The Widow Lester was revered in Blackberry Holler. When speaking of the widow, people in that little bottom-land hamlet donned an air of devotion and honor for the woman.  She wasn’t that old, mid-forties, maybe.  But, she carried herself with an aplomb of self-confidence and distinguished propriety that far surpassed the simple folks of the community.

            Blackberry Holler had not yet experienced the advancements of the 20^h century.  Horses and wagons were the main means of transportation, and a gravel road was considered progress. There were no banks; bartering took care of buying and selling.  In winter, Old Man Malone sold beets and collards to the blacksmith in exchange for having his mule shod.  Granny Osborne had the only foot-pedal sewing machine, so she repaired and made garments in exchange for coffee and flour.  The Swap-for-Needs, as it was called, wasn’t very complicated, and it let the citizens of Blackberry Holler work together to take care of each other.

                Except for the Widow Lester.  She taught the children at the only church in town – the Blood of the Lamb Baptist Church.  She taught these little ones to sing Jesus Love Me, and she taught them all the wonderful stories about Jesus when He was on earth.  Because she was such a godly woman, a saint, they said, all agreed to pay her with coins for her milk and butter.

            Every day, except Sundays, of course, she sat on her porch churning. Sitting in a large washtub beside her, a huge chunk of ice kept cold gallons of milk and small jars with chunks of butter.  The iceman, Clovis Hollander, gave the widow two blocks of ice a week for “putting the fear of the Almighty” into his 12 and 13-year-old daughters, Dora Mae, and Rennie Lou.  The widow put milk into sterilized, gallon pickle jars bartered for Sunday school lessons with general store owner, Haskell Rogers. Haskell made sure his boys, Abner and Garfield, were in church every Sunday, so they could be taught by the widow. Of course, her butter jars came from Haskell, also.

            When the widow said, “Haskell, you folks too good to me.” the general store owner would say, “No, ma’am.  What’s it say in the Good Book, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he’s old, he won’t depart from it’? You’re helpin’ all us folks do that with our youngins.”

            And, so that was how it was.  Haskell Rogers’s words echoed the sentiment of every other mother and father in the Holler.

            Now, every time a woman or man came up to the widow’s house and bought a pound of butter or a gallon of milk, she would say the same thing, “Thank ya’ kindly. All is for Ned.”  And, about every two weeks, the widow would walk down to Roger’s General Store and buy some toy.  She took special pride in what she would pick.  Sometimes it was a bouncy ball, or a bright red fire engine.  A time or two, she bought stuffed animals, a bear and a dog. The widow would explain that the furry toys let her boy sleep through the night.

            Folks never questioned the widow’s actions. To them, she was a God-fearing woman, trying to do right by her son whom she was left to raise after her husband, Cecil, was killed in a coal mining accident.  Last time anyone saw Ned was at his daddy’s wake four years ago.  He was five then.

Folks understood why the widow kept her son all to herself. People had a clear understanding why Ned didn’t go to school, or church, for that matter, but they never questioned her in any way.  Holler folks told the story that the Widow Lester was a righteous mother, and they would defend her to anyone who said otherwise.

This community kinship was shaken up one August morning when Miss Geraldine Hastings drove a county office Model T into town. She announced she had been sent to check on truancy in the Holler.  Folks were shocked for three very logical reasons: first, few had ever seen a real car before, two, a woman was driving it, and three, no one from the County had ever visited the Holler. She took a room over the only restaurant in town, Philomena’s Hot Meals.  Philomena fed folks in exchange for food from the farmers, sewing from Granny Osbourne, and of course, butter and milk from the Widow Lester.  She cooked throughout the week, but Philomena’s best meals were on the weekends. 

Folks soon learned that Miss Hastings was a citified woman who didn’t understand the ways of hills’ folks.  She believed that every child under the age of 16 belonged in school, no matter the circumstances.  She also believed that parents did not have the final say on their children’s education. 

A few days after Miss Hastings arrived, she inquired at the general store about where Mrs. Ernestine Lester lived.  It was early in the morning. Haskell Rogers was reluctant to say anything. He hemmed and hawed, but in the end, he felt he had to tell truth.  She thanked him, picked an apple from the apple barrel and put a dime on the counter for it.

The Widow Lester was sitting on her porch churning when Miss Hastings drove into the yard.

“Howdy,” the widow called.  “Come on up and take a load off.”

Miss Hastings chose to stay on the ground at the bottom of four weatherboard steps.  “Mrs. Lester, I’m here to discuss getting your son, um,” she shuffled her papers, “Ned, yes, Ned, caught up on his education.  My records show he isn’t enrolled in the local school.”

The widow stood up, tall and straight-backed.  She smiled as she looked down at her visitor.  “Fine lady like yourself must be tired, you away from home and all.  Come on up here, and let’s have a nice chat.”

Miss Hastings sighed.  “Mrs. Lester, I just need to discuss getting your son enrolled in school.”

“Seems to me folks don’t discuss with one standing and one sitting, and you can’t be likin’ me looking down on you like I am.”

Reluctantly, Miss Hastings mounted each of the wooden steps.

“Now, isn’t that better.  We can look at each other eye-to-eye.  Now, honor me, and sit a spell,” the widow said.

Miss Hastings sat down in an old cane-backed chair that stood next to the tub of ice, but not before she took a napkin from her purse and wiped it off.

“Good, now we’re set up for a good chat.  What you be wantin’ to know about my Ned?”

Again, shuffling her papers, Miss Hastings began.  “Like I said, I have no records for your son attending school, and, as I’m sure you know, it is the law that he gets an education.”

The widow nodded, but said nothing, she just kept lifting the churning plunger up and then down.  

“Mrs. Lester, I’m trying to inform you that your son needs to be in school.  It is for his good that he learns to read and write properly.” She paused for a moment, then asked, “Do you understand me, Mrs. Lester?”

The widow nodded.

Beginning to sound frustrated, Miss Hastings said, “Mrs. Lester, your son has to be in school. You are breaking the law.”

The widow smiled.  She placed her thumb and index finger under her strong chin and studied her guest. “My Ned is out back right now, but if you come back tomorrow, I’ll let you tell Ned what you just told me.  If he wants to go to school, far be it from me to stop him.”

Miss Hastings nodded and rose.  “Okay, if that’s the way it has to be, I’ll come back tomorrow.”  She began to walk down the creaking, porch steps when the widow called back.

“Where you stayin’?” the widow asked.

“At Philomena’s,” the county agent said.

Widow Lester reached over to the ice tub and brought out a small jar with a lemon-colored lump inside it.  “Here, take this to Philomena.”

“What is that?” Miss Hastings asked.

“Some of my butter,” the widow said.

“Oh, thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Miss Hastings said.

“It will be if you want to get a hot meal tonight,” the older woman said.

“No, really, I don’t need that.”

The widow smiled as if she had some all-knowing, mystical information that no one else knew.  “Oh, child, you need more than you think you do.”

Totally flustered, confused, and lacking any response, Miss Hastings took the small jar of butter.  “Thank you,” she said curtly.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next morning, the Widow Lester put on her walking shoes, and she began her hour’s walk into town.

As was her usual visit to Roger’s General store, she got some cornmeal, coffee, bacon, and a very special purchase – a blue, plastic, police car.

At the counter, she laid out $1.45.  Carefully, she counted out each coin because she felt a special responsibility to the people who bought her milk and cheese.  “I don’t waste what these good folks give me,” she said.

“Nobody thinks you would,” Mr. Rogers said.

Now, while this little transaction was going on, Miss Hastings had entered the store.  She stood back and watched and listened to the widow’s exchange with Mr. Rogers.  As Widow Lester turned to leave, Miss Hastings ducked behind a display that promoted Jamara’s Eastern Secrets for Beautiful Skin. Jamara promised a face cream that would make all women’s skin look healthy and youthful.

            Widow Lester passed by Jamara and didn’t see Miss Hastings crouching behind the ad’s promise. The widow was humming and examining the little blue police car.  Miss Hastings heard her say, “Ned, you gonna like this just fine.”

            Before the sun was crowning the sky’s dome, Miss Hastings drove into the widow’s yard. She was wearing a crisp cotton skirt, in a coffee shade of brown that ended just above her slender ankles.  Her pale bodice was also cotton and had apparently been ironed stiff enough that the top of the collar irritated the lobe of her pink ears.   However, her soft blonde curls offset the harshness of the collar.

            “My, aren’t you a pretty thing,” Widow Lester said as Miss Hastings walked up the four weatherboard steps.  “I remember a time when I was almost as fresh and pretty as you, but that was a long time ago.  Come, sit a spell.”

            Remembering the day before, Miss Hastings didn’t argue and again wiped off the seat of the cane-backed chair.  But, she didn’t forget why she was there.  “So, Mrs. Lester, you told me I could meet with Ned today.  Is he around?”

            “Oh, yes, I told ya’ I’d have him here,” the widow said.  “So, how was your evening?”

            “Very nice,” the truant officer said.  “And, you were right.  Without your jar of butter, Philomena would not have made me a hot meal.”

            The widow was nodding.  “Yep, so what did my butter buy ya’?

            Relaxing with this chit-chat, Miss Hastings began to notice the widow’s weathered hands as they encircled the rough-hewn, wooden plunger. The nails were short, almost too short, and the grit under each one revealed that a bath was a luxury for the widow.

            Widow Lester repeated, “So, little lady, what did my butter get ya’?”

            The younger woman shook her head, not realizing her mind had drifted into assessment of the widow.  “I’m sorry. Philomena made me a fried slice of ham, collard greens, and some of the best cornbread I’ve ever eaten.”

            “Did that woman put some of my butter on your cornbread?”

            “Oh, yes, ma’am.”  Miss Hastings suddenly realized she had been maneuvered off track from her reason for coming to the widow’s house.  “So, now, Mrs. Lester, could I meet with Ned?”

            The widow smiled, but she did not stand.  “Of course, that is what you here for.  But, before I introduce you to my son, let me ask you something?”

            “Of course, I am a servant for the citizens of this three-county area.”

            “Did you give any thought as to why I said on yesterday that you needed more than you think you do?”

            Miss Hastings pursed her lips.  She looked toward the Model T.  “Yes, I gave it thought, but I presumed it to be a riddle beyond the need of fulfillment for why I am here.”

            “So, tell me, as you go around them three counties, what do you see folks need?”

            “I don’t know.  My job is to make sure children are in school, not assess their personal needs,” Miss Hastings said.

            “Um-hmm,” the widow slapped her knee and started chuckling as if she had just made some monumental discovery.  “See, there, Miss Hastings. When you come into a person’s home, and you don’t figure out their needs, then you sinking’ afore you ever got a chance to swim. Bible says to ‘defend the rights of the poor and needy.’ Did you catch that word – needy.”

            Miss Hastings sighed. “Okay. So, Mrs. Lester, what about your needs should I understand?”

            The widow stood.  “Come on, Miss Hastings.  It’s time you meet my Ned.”  She took the four steps down from the porch, and Miss Hastings followed.

            In the backyard, the truant officer immediately saw a grave marked by a wooden cross. The widow stopped walking about 20 feet from the grassy mound.  “This here is where my Cecil is buried.  I made the cross myself.”

            Miss Hastings could read the rough-cut letters:

Cecil Lester

Beluved husbind

1894- 1925

The young woman stared at the cross, confused, and at a loss for words, a trait that the widow seemed to bring out in her.  “Mrs. Lester, I am so sorry for your loss, but the death of your husband has nothing to do with your son’s need for an education.”

            The widow took Miss Hastings’s wrist and guided her to the backside of the cross where a smaller cross stood at the head of a smaller mound of grass.  A blue plastic, police car rested in front of the cross.  Miss Hastings read the smaller letters:

Ned Lester

Preshus son

1920 – 1925

            Again, the truant officer had no words.  The perplexity of a macabre mystery seemed to wrap itself around her throat. “I – I,” she coughed and unbuttoned the top button on her stiff collar. “I am not understanding.  Your son died with his father?”

            The widow squatted down and repositioned the little blue police car. “There, Ned, is that better?” Then, she stood up. “Two nights after we buried Cecil, we had a bad blizzard. It was February, you know.  Like the nights before, I cried myself to sleep.  Ned slept with me then.  I needed him close.”

            She paused, squatted again and smoothed the grass grown over the mound.  “Ned had always loved Cecil.  He slipped out to go lay beside his daddy.  He took a blanket with him, but it weren’t enough. We got two feet of snow that night.  I found my baby next mornin’ all blue.  His little arm was thrown over Cecil’s grave.”

            Miss Hastings was beginning to gather her senses back.  “Do the people in town know?”

            “Of course.  They buried Ned for me.  Now, I teach their children at church.  Makes me feel close to my son.  He’s with Jesus, you know.”

            The county truant officer didn’t know what to say.  “I don’t mean to be rude, but why doesn’t the County have record of your son’s death?”

            The widow shrugged and turned toward her house.  “I don’t know.  Didn’t know they had knowin’ of his birth. We don’t get much thought from the outside here in the Holler.”

            Miss Hastings followed her.  The widow walked back up on the porch and began churning.  Miss Hastings stayed on the ground.

            “So, Miss Hastings, what have you learned about my needs?”

            Miss Hasting smiled.  “I have learned that what it says on paper about a person isn’t always the whole story.”

            The widow smiled.  “There you go.” She paused.  “Now, if you ever need good milk or butter, you come back my way.”

            Miss Hastings, smiled, nodded, and walked to her car.  She had no idea what she was going to tell the County, if she told them anything at all.