CinderEllen: The Story of Ellen Miles McCall---by Bryan F.

Memories of my Great-grandmother, or as me and my siblings called her, Granny, are deeply tied to my childhood memories of my Grandma’s house. Harriet Ellen Miles was her birth name, born in 1886 to John Miles and an unknown to our family, Cherokee woman, in Kentucky. 

She dropped the Harriet portion of her name and was known only as Ellen throughout her adult life. She despised the name, Harriet. This, however, presented no problem for things like Social Security in her later life as she had no certificate of birth to contradict her preference. In those days it was not uncommon among the poor, born at home to lack documentation. 

There are many lapses in Ellen’s early history, she was tight-lipped about the very little she knew about her mother or that period of her life. We do know however that John Miles at some time around the time Ellen was four or five years old married a woman who’s name I do not know. This woman wanted no part of raising a female child that was not her own, let alone one of Ellen’s mixed ethnicity. I will not use the common and disparaging term of the time that was used to describe my Great-Grandmother. 

It is also unknown why Ellen’s mother did not take custody of her. Was it death? Did her family reject the child? Was she married to John Miles when Ellen was born? We have no answers to these questions. The cruel John Miles answered none when inquiry by letter was sought by my Grandmother, Ellen’s only daughter. Even when a letter to verify Ellen's ethnicity was requested to access government benefits the miserable curmudgeon, then living in Oregon, would not respond.

The solution and her fate as a result of her parental rejection would be to serve as a servant child to a family by the name of Thurmond that resided in Springfield Missouri, or vicinity. It is unknown if any money exchanged hands, but it resembled the kind of indentured servant arrangements that were common among Irish immigrants of the time. She served alongside an African America woman. We know little of this woman. It seems she may have been older and might have been a slave earlier in life. What we do know is that in those early days she watched out for Ellen and taught her how to cook and bake and housekeeping.

A typical 1890s kitchen that might have resembled the one where Ellen worked

I believe Ellen’s chores in addition to helping the old woman with cooking included doing laundry on a washboard and ironing with a very heavy iron that you had to heat on the woodstove. The men required heavily starched shirts ironed stiff and wrinkle-free with special attention to be paid to the collars. 

I guess as time passed and maybe the old woman left or died that Mrs. Thurmond became more dependent on my Great-Grandmother, becoming a bit more fond of her. She displayed her improved attitude toward Ellen when Ellen having reached her teen years caught the eye of one of the Thurmond boys. She found herself cornered in the barn, the boy with lust in his eyes for a good old fashioned raping, ended up being beaten quite severely with the business end of a riding crop. Ellen sustained a head injury in the exchange that would result in life-long epilepsy. Mrs. Thurmond took Ellen’s side in the matter and the bond was further strengthened. 

There came a time when Ellen wanted to marry a suitor. John McCall was his name and the man that would become my Great-Grandfather. A perfect match of outcasts as John had been taken in by the McCall family as an infant, having been found wrapped in a blanket in a cornrow. Likely an ‘illegitimate” child of some unfortunate young woman in the area. Mrs. Thurmond was against Ellen marrying and worked hard to convince her to remain and care for her into her old age, but Ellen won out and left with John. 

Ellen and John raised their family, two boys, Paul and Nelson and my Grandmother Florence, in Willard, Missouri. They farmed like most people in Missouri at the time to provide for their new family. 

In about 1940, when my Great Grandmother was about 54, Her husband John died. He was quite a bit older than her and died of old age. My great-grandmother went to live with my Grandparents in Walnut Grove, Missouri and accompanied them when they later moved to California in 1946. 

My first clear memory of my Great-Grandmother is of her having a stoke and falling to the floor right behind the chair where I was eating my morning Cheerios in my Grandma’s house on Ninth Street, in Highland, California. 

It was 1961, and I would have been six years old. I would have been seven had it been later in the summer. My memory of the light defused by the Walnut tree through the kitchen window in my Grandma’s house seemed more like that of spring or early summer, though. 

I recall being very anxious as no one else was around. I began to yell as loudly as I was able to summons help. I felt helpless, unfortunately not for the first time even at such a tender age. 

I have earlier memories but none as clear as this one. She broke her arm falling on to the step-down from the dining area to the kitchen, right in front of the stove where she was cooking. I remember a drop of blood on her arm from hitting the trim on the step. That was horrifying to me and I can recall it like it was five minutes ago.  I do have other memories of her before this event, mostly just her cooking, doing chores or sitting quietly, rocking one of my siblings in her rocking chair. She always stayed in the background and seldom spoke.

The stroke started a new chapter in her rather unusual life She went to live in a rest-home, where she was cared for by a kindly woman by the name of Josephine. Josephine was invited and often attended Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner with us, accompanying Ellen. There were other residents at her rest-home. One or two that had no family would sometimes come along as well. My Grandma was happy to have them and often welcomed folks that had nowhere to spend Thanksgiving. 

My Great-Grandma, Granny, did not always get along with my Grandfather when she lived with them, or I should say he didn’t get along with her. Granny would often pick up his tools he was working with and return them to the toolbox in the garage. Other irritations created some anxiety for my Grandma but overall they all got along considering their number and the space in which they had to live. She lived with them for more than twenty years.

Granny I think, felt like an intruder sometimes and would try to make amends by doing most of the cooking including slaughtering and dressing chickens that she would fry in her huge cast iron skillets. She always fried a minimum of six chicken from the coop for my mother, her Grand-daughter, on my Mother’s birthdays. This tradition went all the way back to Missouri and continued until she had a stroke and was no longer able. My Mother loved fried chicken, especially the chicken her Grandma made for her.

When I was not much taller than the table I would gaze up at those towering platters of chicken in awe. This didn’t happen at home, this was a Grandma’s house thing.

Granny also showed her gratitude for my Grandparents' generosity by saving for years to buy them a beige wall-to-wall carpet for the living room. The floors in the house were covered with asphalt tile, the kind you put down with tar as an adhesive. She arranged this even though she was never able to attend school and could not read or write. She carried some shame about this and made sure her children all attended school. She was only able to sign her name with an “X”.

The teacups my Great-Grandmother collected.

Granny loved pretty things and while she lived with my Grandparents she would occasionally splurge and buy herself a beautiful teacup. Not to use but to be displayed where she could look at them. Something pretty in a world that had often been ugly for her. I have the teacups now and they are among my most cherished mementos. They may have actually been gifts for my Grandma, but I can't be certain.

I have recalled the entirety of this story from memory. No one that I know of has ever written down the stories that my Grandma would recount to anyone that would listen and many times over. Fortunately, even at a very young age, I absorbed them all and I hope that my memory has been accurate. I regret that I did not think to record them in that those moments. I am grateful for my exceptionally good memory, however.

Platter passed down through the McCall family since the mid-1850s. 

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