By Cherimie Crane Weatherford
Growing up in the Deep South, two things were constant: from first breath to funeral, religion, and hard work. Neither were to be argued or avoided.
If memory serves me well, naming the books of the bible came before naming all of your cousins. As children, we earned an allowance by helping out around the house. That allowance wasn’t money but our ability to remain alive. We learned early on that money comes from going above and beyond your everyday chores, not from being a decent, contributing human.
Storms came as often as door-to-door salesmen. Both were feared, but one left far more to clean up. One afternoon, after the winds ended their thunderous dance, we stumbled from underneath the mattress, the one we always grabbed because it was lighter than most, and ventured outside to see the job ahead.
My first glance was always to the barn where my best friends and closest confidants lived. It was the capital of my small world, the headquarters for essential matters, and a respite for my introverted soul. Before I had time to grieve its mangled timbers, I had already been summoned to clear debris. I could hear my animals and see most of them finding their way, which gave me hope.
Tears flowed as my small hands collected remnants of normalcy and proceeded with the usual routine. I measured the storms by the damage that hurt the most. The storm’s official designation meant nothing to anyone but the weatherman on TV. If it hurt someone you loved, it was the worst kind. If it took your home away, that was always the runner-up to the worst kind. The appraisal of the storm was different for everyone.
I understood this one to be worse than most just by how Daddy and Momma whispered. I could read them as easily as I read the New Testament. Momma always told us to get to our knees, pray, and things would be alright.
My mammaw was always one of the first to show up fully prepared to work. I didn’t know that mamaws with chainsaws were a novelty at the time. Knowing she would tell me the truth without adding sugar, I ran straight toward her.
While many told me to get back inside, Mamaw Mary walked over, set her chainsaw down, and told me to get to work. She and my mom often saw things differently regarding me, so I glanced back to ensure Momma approved; I didn’t want that storm.
Mamaw pointed toward one of the tops of the fallen trees and handed me a small pair of rusty sheers. I felt the disapproving looks and the unspoken annoyance at the presence of a time-wasting child, but Mamaw never broke her empowering gaze. She told me to start cutting.
We all have moments of the Butterfly Effect, things that seem small but often change or impact our lives. I will always believe that was one of mine. Instantly, my little mind shifted from panic to purpose with each inch I managed to remove. Understanding that help was help no matter the size. My brain and body were finally in unison. I was one of them. I was a helper.
I am sure my Mamaw wasn’t the most popular that day. My little legs may have slowed things down; possibly, I was a hindrance. My Momma and many other women and children were inside cleaning and helping in ways they understood.
That evening, Mamaw and I were washing our hands and arms with the yard hose, and I asked her if she had gotten on her knees. Her crystal blue eyes softened as she wiped her hands on her tattered and torn shirt.
“I get on my knees now and then, but God made me to get to my feet. It’s ok to hit your knees when the world doesn’t make sense, but you have to get back up and get to work.”
We are all dealing with the storm’s aftermath as we look around for instruction, guidance, and next steps. Many are on their knees praying, while some are using whatever tools they have to cut through the pain, inch by inch.
Help is help. Debris comes in all forms; it takes all skills to clear a path forward. Idleness from despair is a heavy blockade. Find your tools and start, inch by inch.
Cherimie Weatherford is a long-time real estate broker, small business owner, wife and mom in beautiful Beaufort. She is the Director of Operations and Programs for the Freedman Arts District.
