Poor Old Grandma 1 0f 3 5,400

How Grandma got her money.

To kids like Katy and Jimmy the house looked like something out of the dark ages, sitting alone on a small wooded hill and silhouetted by a setting sun. As in pictures of haunted houses, it sported two towers and a slanted roof atop three stories. Built of wood, with a covered porch encircling the entire structure at ground level, it might have been beautiful when new. Now, it was only a large old-fashioned structure badly in need of paint. Its nearest neighbor could be seen far away through the trees. The building had sat quietly and empty for years, gathering dust and rot. Miraculously, no windows appeared broken and the grass was newly mown.

Through the eyes of children, it also promised adventure. Most likely the only means of excitement they would find in that small town in Ohio. To their mother, it was a childhood home she'd done her best to stay away from. Their father saw it as a chance for more privacy than he'd been accustomed to in a big-city apartment.

Picksville was too tiny for a movie theater or even a soda fountain, both staples for children in that year of 1960. There wasn't even a grade school. The kids would have an hour bus ride each way. At least it was still summer vacation.

On the good side, they'd each have their own room, better than sharing like they'd had to do in Toledo. Looking at the structure, Jimmy hoped there would at least be electricity and an inside toilet.

"I get first pick. I'm the oldest." Katy jammed an elbow into her brother's side, receiving a glare in return.

"I'm biggest and can run faster, so you're s**t out of luck," he retorted, causing his father to reach back and flail an arm in an attempt to slap the child.

"None of that language, young man,"  Tom Simmons called back half-heartedly.
  
Sharon, the mother, sat quietly, inwardly shuddering in contemplation of all the cleaning she was in for, not to mention unwanted isolation.

"I don't see why Mother couldn't have given us cash instead of this money-pit," Sharon complained. "My brother gets rich while I, supposedly her favorite child, am stuck with this dump. The local idea of a society function is the county fair.  We can look forward to stepping in cow poop while looking up sheep butts."

"We have money, baby," Tom answered. "She willed you quite a bit ... only not as much as other relatives."

"Sure she did. By the time we fix up this place we'll be broke. You better enjoy yourself for awhile. When the cash is gone, you'll have to go back to work."

"I hope to finish and sell my next novel by then. I hated that sales job. You know that. This will probably be my only chance to make it as a writer."

"Fat chance," she spit out. Look at that damned shithole, Sharon thought. Ten miles to the nearest frickin' town, if you can even call it that. "You should have kept your job and we could have sold this place."

"Finally, peace and quiet after all the noise and bullsh … crap in the city." He breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring his wife. "I'll have all the space I need for my own office and the peace and quiet to write, far away from the children."

"Yeah, sure. And I hope they have a cleaning service around here, and a good damned baby sitter," Sharon continued. "We could have sold this hole and gotten a large condo in the city, with plenty of money left over. Instead, we're out in the sticks with a bunch of illiterate local oafs for neighbors. ‘Oh, have you seen today's half-hour of The Way Life Turns, on television?’"

Her mother had been the same, Tom thought, good at spending but not earning. The family fortune had come from Great-Great-Grandma Ethel. Although nobody could say for certain how it had been acquired, it had been enough for five generations of Jacksons.

Apparently Old Ethel had somehow found a way to make money during the Civil War. She had certainly been a business whiz, investing it wisely for the rest of them to enjoy. She had also had this house built -- maybe to annoy Sharon a hundred years later? He laughed at Ethel's foresight.

Tom's attention went back to his driving as they pulled into a hundred-yard-long driveway ending at a three-car garage that had started life as a stable.

The two kids were the first to get out of the car and, whooping, raced to find the best and biggest room for their own. As Tom and Sharon followed with suitcases, they could hear noises on uncarpeted upper floors as the children ran from room to room. The youngsters tried to outdo each other in searching for more space and better views amid a clutter of ancient dust-covered furniture.

"When's the moving van due?" Sharon asked, also noticing the furniture. At least, she thought, it was covered with sheets and tarps. That would save a little effort and help in later resale. There must be antiques in the mess. Maybe there's some hope after all. A dozen rooms of antiques would be worth money -- once she convinced Tom to sell the house.

"Should be here soon. It left ahead of us. And the lawyer said the cleaning service would get in touch sometime tomorrow," Tom answered, looking around a large living room.

"Ha, don't look like it. The lazy asses are probably sitting down to a meal in some greasy diner right now -- which is where we should be. I wonder if there are any real restaurants in this hick town? There weren't when I was a kid."

"I brought a bit of food with us. We'll be alright until tonight. Got to see if we have a refrigerator and electricity first, then I can find a store to stock up."

"Right. Bologna and potato chips." She sneered, wondering how she had let him talk her into it. "Well, guess we should unload the car and do a little planning before the truck arrives."

"I'll unload the car while you check on the kids and look the place over. Decide what goes where. Don't you remember the layout? You lived here often as a kid?"

"Not any longer than I had to. I was raised somewhere else. My mother only lived in the downstairs part since Pa died in '43, and I didn't have any urge to explore the filthy caverns upstairs. It was dirty as hell even then, probably dust a foot thick by now. Ma never cleaned up there. Her arthritis made it hard to climb stairs."

***

Upstairs, Jimmy and Katy had settled on their rooms. Katy picked one at the rear of the second floor that had a good view of a small artificial pond.

Jimmy chose a corner room on the third floor where he had three windows to Katy's two. He didn't notice at the time, but there was also a square panel in a closet ceiling that led to a full-length attic. There was another attic entrance, with a folding ladder inside, over the hallway outside his room.

It took over a week of cleaning, buying, selling, and junking furniture; as well as arranging the old with the new for the family to settle into their new home. All Sharon did in the way of helping was to berate and annoy the cleaning service.

Tom set up his office in a rear room on the first-floor where he was far from the noisy children and had a good view of the pond. The adults chose a second-floor bedroom, glad to be away from the noisy boy on the third floor.

Jimmy had the entire floor to himself, a fact which he really enjoyed.

No one had spent much time in the basement, simply sending someone down to clean it, and calling a repairman to check the oil furnace and get it ready for winter. All their possessions together left them no need for basement or attic storage.

Tom, his new home office ready, figured he had to get back to work, actually writing full-time for a living. Sharon put an ad in the local newspaper for a part-time maid and nanny for the kids.

Things soon settled down with all except Sharon growing used to small-town life.

She joined several clubs while Tom worked at his writing and the children made new friends. It wasn't until winter that Jimmy and Katy noticed the attic door. The occasion was a week-long snowfall, school being canceled because of the weather.

"What's that for?" Katy asked during a rare happening where they played together in his room. She pointed to the square entrance set in the ceiling of his large walk-in closet.

"Dunno. Never noticed it before." Jimmy went over to look more closely. "Let's find out."

He dragged a stepladder from a hall closet and they soon had the door open. It wasn't nailed shut, only a thin wooden square sitting in place over the hole. Standing on the ladder, Jimmy hoisted his older shorter sister up and then pulled himself in behind her. Enough light came in from two dusty windows, one at each end, for them to see.

As with the rest of the old house, the space contained piled-up junk and old furniture -- surfaces covered with dust and spider webs. They could see bats hanging from the high part of the ceiling, but were careful not to disturb them.

Boxes and trunks sat in piles across the floor. It was a wonderland to two bored kids.

"Look at all the old clothes?" Katy had found poles across one corner of the large space. They were filled with hangers containing coats and dresses, most discolored by ages of dust and crapping bats.

Jimmy ignored clothing to head straight for the trunks and boxes. He thought he might find some war stuff, or even a skeleton or two. Maybe someone had killed an Indian and hidden the body up there or it had been used to smuggle escaped slaves during the Civil War?

Tiring of dirty coats and raincoats, Katy made her way to rows of bookcases in another corner. Although not being able to read small print in the dim light, she thought she should find a stack of books to drop downstairs and read later.

"I'm going to take a couple of books down with me," she told her brother who, in any case, was scarcely interested in what she was doing.

While she looked over the offering of dusty literature, Jimmy had already acquired a small stack of goods ready to take with him. Most of them he simply kicked down the hole to his room, not worrying about breakage. Then he noticed the bats. He wondered if he could wake the creatures and watch them fly around his sister?

While so pondering, Jimmy saw something glinting on top of a rafter. He stretched as high as he could and dislodged a cloth bundle held together with rope. It "thunked" on the floor, disturbing the bats - some of which did wake, dropping and flapping their wings. The boy, curious about anything that had been hidden, hurriedly kicked the package down the hole and jumped to the top step of the ladder. He could hear his sister screaming and flailing away at the creatures, which gave him a good laugh.

"You stupid a*s," she yelled, sweeping her arms around, causing the bats to become even more excited. "I'll get you for this."

Running to the hole, she jumped down without looking, knocking Jimmy off his perch. They both fell to the floor on top of his acquisitions.

"Look what you did?" she screamed. "Now I don't have any books."

"Go on back up. I'll keep watch. I'll watch them eat your funky butt," he offered, still grinning. The boy noticed a book had come partly out of his last bundle. "Here's one. You can read it if you want, but remember, it belongs to me?" Jimmy graciously offered it to her.

Seeing it was all she had and fearing the bats, she grabbed the thin volume and stormed back down to her room.

About that time, Sharon called them to a supper of canned soup, lunchmeat, and potato chips, washed down by canned sodas. They still hadn't found a maid and Sharon was a lousy cook.

* 

After eating, Katy went to her room. She spent a few minutes looking out at the snowstorm. There wasn't anything good on television, at least that she wanted to watch, so she half sat, half lay, on her bed and opened the dust-blackened volume her brother had found.

Right away, she had to get back up to wash dirt and dust off its leather cover. It was old but looked on the inside like a modern lined notebook, only bound in leather rather than plastic or cardboard. The first thing she noticed was that about a third of the pages were torn out at the beginning. Ripped out, not cut. There were faded brown stains on the torn edges and a large blob of the stuff on the inside of the front cover. Icky, she thought. Making herself comfortable, she began reading....

*** 

23 October 1912

I have to apologize to myself for this mess. I managed to get Joseph's blood on the pages and had to tear them out. I don't know what I'll think of it years later when I peruse this section or, heaven forbid, a police officer sees the bloodstains, ha-ha.

I'll do my best to copy it from memory but no guarantees, at my age, on veracity. There, might as well get started.

(The next entry was at the top of the next page.)

My name is Ethel Simpson and I am, or was, a con-woman. I confess that I've lived a rich and varied life. I've killed, saved lives, and have done one hell of a lot of wicked things in-between.

I was born and grew up in Washington D.C. where my father worked as a tanner and would come home at night smelling of the piss they used to prepare hides. Aside from that, my early life was simply s****y, ha-ha.

My mother was a full-time drunk that worked as a part-time service-woman to service servicemen, ha-ha. What a mouthful. Between my father's meager income and hers, we managed to scrape by during the War Between the States. He had a bad leg from cutting it with a scraping knife at work. Not able to march, Papa was excused from fighting.

As I was saying, I grew up poor. At fifteen, I joined my mother and helped to comfort many a soldier, both Union and Reb -- when they had the town. It made no difference. Whomever had the money and inclination. Which is how I met Fred, or Frederic, as you will and he called himself.

Fred, or Frederic, was one of the kinkier ones. Let me tell you about it....

"Shut up you b*****d and suck it. I can't stand your whining." Fred was on the floor on his stomach sucking my big toe. "Get your slimy tongue in between them, you b*****d. Lick out all that crud," I ordered him.

While he was so engaged, I looked out the window at passing traffic on the avenue below, pausing to strike him occasionally with a birch branch. Complete with leaves, it made more noise than it caused pain and certainly made no marks his wife might find later. I guess you would have to have been there to appreciate the process. It seems as amusing in retrospect as it did at the time.

Fred was a federal judge whose wife didn't appreciate him or give him any comfort. One of those women who figured sex was for procreation.  Never, praise the Lord, for recreation. According to him, she was gone a lot of the time and had her own room when she was in town.

"Get your a*s up," I ordered gruffly. I made him stand and turn around.  While pulling and twisting various appendages, I laughed and further humiliated and chastised him.

"You useless piece of s**t," I whispered angrily as I stood in front of Fred, glaring up into averted, tearing, eyes. "You two-inch-prick wonders make me sick." I gagged at the thought, turning away in disgust.

You can picture me slapping and spitting in his face, kicking his fat a*s, and the like as he whimpered and cringed. He paid by the hour and got his money's worth.

Afterward, since he was a steady customer, we sat and shared a bottle of expensive wine he had brought for the occasion. Outside role playing, we were also friends. He had helped me out with the police on several occasions.

"Too bad, but I have to leave town." He shook his head. Dressed, he was an imposing figure. Freddy weighed in at about three-hundred pounds, with no gut at all. He was mostly muscle -- but not between the ears. "I've been given a new position down in Beulah Land," he told me, taking a sip of wine.

"What're you going to be doing there?" I asked. "I hope you enjoy it."

"Oh, I will. No doubt about that." He guffawed. "Now I get my chance at them damn Rebels. They split up the rebel states into five military districts, and I get to run one -- any damned way I please. I'll break them b*****d plantation owners and slavers." He grinned at the thought. "I plan to take their land and give it to the freed Nigras. We'll see what they think when they're living in a little shack while the black b******s tear up their fancy mansions."

"And you'll probably get rich in the process?" I observed.

"I wouldn't be surprised," he told me, seriously. "Too bad you can't come down and see me in action. I'd like to have you with me, honey. But I don't think my wife would like it. If it wouldn't be for her, I'd take you with me in a, he-he, Yankee minute."

That last statement got me to thinking. He still had a week to organize a staff and pack up, along with many meetings arranged with other officials. It did have me pondering though -- why not? If only his wife stood in the way, maybe I could do something about it? The matter was worth checking into.

The very next day, around noon, I waited outside a store she often frequented. I knew his wife would be there around that time. She shopped on that street every Tuesday afternoon. In-between physical sessions, Fred had told me a lot about the b***h.

Not knowing for certain that she was inside the shop at that moment, I still hadn't formed any plans. I was only there to look the place over but knew I had to hurry if I wanted to get it done. The answer came when I saw a huge beer wagon pulled by six large horses go by. The driver was in a hurry -- as they always were -- rushing down the street with little regard for pedestrians.

I was incredibly lucky. Seeing Fred's wife come out, I accosted her and was able to carry my plan out immediately.

"Mrs. Adams?" I called out. "How are you doing, honey? Haven't seen you in ages."

We stood on a board sidewalk next to the roadway. She was probably wondering who I was -- since I seemed to know her. I could see her brows furrowing in concentration. Me, I was waiting for a beer -- wagon, that is.

Obligingly, one came by at the right moment.

"I must confess I can't place you, madam? Where have we me--"

Which was all she managed to get out as I shoved her as hard as I could into the roadway. I admit, it wasn't a very ladylike act but accomplished my purpose.

Too late to stop or even swerve, the horses were on her, literally mashing life from her body. Not to waste anything, I casually picked up her package and walked away during the resulting excitement. I got a nice dress out of the occasion as well as a free pass to the New South.

Frederic couldn't take me with him on his military train, so I was required to take a horse-drawn coach to Atlanta by myself -- using his money -- and managed to meet some interesting people on the trip. One was a rather handsome young man.

Joseph happened to be a lawyer representing a group of landowners from the Atlanta area. As their representative, his job was to spread money around Washington on behalf of his clients.

I put on a southern accent for the occasion, along with my new dress -- courtesy of Mrs. Adams. Of course we were soon engaged in polite conversation.

"I haven't been home since before the war," I lied to him. "What are things like in Georgia? I hear it's horrid?" I flashed a paper fan.

"And so it is, Ethel. You won't recognize the place. Negroes running loose all over, getting in trouble. The economy's horrible. We had our own money, which is now worthless. Unemployment, rampant crime, depression -- you name it. On the other hand some, like my clients, weren't idealists. They insisted on payment in gold and came out all right."

"And what about you, sir? Did you come out of it wealthy?" I fluttered my eyelashes.

"Oh, I'm not too poor. Not by plan, though." He groaned. "I happened to have been a Confederate government lawyer and had connections. When the rich needed a lawyer, I got the job. You see, when we lost, conditions changed almost overnight. First of all, the slaves were freed. Most people thought they would stay on at their work and get paid a pittance, but were wrong.

"The majority of them soon wandered away. Since farmers have nobody to work the land, crops are rotting in the field. Many of them, mostly the smallest landowners, are going broke.

"Land taxes were raised by State and local governments already destitute from war expenses -- and couldn't be paid by people not having hard currency such as gold or Federal notes. So a number of large and small plantations and businesses now belong to the State of Georgia and sit unused.

"Small farms and factories have suffered in the same manner, resulting in many newly-unemployed whites also wandering from place to place looking for employment.

"Crime's so bad some of the towns and cities have simply given up on civil services, spending meager resources protecting the remaining landowners from raids by wandering masses. Many small-town governments simply winked out of existence. With nobody to pay their salaries and no finances to apportion, their employees simply went home.

"The only authority holding things together are the Federal troops stationed in every town and, I hate to admit, there aren't enough of the b******s to do the job. Look at them lopsided and you end up in jail. Yes, ma'am, things are horrible back in old Georgia."

"Isn't there something we can do? You seem to be making out all right?" I asked.

"My family's wealth being mostly gold and little paper money, we survived. Now, we're starting something up that might help. You ever hear of the Knights of the White Carmelia?"

"Can't say that I have, Joseph. What are they, bankers or something?"

"More of a social club, one with money and power. We plan to use it to hold the Negroes in their place. If one gets uppity, we pay him a nighttime visit. Right now, we're only getting started but we already got us chapters in a good many towns in Georgia. It's under different names, each run by locals but loosely affiliated.

"We're becoming larger every day. If the Federals can't control the scalawags from the south and carpetbaggers from the north, by God, we'll have to do it ourselves."

He told me about his organization and how they planned to influence the occupying army. A bribe here, a kickback there, and an occasional act of violence. That they, we, would have to accept some changes. Negroes would not only be able to vote but also run for office. But the keywords were "would" and "run." And that those particular Negroes "would" be "run" out of the State.

"We can sure as hell scare them out of voting, and make sure the right ones run; those that can’t win. Imagine one of those b******s in Congress, making laws that white men have to follow? We'll kill them first. Kill a few and the others will get the message." His face turned red as he spoke with great vehemence.

I figured he was a nut, but spent the long trip learning more about his job and nut group. I had nothing better to do except looking out the window of the carriage. A few people got on and off along the way. Before we arrived at Atlanta, I jotted down Joseph's address and promised to look him up once I was established.

I rented a nice suite in a boarding house, using Freddy's money. He had arrived already by government railroad but was still too busy to meet with me.

With nothing else to do, I spent days wandering the streets and observing conditions. The homeless were everywhere, crowding both streets and city parks. They stood outside restaurants, begging for handouts. Groups of Negroes and poor whites fought constantly and were never seen together. I heard tales of killings out in the countryside -- unchecked or even investigated by overworked officials.

Corn and other crops had grown tall enough to eat but had no one to harvest them. Crop rich, the farmers had no money to pay for harvesting, nor buyers for their crops. The raiding gave some of the poor a little temporary employment as guards, which further lowered the profits of the landowners. It looked like many farmers would end up sitting-out the next few seasons, since they would lose money on this one -- which would make things even worse the next year.

But I did get the germ of an idea. I spent the night thinking about it. Because of my influence with the military governor, there was an opportunity for me to make money there in Atlanta. I could pass as a southern belle and, then too, I was ambitious and ruthless. That could be a winning combination....

***

Katy drifted off to sleep with the book still in her hand. She dreamed of being a rich southern aristocrat before the Civil War. Of having servants and living in a large mansion.

Jimmy finished watching television and wandered up two flights to his bed. As he passed her room, he yawned at seeing his sister already asleep.

He was wondering if school would still be called off in the morning and anticipating an exciting bus ride over icy roads if it wasn't. He liked to ride the slipping and sliding school bus.

Opening his door, the boy saw the sprinkling of junk from the attic lying on the floor next to the stepladder.

Carrying the top bundle to his bed, he unwrapped an old woolen coat, getting dust all over his blanket, and found two real guns. One was a rusty Smith&Wesson revolver that broke open at the top to load cartridges. The other a double-barreled derringer. The smaller weapon was wrapped in a stiff, oil-soaked rag and in much better condition. Jimmy looked in vain for a way to open it. He didn't know that it was a black-powder weapon that had to be loaded down the barrel, and didn't open.

Real guns! He would have to hide both before his mother saw them. There was also a bundle of old-style Daguerreotype photographs in various states of repair. Some were completely black from age and exposure and others, the ones in the center of the deck, in fair condition.

The photos were of people in very-old clothing. Some were standing together in groups, others of one person. One woman was in most of them, and she looked something like his mother. There were also two kids in some of them, and they looked like the same ones at different times in their lives.

Other photos were of the house, even one taken in the basement. Now why would someone take a photo of a basement wall with only a table and horse-collar in it? There were maybe twenty viewable photographs altogether. Since none of them had guns or Indians in them, they didn't interest him much.

Wondering what to do with the things, he shoved the photos into a drawer to hide them from his sister. He knew she would be interested and that he could use them on her later, to trade for some favor or other.

Now that he had real guns, all for himself, he thought about what he should do with the things. He would find oil and clean them off, then show them to his friends. Jimmy thought about how jealous the other boys would be when he showed them two big, shiny and real, cowboy guns. When he went to bed, the smaller one under his pillow, he dreamed of being a riverboat gambler in the old, old days.

***

Sharon was really starting to hate the place. Now that she had money she wanted to spend it. To have fun and a new wardrobe.

"But you can't, baby. We don't know how much we'll need to fix the house. We have to patch the roof, and that barn needs to be either repaired or torn down." Tom reasoned with her. "We'll have to wait and see how much is left."

"I can't believe I actually gave in to you, Tom. We should have sold this place, right at the onset. We could have fixed up our apartment and be living in relative luxury. Now we're stuck way out here in this dump." She slammed her coffee cup down on an unsteady kitchen table, splashing it onto the tablecloth. "See what you made me do?"

"We have to think of the future, honey," he told her, "and it's a good investment. The house will be worth a lot more when it's fixed up. And, of course, the kids will benefit from this environment -- away from crime in the city."

"Damn, damn. Damn." She gulped down the remainder of her coffee and stormed out of the room to find a place to sit and sulk.

Sharon had grown up with money and never been without it. You could say she had been upper-middle-class throughout her life. She wasn't particularly wealthy, but never had the need to work hard. Her part of the family money was in the form of a trust fund; a nice steady income from Grandma Ethel’s investments. When she wanted a luxury item, she'd find a temporary job. Her good looks and smile made it easy.

When she married Tom, then a moderately-successful sales manager of a hardware chain, his pay supplemented her income and they lived well.

Then came the kids, and more expenses. Tom had always yearned to be a fiction writer. He quit his job after selling his first novel. The sale raised their income level at first then, since it was the only thing he'd managed to sell so far, the residual income soon went down again.

Now she was stuck out in the wilds, kids and husband always around and underfoot. On top of the rest of her problems, she had to give up her lover, Alfred. He lived in Toledo, eighty miles away. Knowing Al, he would already have another girlfriend.

"Damn, damn. Damn," she repeated to herself.

End of section one of three.  Next we’ll find out how Ethel conned both the Feds and Planters into giving her money, also murdering along the way.
Charlie