Grandfather#2

Wilbur Francisco Fuller

He always had a story. An anecdote. A morality tale. And we always rolled our eyes and made faces at each other. As much as we could get away with back in the 1960s, which wasn’t much. We couldn’t talk back. We couldn’t sass with our faces. Sucking our teeth would have ensured our need for false teeth or having our jaws reconnected to our faces. It was a different time and children were to be seen and not heard. We couldn’t participate in grown up conversations. “Children get drunk on old folks’ breath.” But children could be taught and taught we were. Constantly. What I realize now to be a perfect complement to public schooling. Discipline or discipling. Walking alongside to train the gait or step of another. Anyway. Wilbur Francisco Fuller, in 1949, married Susan Frances Booze Byrd and became Wilbur to her children and Granddaddy Fuller to the grands, including this foster kid. He had apparently been a Pullman Porter until he retired and became a school custodian and general Mr. Fixit who was loved by all, especially the principal of the school, Miss Alfreda Pinkney. He had been an only child of a Methodist minister and his wife, Rev. Joshua and Mrs. Elizabeth Fuller. They lived just a block away on Brentwood Avenue. They had been founding members of St. Matthews Methodist Church around the corner on 23rd Street. By the time we met, Rev Joshua was already in full blown dementia which might today be called Alzheimer’s. He was an altogether lovely gentleman who appreciated everything everyone did for him. On the day we buried his wife, his principal caregiver, his recollection on the way home was, “Well we’ve had a lovely ride in the country today,” totally oblivious to what the journey had actually meant. This son of a preacher was a brown guy. Wore a lot of brown suits. But he was dapper. A sharp dresser often seen wearing a straw hat. Until he retired and sweaters replaced jackets and work boot replaced tie ups. A funny thing about Wilbur Francisco Fuller. He founded a group of wonderfully talented young men who sang gospel music. They had the most vibrant voices I’d ever heard. The Gospel Comforters’ voices seemed to blend like butter even during the rehearsals that were thankfully held at our house. They were in demand on the East Coast and it was a good while before I realized Granddaddy Fuller wasn’t singing with them. He couldn’t sing. He was their founder and business manager. He couldn’t sing. Not even a little bit. But he could tell stories. And he always had one. They usually began, “When I was working on the train.” Or “If you were working on a train.” But they always had a lesson about conducting yourself as a person of quality regardless of your circumstances. He recalled having to comport himself as a gentleman even in the face of outright racism and disrespect. Not all the lessons were so deep. Some were simple survival tips. If someone says they fixed something especially for you, don’t eat it. If you are at a gathering and put your drink down, leaving it unattended, don’t go back to it. And then there were the instructions on table manners, which earned for him the monicker, Eddie Cut. I’ll just leave that there. Don’t drink during the meal. Place your knife and fork in a certain position to signal you’re finished eating. Don’t talk with a full mouth. Napkin laid gently in the lap. And he made me love coffee until I actually tasted it years later. They wouldn’t give children coffee so I could only smell it as the grounds nestled with egg shells lit up the entire house when he made coffee in the mornings. He’d fry eggs and bacon and it was on. Imagine me disappointment when I finally tasted it, having erred by making my first purchase from a vending machine at TSU. But it’s okay now. Coffee and I’ve been friends for a long time now. Granddaddy Fuller and his wife, Grandma Sue were friends, I guess showing as much intimacy as people showed back in the day. But he always seemed to be outnumbered and outvoted by the women- Grandma Sue and her daughter, Aunt Ruth. I really did like his stories and the energy he put into them. He seemed most alive during those times. Sometimes I’d ask questions just to get him to talk. He didn’t have children of his own so he seemed kind of lonely except for us grandchildren. Two weeks before my junior prom in 1965, he got really sick. He was at home sick which was the habit back then. But eventually had to be taken out by ambulance. He died the day before the prom so I couldn’t go. Out of respect. He was a nice warm man who all the children liked. But I think he never really got his due. It’s my pleasure to remember him and speak his name. Wilbur Francisco Fuller.