Page 8 of Heart of a Hero

That had been almost two months ago, and Zannie and Marty now raced over each time she came to visit. She enjoyed seeing the children and admittedly kept a surreptitious eye on them by casually asking what they’d eaten recently and how school was going. Seeing the children outside playing wasn't surprising since she often visited Roscoe near the end of her workday. But one day, she had switched her visits and noticed they were at home during school hours.

When she asked if they were sick, Marty shrugged. “Nah. We didn’t get to the bus on time, and Mom said she wasn’t taking us.”

Roscoe had been readily forthcoming about what he heard and saw next door, so he was her source of ensuring the kids were cared for.

Today, she smiled widely at them, and they followed her to Roscoe’s door. Once there, she pulled out two apples, small packs of trail mix, and cheese crackers. They had admitted that they hid the snacks if there was some leftover so that Alan wouldn’t take the food. “Make sure you eat everything you can,” she said, her gaze roaming over them. Whenever she asked if they felt safe, both children always said they did. She’d never had a reason to call CPS but felt better knowing Roscoe was looking out for them.

“Come on in, Ms. Karen!” Roscoe called out.

Waving goodbye to the kids, she opened the old metal-framed screen door. Roscoe’s home was tidy inside, even if the furniture was a bit threadbare in places, and the countertops were worn from years of scrubbing. She turned to walk into Roscoe’s living room.

She found him in his recliner most days, leaning back and watching television. She was not surprised to see him devouring the news because Roscoe liked to keep up with what was going on in the world. “Is anything good happening?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Most politicians couldn’t find their way out of a paper sack if they had directions,” he grumbled. “No wonder the world is in a mess.”

She smiled and nodded. Roscoe kept up with the world and national events better than almost anyone she knew. During the weekly visits, she’d heard pieces of his life story and looked forward to learning more.

He turned the TV off as she brought a kitchen chair closer to his recliner, and he lowered his feet to lean forward. “You’ll have to tell me how the old ticker is, Ms. Karen.”

She listened to his heart and lungs, then checked his blood pressure and his legs for swelling. He was rail-thin but surprisingly strong when she checked his reflexes. “Have you been doing the exercises Patrick shows you?”

“Physical therapy isn’t my favorite, but you know I’m doing what I’m supposed to do.”

“I know. You really are the best patient.” She smiled warmly. Standing, she said, “I’m going to take a look at the house if that’s okay.”

“Mi casa es tu casa.” He laughed, waving his hand toward the back of the trailer.

Another chuckle slipped out, and she shook her head. Because of his mobility issues, she always needed to ensure his living space was as safe as possible. There wasn’t anything she could do about the small size of his bathroom, but he had handrails on his toilet and a sturdy shower chair. Moving into his bedroom, she nodded with appreciation at the O-ring handrail attached to his bed. That was one of the occupationaltherapist’s latest recommendations, and a few men from the American Legion installed it.

As she walked back toward the front, she stopped in his kitchen, first checking the prescription bottles he kept in one of the upper cabinets. He used to keep them on the counter until Zannie and Marty started coming over.

Karen then did a spot check of his cabinets and refrigerator for food. Satisfied that he had a good supply, she returned to the living area and sat with him. Several elderly patients lived in the mobile home park, and she loved how they watched out for each other.

Mrs. Grandy, two mobile homes down, had a grandson who would come and trim the little grass around her mobile house and take care of the others on that street. The residents had offered to pay him, but the young man had waived their money and said he was earning community service hours for his senior year of high school.

Several parishioners from local churches made casseroles that they delivered weekly. Usually, the meals were easily microwavable, and having been present when Roscoe enjoyed a dinner, she could attest they were as tasty as they were easy to prepare.

“Did I ever tell you that I was in the Army?”

She settled back in her seat, glad she had built time to spend with Roscoe before needing to get home. He had many friends, but she wondered if he liked to tell his stories to someone new.

“No, you didn’t. You said you once taught at the Rosenwald School.”

He nodded, resting his elbows on the arms of his recliner, and steepled his fingers together. “Graduated from seventh grade in 1948. That was as far as they’d offer us back in those days. Most went on to get jobs, but my grandmother said she wanted me to become the first in the family to get an education.For a Black boy, back then, there was no high school in this area. I went to Arlington, Virginia, to live with a friend of our pastor. They had Black high schools, and I graduated in 1953. With that education, I returned to the Eastern Shore to teach but was drafted into the Army. Sent to Korea. Wasn’t anything I expected, but I came home two years later.”

“And that’s when you started teaching?”

“They took me right away. Back then, Booker T. Washington of the Tuskegee Institute and Julius Rosenwald, philanthropist and president of Sears Roebuck, built state-of-the-art schools for Black children across the South. Their efforts were called the most important initiative to advance Black education in the early 20th century.”

He sighed, smacking his lips slightly. She reached over to pick up the glass of water he had sitting near him. Nodding his gratitude, he drank half the glass before returning it to the table, his hand only shaking slightly.

“The Rosenwald School on the other side of town served the whole area for grades first through seventh, and I got to return to where I had started my education. It was 1955, and I taught until segregation was declared illegal. Of course, then I was out of a job. No integrated school around here wanted to hire a Black teacher.”

“What did you do then?” Karen asked, hanging on every word of his story.

“Started working as a farm hand… needed to earn a living. Plus, I’d met Shirleen, and we wanted to get married. I worked farming for a while, then got a job in the chicken processing plant when they needed workers. It was up in Maryland. Funny… just over the state line, but they were hiring Blacks when Virginia wasn’t. I worked there for years until I retired, making it to a management level. But I missed teaching. It was my calling.” He sighed heavily, his bony shoulders sagging.

“And Shirleen?”

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