Leaving Death's Door

by Marvin T. Jones

Jerry Lee Lewis was no fan of Elvis Presley. He had a maddening jealousy such that Elvis’s success shook his nerves and rattled his brains. This led Lewis to ram his convertible Eldorado into the gates of the Presley mansion, Graceland, where he stumbled out, waved his .44 magnum and declared his desire to shoot the man whose only accomplishment was to “take all the the drugs I couldn’t get my hands on.” How many of us admire life’s passions?

Well, a few years after Elvis made his last trip to the bathroom, Jerry Lee found himself in a career slump, in a losing battle with the Internal Revenue Service and was lying listlessly in a hospital with little passion for life. The doctors were giving up on him. Yet, he had enough strength to dream one afternoon. Probably remembering his old studio session with Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and Elvis – the Million Dollar Quartet – Elvis descends to Jerry Lee from a haze and says, “ Jerry, come on up here with me. I got a good group and you can play piano.” The patient jerked out of his stupor to cry out, “Damn if I’ll play in his band!” Needless to say, Lewis was rehearsing a few weeks later and readying for the road.

One of my family’s lovingly dearest friends was Elaine Davis. I was lucky to have grown up next to her and her four children. Her husband, Bob, was a good friend of my father. Early in my parents’ relations with the Davises, Elaine had a difficult delivery of her first child, Pat. Sickness and probably postpartum depression prevented Elaine from eating, and no one in the house could get her to eat. The strength of one of our good people was drifting away.

My mama, full of sympathy and mother of a 3-year old, came to visit and talked with Elaine. She decided that maybe something Elaine had never had or known of would revive her appetite. With the help of Elaine’s aunt Susan Reynolds, Mama made French toast. My mother had never left the farm where she was born, but she collected and embellished recipes. Unless intimidated by hostesses, I’m reluctant to eat or make French toast these days because none compares to Clairo Jones’. (Well, actually my sister and my wife know the secret.)

Soon, an aroma wafted out of Miss Susan’s kitchen and sought out Elaine. The scent made her wonder, “What is that I smell? I want it. Please bring it to me.” The ladies returned with a serving to answer Elaine’s thoughts, and she began her recovery with the gilled combination of eggs, butter, milk, cinnamon and the previous day’s bread. Miss Elaine’s fourth child, Michael, is my earliest friend.

It was hard for Clairo and hard on Clairo when I, then an Ahoskie High graduate, swung my cases into the car and left to start college in Ohio. What made my leaving so hard was that her last child, like the other three had chosen another un-visitable place to live. Except for one, none lived as close as New York, and it must have seemed as if we didn’t take her needs into the planning of our lives. My mother’s nest was empty. Within two weeks, a heart attack placed her in Roanoke-Chowan Hospital. Like Jerry Lee Lewis, she, too, had little will to live.

It wasn’t French toast, but Carroll Weaver, a stalwart of Pleasant Plains Church, that came to see her. Weaver was somewhat monied and frequently thought about money. To my uncle Paul Mountain, he once asked Paul which man was Cofield’s wealthiest: Talmadge Reid, Delaware Jones or my father, T.W. Jones. Uncle Paul had an easy answer: T.W. has those four children. Paul became an even bigger hero to us.

Paul Mountain married my aunt, Madeline Daisy Jones. Thank you, Aunt Madeline!

But, Carroll Weaver became one too in his own way. He knew enough of Mama’s condition and especially of her nature to urge, “Mrs. Jones, you hang in there. There are women waiting for you to die, because your husband has some money and they’re gonna take it from your children!” Sometimes spite is as good as French Toast.

Ten years after the heart attack, Clairo Jones
shows one of her territorial moods.

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Copyright 2005, Marvin T. Jones - all rights reserved