater on Main Street. The films were never new releases but those from a few years earlier. I remember titles like On the Beach, Some Like It Hot, Gone With the Wind, Pillow Talk, Spartacus, and Please Do Not Eat the Daisies. Those movie nights became part of the gentle rhythm of our lives, a small joy that we both looked forward to two or three times a week.
Mother loved going to the movies, something Clarke never did with her. When we went to the drive in, she always prepared a meal for us to eat in the car, usually sandwiches and chips, sometimes with a few cookies or a candy bar. I would bring along quilts and blankets for the back seat, where I could stretch out and fall asleep before the movie ended. I almost never saw the endings. Mother would wake me when we got home, lift me gently from the car, and carry me to bed.
Those were peaceful times, filled with warmth and contentment. From Monday through Friday it was just the two of us. Mother worked during the day, and after school I would walk the few blocks to the church office to wait for her. I would read, do my homework, explore the surrounding streets and alleys, or simply sit quietly as she finished her work. When she was done, we would go to the Piggly Wiggly for groceries or head home for dinner. Evenings were spent watching television, going to the movies, or preparing for another day.
Each memory of that time feels soft and golden, like an old photograph. The days were calm, the nights safe and steady. It was a simple life, but it was ours. Just Mother and me, side by side, content in the quiet before the weekend storms returned.
Ten
Weekends and holidays were a different time altogether. Beginning on Thursday, I could already feel the tension building as Mother prepared for Clarke’s arrival on Friday. Her mood changed in small but unmistakable ways. She became quicker to anger, shorter of temper, and less patient. There was a nervous energy in the way she moved through the house, as though she were bracing for a storm that always came on schedule.
She cleaned every surface, washed our clothes, changed the sheets, and made certain that the kitchen was well stocked with the foods Clarke liked best. There was never a question of going out to eat when he was home. He would not allow it. In his mind, because he had to eat in restaurants all week while traveling, Helen was expected to cook for him on weekends.
So she did. There was Friday supper, Saturday breakfast and lunch, and then dinner on Saturday night when Clarke might take over the grill or fry fish, while Mother prepared all of the side dishes and cleaned up afterward. Sunday was another day of meals from morning to evening, unless company came in the afternoon, which often meant more grilling and more work for her. By Monday morning Clarke would eat breakfast, gather his things, and leave again. The moment the car pulled away the air in the house seemed to clear. Life returned to something normal for a few precious days.
Saturday nights were often set aside for playing bridge with friends or watching home movies, and sometimes both. The Heslers, Richard and Velma, who were my godparents, came often and sometimes brought their niece, Cathy Henn. She was several years older than me and always kind and patient. While the adults played cards, Cathy and I would sit on the floor with a board game or watch television together. At other times the Stevens’s, George and Ruby, would come over. I called them Uncle George and Aunt Ruby. Ruby would come to play an important role in our lives later on, and her name will return in this story again.
Through all of these gatherings, and through every weekend that Clarke was home, there was a deep undercurrent of tension that no one spoke of. Helen moved through those days like a woman walking on glass. The smallest thing could bring criticism or anger. If she forgot something, if a meal was not just right, or if Clarke felt that she had overstepped, there would be sharp words and cold silence. Sometimes she snapped back, usually when the pressure became too much to bear. But most of the time she simply endured it.
Looking back, I find it remarkable that she stayed. Perhaps Clarke’s absences during the week provided her with just enough space to recover, to find her footing again before the next storm. It was a fragile balance, but it was all she had.
At the time I did not understand how fragile my mother truly was. She was an intelligent and capable woman, independent in thought, but she lived in a world that gave her little freedom to be anything more than a wife, a mother, and a low paid employee. In the early years of the 1960s, women were expected to stay within narrow social boundaries. They were encouraged to find fulfillment in keeping house, raising children, and supporting their husbands. Even women who worked outside the home were usually limited to secretarial positions, teaching, nursing, or retail work. Few men believed that women could manage businesses, hold authority, or make decisions beyond domestic life.
That was the world Helen lived in. She was ambitious and longed for more than what society allowed. Working as the church secretary gave her purpose, but she wanted more. She wanted respect, independence, and a sense of her own worth beyond what Clarke or anyone else would permit her to have. Yet every attempt she made to reach beyond her prescribed role was met with resistance. The invisible walls built around women in those years were high and unyielding, and Helen’s spirit suffered for it.
In time her struggle began to show. There were periods when she simply could not go on. I remember at least once, though there were perhaps more times, when she was hospitalized for what people then called a nervous breakdown. That was the term of the day for what we now recognize as severe anxiety and depression. In those days there was no real understanding of mental illness, especially for women. It was whispered about, pitied, and often blamed on weakness or poor temperament.
When she was away, I stayed with my godparents or with neighbors who looked after me until she came home. When she returned, she was calmer, more rested, and for a while things would seem better. But the cycle always repeated. She held herself together as best she could, without the help of therapy or medication, and without the freedom to change her circumstances.
Even now, I marvel at her endurance. She never turned to alcohol or drugs, though they might have numbed her pain. She faced each day with quiet resolve, trapped between what she wanted to be and what the world allowed her to become. Helen was both strong and broken, a woman of her time who bore her suffering in silence, doing all she could to keep life steady.
Eleven
Time passed, and I grew older. Helen began working for the Walton County Sheriff’s Department in the administrative office. At first she was a secretary, but through steady effort and determination she moved up to bookkeeper and later to office manager. It was not an easy climb. Women in the 1960s and 1970s were only beginning to break into positions of real responsibility. Most men still believed that women belonged in clerical roles, answering phones and typing letters, not managing budgets or overseeing staff. Yet Helen proved herself through hard work, competence, and quiet persistence. She earned respect not by demanding it, but by showing that she deserved it.
She remained with the Sheriff’s Department for many years, with only a few interruptions. Changes in elected Sheriffs sometimes brought new personnel, and there were periods when she stepped away, only to return later. Eventually she retired from the department, leaving behind a reputation as a dependable, honest, and capable public servant.
By the time I was twelve years old, Helen was taking night classes at the University of West Florida in Pensacola. Twice a week, usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she would drive to the university after a full day of work. Her goal was to earn a degree in Criminal Justice, a field still dominated by men at the time. Before enrolling at the university, she had attended the local community college, where she earned her associate degree. She was proud of her achievements, and rightly so. For a woman of her generation, education represented both freedom and identity. I suppose I was proud too, though at that age I did not fully understand what it meant to her.
During those years I spent much of my time away at military school, so I was not very aware of what was happening at home. My focus was elsewhere, on friends, studies, and the rigid structure of that environment. When I returned to public school in the fall of 1971, I was mostly interested in reconnecting with old friends, finding new ones, and enjoying the freedom that came with being back home. The details of daily life between Helen and Clarke were not things I paid attention to. The weekends were the only times that drew my notice, as they had in earlier years.
It was around this time that Clarke was involved in a serious automobile accident. His injuries required a long recovery, and during that period he was home every day. The house, once peaceful during his absences, felt suddenly crowded. His constant presence made it difficult for Helen to maintain her routine or her sense of independence. For years she had built her life around the quiet balance of working, studying, and managing her time in his absence. Now that balance was gone.
Clarke’s health problems became apparent during his recovery. What had begun as an accident revealed deeper medical issues, and he never returned to full time work. He became more demanding, more restless, and more suspicious. Helen, still attending classes and working during the day, shared a ride to Pensacola with a coworker. I can no longer remember his name, and it does not matter now. What does matter is that Clarke’s jealousy flared.
In those days, a woman pursuing education and independence was still a challenge to traditional expectations. Many men of Clarke’s generation viewed a wife’s success as a personal threat, something that upset the natural order they believed in. Helen’s growth and ambition stood in contrast to the limitations Clarke wanted to impose. She was learning, achieving, and stepping into a world that had long been denied to her, while he was losing control over the one he had always ruled.
That quiet shift marked the beginning of the end of the balance they had maintained for so many years. Helen was changing. The world around her was changing. But Clarke, trapped in the past, could not or would not change with it.
Twelve
By the time I was sixteen or seventeen, the atmosphere in our home had changed again. Helen had long since proven herself at the Sheriff’s Department, rising from secretary to bookkeeper and finally to office manager. She was respected for her intelligence and reliability, yet she continued to seek more from life. Her years of night classes at the University of West Florida had opened her mind and given her confidence that she could achieve more than anyone had expected of her. Those classes were a kind of freedom, two evenings each week when she could step outside the confines of Clarke’s world and live, if only briefly, as her own person.
During that time, she began sharing a ride to Pensacola with a man who worked for the Florida Highway Patrol. He was not from the Sheriff’s Department but was stationed nearby, taking night courses as well. The arrangement began as convenience, but over time it became something deeper. The long drives between DeFuniak Springs and Pensacola gave them hours to talk, and in those hours Helen found kindness and understanding that she had not known in her marriage. After years of living under Clarke’s control, she had met someone who listened to her, respected her, and treated her as an equal.
In that brief window of her life, Helen was happy. She laughed again, dressed with more care, and carried herself with a quiet sense of hope. But it did not last. Clarke discovered the affair, and his response was swift and merciless. He confronted her with rage and humiliation, forbidding her to return to the university. Then, using his influence and connections, he contacted the man’s employer, the Florida Highway Patrol, and arranged for him to be transferred to another post far down the state. The man was gone within days, and Helen’s small spark of independence was crushed.
At that time, I was sixteen or seventeen and mostly concerned with my own world. I spent weekends with friends, often drinking beer and staying out late on Friday and Saturday nights. The turmoil at home was something I noticed only at a distance. I knew there was tension between my parents, but I did not understand the depth of it or the pain that my mother carried. I avoided home as much as possible. The house no longer felt safe or calm.
Clarke’s health had never fully recovered after his accident, and the long months of inactivity had deepened his restlessness. He was jealous, controlling, and bitter, quick to imagine betrayal and slow to forgive even the smallest offense. Helen’s work and studies had given her a sense of purpose, but Clarke’s constant suspicion now made that impossible.
It was during this time that Clarke purchased a motor home. He announced that they would travel, that they would see the country together now that he was “retired.” In truth, it was less a plan for leisure than another way to keep Helen close and dependent. She was forced to retire early from the Sheriff’s Department, leaving behind the job she loved and the people who respected her. I remember the emptiness in her expression when she told me. She said quietly, “Your father wants to travel, and he needs me with him.”
The travels began soon after. They drove across Florida and into other southern states, visiting relatives, staying at campgrounds, and spending long stretches of time alone on the road. To those who saw them passing through, they looked like a couple enjoying the rewards of a lifetime of work. But the truth was far different. Helen was a captive in a moving cage.
The woman who had once worked her way up from secretary to manager, who had attended college at night and dreamed of a better life, was fading. The laughter that had briefly returned during her months of schooling disappeared again. Clarke’s jealousy had closed every door she tried to open. She lived now in quiet resignation, fulfilling the role that society had demanded of women like her for generations: obedient wife, patient caretaker, silent companion.
The early 1970s were a time of change for women across the nation. Feminist voices were rising, laws were being challenged, and opportunities were beginning to open. But for Helen, that revolution came too late. Her spirit had been shaped by an older world, one that demanded sacrifice and silence. She had glimpsed freedom, but only for a moment. Then it was taken from her, leaving behind the same pattern of endurance that had defined her life from the beginning.
Thirteen
As I approached high school graduation in 1973, Helen was still working at the Sheriff’s Office and Clarke was tending to his store. I spent most of my time away from the tension of home. Only when absolutely necessary did I help at the store. Weeknights were spent across the lake, studying with friends, and weekends were spent at the beach with that same circle, drinking beer and enjoying the freedom of youth.
The store had begun to grow by then. Clarke had hired a full time secretary to keep it open during the week, which freed him to go fishing or take the motor home out on short trips. I found my own work after school and on weekends, taking jobs at the local sawmill and the Coca Cola bottling company. These were not glamorous positions, nor were they particularly satisfying, but they gave me spending money, kept gas in the car, and most importantly, kept me away from the store and its endless demands.
Helen persevered. Though she was no longer attending classes, she threw herself into her work at the Sheriff’s Office with renewed focus. I believe that her dedication was not just professional ambition but also a refuge from Clarke and the stifling atmosphere of home. Her office became her sanctuary, a place where she could feel capable and respected, far from the criticism that awaited her each evening.
It was a time of difficulty for all of us, though in different ways. For Helen, it was the quiet endurance of a woman whose hopes had been limited by circumstance. For Clarke, it was frustration and boredom as his health and control waned. For me, it was uncertainty and rebellion, the restless energy of a young man trying to find his place. I was in a grade above most of my friends and had no real plan for what would come after graduation. I worked through the summer, drank too much beer, and tried to make sense of the widening world beyond DeFuniak Springs.
During that time, I began dating Renee Bass, a girl I had known for many years. It was a casual relationship at first, nothing more than a teenage romance, but in time it would lead to marriage. At the moment, though, I was living from one day to the next, caught between childhood and whatever came next.
In the fall, I enrolled at Pensacola Junior College, hoping to find direction. But it did not last. I dropped out after only a few weeks. I could not settle into the rhythm of school again. Neither high school nor home life had prepared me for the independence and responsibility that college demanded. So, I went to work.
My first steady job was with a property appraisal company. I began in Walton County, then joined the crew as it traveled through Florida. When the project at home ended, I followed them to Tampa and later to the Jacksonville area. I was finally away from the chaos of home, living on the road, working hard, and discovering a sense of freedom that I had never known before.
Back in DeFuniak Springs, Helen and Clarke were left to their own routines. She continued working and enduring as she always had. He filled his days with the store, fishing, and the small satisfactions of routine. From a distance, their lives seemed settled, but beneath that surface the same quiet tension remained. I was relieved to be gone from it, at least for a while, free to shape my own life without the shadow of their struggles hanging over me.
As I was gaining my independence and beginning to build a life of my own, Helen and Clarke continued in their familiar routines. Their days followed a predictable pattern, the same rhythm that had governed their lives for years. On weekends they often took short trips to visit Helen’s relatives in Pensacola. At other times they would drive south in the springtime to go fishing in DeLand, Florida, or take brief excursions to nearby lakes and campgrounds. These trips became the way they passed time together, small escapes that offered a change of scenery but little real peace.
Clarke was restless and could not bear to stay home for long. He had always needed movement, distraction, and the illusion of purpose. Fishing trips, visits to family, and rides in the motor home gave him that. For Helen, these outings were something different. They were obligations dressed as leisure. She went along because she had little choice, because resistance meant argument and exhaustion. She smiled for the sake of appearances, but anyone who knew her well could see that her heart was elsewhere.
As the years passed, Clarke began pressing Helen more insistently to retire. He wanted her with him at all times, on the road, under his eye, part of the life he envisioned for their later years. Helen resisted for as long as she could. Her work at the Sheriff’s Office had become her last true source of independence, the one place where she was respected and free from his constant criticism. Each morning she left home with purpose, and each afternoon she returned carrying the quiet satisfaction of having done something meaningful.
Then came a local election that changed everything. A new sheriff was elected, and as often happened in those days, he replaced nearly all of the existing staff when he took office. Helen, despite her years of dedicated service, was among those dismissed. It was a devastating blow. Her job had been her refuge, and now it was gone, taken not by choice but by circumstance.
Clarke used the moment to press his case. He told her that it was time to stop working, that fate itself had made the decision for her. Worn down by disappointment and the years of argument, Helen finally yielded. She retired and agreed to travel with him. I remember how subdued she seemed during that period. There was no celebration, no joy at the thought of leisure. Her retirement was not an ending but a quiet capitulation, a closing of the last door that had opened briefly to her independence.
Once again she entered the small, enclosed world that Clarke controlled. The motor home became both her home and her confinement, and the road ahead stretched long and uncertain.
Fourteen
After her somewhat forced retirement, Helen resigned herself to traveling with Clarke. She accepted what she could not change, though it was never what she truly wanted. Yet, two things happened during that time that made her situation a little more bearable.
The first was that Clarke’s mother, Wilma Wheeler, my grandmother, came to live in DeFuniak Springs so that Clarke could help care for her. Grandmother was still fairly independent. She could drive, manage her own house, and handle most of her daily needs, but she required help with her affairs and some companionship. Of all her children, Clarke was the only one willing to take on that responsibility. It occupied much of his time, which meant that Helen had more of her own. The long trips in the motor home became less frequent, and the quiet time at home gave her space to breathe.
The second change was that Clarke had begun drinking more heavily. He spent most of his time in the motor home, even when it was parked in the driveway. He seemed to prefer it to the house, perhaps because it gave him the illusion of being on the road and in control. Whatever his reasons, it meant that Helen had more peace. For the first time in many years, she had the house largely to herself.
By this time I was back in DeFuniak Springs and was working for the County Ambulance Service as an emergency medical technician. It was demanding work, but it gave me time to spend with Mother and to help a little with Grandmother when needed. I was still seeing Renee, and our relationship was becoming more serious. Renee had few prospects after finishing high school, and as we talked about the future, marriage seemed the natural next step. We decided to marry the week after she graduated.
The wedding gave Helen new purpose. She threw herself into planning, organizing, and making sure every detail was in place. The rehearsal dinner was held at the house on the lake because Clarke refused to attend if it was held anywhere else. He insisted that there would be no restaurant or rented hall, only his home. It was another act of control, one of many, but Helen bore it with her usual grace. She prepared the food, arranged the tables, and made the house beautiful. It was exhausting for her, but she managed it all. She smiled for me, even when she was tired beyond words.
Through the years, six grandchildren had been born to my brother and sister, four from my brother and two from my sister. Helen loved them all dearly. She was happiest when they visited, though even then Clarke tried to make himself the center of attention. He demanded their focus, showing them the boat, the fishing rods, or whatever story he wanted to tell that day. Helen, knowing she could never compete, found her own quiet way to love them. She read to them, listened to their stories, and offered the kind of gentle affection that children never forget. She took what moments she could and made them her own.
Time drifted on. The days passed, and life settled into a quiet rhythm. Helen continued to find ways to stay active and connected. She volunteered during tax season, helping people fill out their forms, and took part in small civic projects around town. These activities gave her a sense of purpose, of still being useful. She visited her sisters and brother whenever she could and spent time with her mother, Clara, when possible. Occasionally, she went away for a few days, staying with family or friends, taking time to rest and to find her peace.
In those later years, Helen seemed to reach an understanding with her life. It had not been the life she had dreamed of, but she had learned to find contentment in small ways. Her kindness, her patience, and her quiet strength remained constant. She had lived through years of difficulty and disappointment, but somehow she found calm within it all. Life continued, and so did she.
Fifteen
Time passes, things happen, and life continues. The years moved steadily forward, carrying both joy and sorrow. Helen’s mother, Clara, passed away in 1983. Grandmother Wheeler, Wilma, followed in 1985. Clarke lived on for another twelve years, meeting his end in 1997. In the time between, life unfolded in its ordinary but meaningful ways.
Renee and I married and began a family of our own. We had two sons, Ryan and Robert, and Robert especially became the light of Helen’s later years. She loved being a grandmother, and her visits were always filled with laughter, stories, and quiet affection. Clarke and Helen traveled often during those years, taking long trips across the country. They visited every state in the nation except Alaska and even spent time in Hawaii.
Eventually they sold the house on the lake, much against Helen’s wishes but because Clarke wanted to sell it and built another near Clarke’s store on a small creek. It was a pretty place, quieter and easier to manage as they grew older. Yet, for all their travels and the years they spent together, they continued to live separate lives within the same household. Clarke spent most of his time in the motor home, which had become his preferred space. Helen lived in the house, keeping her routines, tending to her cat, April, and visiting friends and family when she could.
Clarke drank heavily, smoked his ever present pipes constantly, and gained a great deal of weight. His health declined slowly, though he seldom admitted it. Brick had retired from the Navy by then, and he and Clarke spent much of their time together on fishing trips, traveling to lakes and rivers throughout the South. Those trips gave Clarke something to look forward to, and perhaps they helped keep him alive a little longer.
Helen continued to live quietly, visiting us in Pace whenever she could. She loved spending time with her grandchildren and with her family. Those visits were happy occasions for her, moments of genuine joy amid the familiar strains that always seemed to hover around Clarke. He and I never managed to find real peace with one another. There was always a distance between us, a tension born from years of misunderstanding and unspoken resentment.
Even so, there were good times. Family meals at holidays, birthday celebrations, graduations, and weddings brought everyone together for a while. The laughter, the food, and the shared memories gave the illusion of harmony, if only for a few hours. Clarke and Brick eventually sold the store and moved on from that chapter of their lives. For Helen, it meant less obligation and more freedom to spend time doing the things she enjoyed, even if only in small ways.
Those years were quieter for her. She had endured so much, and by then she had learned the art of acceptance. She lived with dignity, compassion, and a steady calm that had carried her through every trial. The storms of her life had passed, but the marks they left behind remained, softened only by time and by her enduring strength.
Sixteen
Before telling of Clarke’s death, some background is necessary.
In the early years of life on the lake, it had been customary for Helen and Clarke to entertain friends on Saturday evenings. Those gatherings usually centered around the card game bridge. I have mentioned this before, but it is worth returning to now, because the people involved would resurface in unexpected ways. Among the regular guests were George and Ruby Stevens, a couple who lived in town and seemed to share a close friendship with my parents. My godparents, Richard and Velma Hestler, were also frequent visitors. On those summer nights the house would be full of conversation, laughter, and the clatter of cards on the table while I played quietly nearby or drifted off to sleep to the sound of their voices.
Years later, after the bridge parties had long ended and time had carried everyone into different phases of life, the Stevens simply disappeared from our circle. There was no mention of them, no explanation offered or asked for. They were just no longer there. Only when Clarke died did their names come back into focus. George had died years earlier, but Ruby was there when Clarke died, and in that moment the years of silence made sense. It became clear that Clarke and Ruby had been involved in a relationship that went far beyond friendship. All of the people directly connected to that relationship are now gone, and the details will likely never be known. And truly, why does it matter now?
At the time of Clarke’s death, Helen was visiting her sisters and brother as well as us in Pace. Brick called to tell me that Clarke had suffered a massive stroke and had been taken to the hospital in Dothan, Alabama. Mother began asking questions almost immediately. She knew that Clarke had been alone, at least according to what she believed, and the circumstances did not fit. She asked who had called the ambulance, how he had been found, and what exactly had happened.
Brick tried to protect Clarke, even in death. His answers were careful, designed to deflect Mother’s suspicions. But Helen was not one to be fooled easily. She knew Clarke too well. The inconsistencies in Brick’s story only deepened her resolve. Within a day she began calling some of her old contacts at the Sheriff’s Office, quietly gathering information. What she learned confirmed what she had already begun to suspect.
It was Ruby Stevens who had called for help when Clarke collapsed. He had been with her when the stroke occurred. Whatever comfort Helen had found in her years of endurance was shaken by that truth. She had known betrayal before, but this final one came at a time when she should have been free of such pain.
What seemed to wound her most deeply, though, was not Clarke’s infidelity itself but Brick’s hiding it from her. That betrayal of trust, coming from her son, cut in a way that no one could easily mend. Still, she faced it as she had faced every other hardship in her life, with quiet strength, composure, and dignity. She did not lash out, and she did not seek revenge. She accepted what was true, mourned what was lost, and moved forward, carrying once again the weight of disappointment that had followed her through so much of her life.
Seventeen
The last ten years of Helen’s life were a journey through happiness, relief, and illness. After Clarke’s death, she entered a period of peace that she had not known in many decades. The constant tension was gone, and she finally seemed able to live life on her own terms. She filled her days with travel, volunteer work, and community service. For a time, she was content.
She stayed busy with friends and church activities, and she took short trips around the region. She enjoyed visiting family, especially her grandchildren, who brought her endless joy. Helen was doing well for the most part, but over time she began to experience troubling symptoms with her vision. The changes came slowly at first, but eventually her sight became so poor that she could no longer live alone.
After much uncertainty, the cause was discovered. She was suffering from a rare form of Parkinson’s disease that had affected her eyes and balance. The diagnosis came when Brick’s son, Chuck, who had become a physician, examined her and recognized what was happening. He remembered seeing a similar case once during his medical residency, when his attending physician told the students that they might never see another. By great fortune, Chuck’s experience allowed him to identify her condition.
Treatment began soon after, and the medication brought the disease under control. Her symptoms improved and her life returned to something close to normal. It was one of those small mercies that seemed to define Helen’s life though never an easy road, but just enough grace to keep her moving forward.
She also suffered from atrial fibrillation, an irregular heartbeat that caused her frequent fatigue and dizziness. She had already received a pacemaker, but her heart continued to give her trouble. In the end, this condition would play a part in her passing. Her doctors recommended a procedure that would sever the nerves sending irregular signals to her heart, allowing the pacemaker to take full control of her heartbeat.
The surgery went well, but the physician prescribed a heavy dose of Coumadin to prevent blood clots. The medication thinned her blood so much that it began to leak from her smallest capillaries. Brick and Mitzie were with her in the hospital and called me in Arizona to come to Pensacola because her condition had become critical.
When I arrived, I began asking questions and piecing together what had happened. Once I understood the situation, I insisted that the Coumadin be stopped. Her recovery began almost immediately. Within a few days her condition stabilized, and she was transferred to a rehabilitation facility near Brick’s home in Santa Rosa Beach.
For a while, it seemed as though she would recover fully. She was regaining strength, walking with assistance, and talking about returning home. But then she developed pneumonia. It came on quickly, as it often does in the elderly, and she grew weaker by the day. Despite the best care, her body could no longer fight the infection. Helen passed away quietly, holding the hand of her youngest sister, Margaret.
Her funeral was simple and dignified, just as she would have wanted. She was laid to rest in the military cemetery at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, buried above Clarke in the manner customary for military spouses. It is a peaceful resting place; near the water she had loved and in the city that had shaped so much of her life.
The house had already been placed in the names of Brick, Mitzie, and me. We rented it for a few years and eventually sold it. Helen’s belongings were either given to family, donated, or divided among her children and grandchildren. In her final years she had made certain that everything was clearly marked, leaving no room for confusion or conflict. It was a final act of grace and love, typical of her thoughtful and orderly nature.
Helen left this world much as she had lived in it, quietly, with dignity, and with care for those she loved most. Her life was not an easy one, but she met every challenge with endurance, faith, and a quiet strength that continues to echo through all of us who carry her memory forward.
Eighteen
As I look back across the long arc of Helen’s life, what stands out most is not a single moment or event, but the extraordinary strength that ran quietly beneath it all. Hers was not a life marked by public recognition or grand achievement, but by endurance, grace, and a steadfast love that carried her through hardship after hardship. She was born into a world that gave women little voice and few choices, and yet she managed to carve out a life of quiet influence, leaving an indelible mark on everyone who truly knew her.
From her earliest years she carried the weight of responsibility. She worked, sacrificed, and cared for others, often without thanks or acknowledgment. Through a difficult marriage, years of financial strain, and the constant challenge of maintaining dignity in a time and place where women were expected to submit and endure, Helen never lost her sense of self. She may have been quiet, but she was never weak. Beneath her calm exterior lived a resolve that was stronger than the circumstances that tried to contain her.
Her life was shaped by an age when opportunity for women was narrow, when ambition was seen as a threat rather than a virtue. Still, she found ways to rise. She earned respect in her work, built friendships rooted in trust and kindness, and pursued education even when those around her doubted the value of such effort. She was a pioneer in her own way, not through rebellion, but through perseverance. She refused to give up her sense of purpose.
Helen’s story was not without heartbreak. She endured betrayal and disappointment, and she carried the burden of those wounds quietly. Yet, she also found joy. She found it in her children, in her grandchildren, and in the simple routines of her days; in reading, in helping others, in serving her community. When life pressed hardest against her, she found strength in doing what needed to be done.
In her final years, she achieved something that had long eluded her: Peace. After Clarke’s death she built a life that was finally her own. It was modest, but it was honest. She filled her time with purpose, gave to her community, and cherished her family. Though illness came again, she met it with the same composure that had carried her through every challenge before.
When I think of her now, I remember not the hardships but the constancy of her love. She was the anchor of my life especially, the quiet center around which the rest of us moved. Her hands were always busy, her mind always turning toward the needs of others, and her heart always open.
Helen’s legacy lives not in possessions or records, but in the steady way she faced the world. She taught by example that dignity does not come from circumstance but from character. She showed that kindness and patience are not weakness, but strength of the highest order. Her life reminds me that grace can exist even in sorrow, and that peace is something one must build within, not wait to receive.
In the end, Helen left this world much as she lived in it gently, faithfully, and with everything in its place. Those of us who carry her memory are better for having known her. She was a mother, a grandmother, a friend, and above all, a woman of quiet courage. Her story is one of endurance, compassion, and love that did not fade, even when tested by time and trial.
I write these words not simply to remember her, but to honor her. Helen Gertrude Mason lived a life that mattered. Her strength endures in the lives she shaped and in the peace she left behind.
About The Author
