“Come the revolution.” I could hear it plain as day; that Brooklyn accent rang in my head as if she were still alive and talking to me. Tears rolled down my cheeks as my heart filled with emotion, and a flood of memories poured into my head. The little boy “Tommy” in me wanted to hear her serenading me with a lecture. I wanted to say I love you one more time and thank her for the legacy she left for us in our community. GOPgrace was her moniker on social media, but my mom lived like Mother Teresa.
I was rushing to the Dismas House to present the “Grace Morales Outstanding Service Award,” having been asked to present the award to Phil Ryan, who had followed in my mother’s footsteps with his tireless involvement with the Dismas House. Grace — by the time I was 12, I called my mother ‘Grace’ — voluntarily cooked at the halfway house for 42 years. Men returning from prison to society surely enjoyed her food and conversation.
During many of the years she was volunteering, she still had a house full of 10 kids, of which I was the fourth, giving credence to her identifying as a “card-carrying Catholic.” Growing up, we were taught to march instead of walk and do it single file. The oldest child first, the youngest last, unless, of course, the youngest were in a baby carriage (the oldest drew the charge of pushing it). This rule included all comings and goings that the entire family was required to attend, along with frequent headcounts. She was the mayor of our house.
Excursions involved a two-car parade with my mother driving the Dodge station wagon; the rumble seat in the rear faced the opposite direction the car was traveling. You could rest assured that six to eight of us would be in the car with my mother. The three most likely to misbehave would get the appropriately named “rumble” seat.
We usually begged to ride with my dad in his shiny new Chrysler. My hope was for a window seat in my mom’s car, as the older, more well-behaved siblings usually got to ride with my dad.
She was a logistical genius getting us to where we needed to go. Participation in sports served as a babysitter, so we all participated. Still, with three or four of us playing games and practicing at different times, getting there was always a challenge.
Often the call to leave was earlier than expected. Mom would announce that the “shoe leather express” was about to leave. We knew no bus was waiting at the top of the driveway; it meant we’d be walking.
My favorite “marches” were our weekend trips from Madison to downtown Nashville. Discovery and bribery were usually significant components of this fun family adventure. Whittlers sitting on a bench outside the Acme Farm Store carving little wooden toys that any kid would want; the Grand Ole Opry mascots, Ike and Mike the Piglets, shared the stage there. The bribes came in as a reward for being good (good being a relative word with a group of ten kids). Grace would wrangle us by telling us to get in a single file and follow her to Candyland, “But unless you behave, you can only look!” We behaved.
On another one of these downtown trips, we ventured to the Nashville Public Library. She marched us in one by one. We sat down and filled out a library card. We would go into different sections, look at the covers, and feel them in our hands. As we got older, we read them. If we behaved, the bribe would be a chocolate milkshake at Woolworth’s.
After I had become a father, Grace would confide to me that she took us to the library “so someone else could tell us to BE QUIET,” and then “Come the revolution, some of you became readers.” That investment gave her back hours in her day as we read. Dr. Seuss, on one level, to my favorite, The Old Man and the Sea.
I grew to understand the wisdom behind Come the revolution. The revolution is inside us: positive change on a personal level. The moments of realization gained through learning and growth and engagement.
The dinner table was where my mother held court. She was a great cook and could stretch a meal, just like the Prince of Peace in the “Loaves and the Fishes” story. She would add Uncle Ben’s oats to ground beef and double the number of hamburgers. We were convinced chicken necks were a delicacy. She’d boil them in a 20-quart pot, stretched over two electric burners with garlic, onions, and celery. Next, she’d salt and pepper them and send them to the “boys” to slather them with barbeque sauce and finish on the grill.
At a nickel a pound, I loved Lamb Shanks the most. She’d render them in that same pot all day with garlic, oregano, and onions, then add Campbell’s Tomato soup. Grease would collect at the top; no matter how much she skimmed, a thin layer was always left over. She would then take slices of white bread and throw them on the sauce to soak up the remaining. The last step was to put the steaming hot, sauce-laden bread on a platter. Appetizer served. We devoured it.
When everyone had a plate of food, political discussions broke out. Grace had the first and the last words. She encouraged us to express our opinions. Listen without interruptions or talking over someone, and debate with facts. These were turbulent times with the Vietnam War going on, the civil rights movement, long-haired music, priests getting married, and so on. There was plenty to talk about.
When things heated, she would use a John F. Kennedy quote, “Healthy controversy is the hallmark of healthy change,” for some respite. She was a one-issue voter: abortion. Everything else became irrelevant. That one issue didn’t stop her from having an opinion about others. What I witnessed was a woman who was consistent in her views. Pro-Life wasn’t a slogan to her; it meant you could then not rationalize war, polluting our planet, poverty, health care, the death penalty, guns, homelessness, loneliness, etc. In other words (mine), “You could not get ’em born to then turn around and kill ’em.”
During that time, she joined the revolution of change, and her social justice muscles started to flex. She became part of the volunteer community. The kids became her personal support unit. We solicited donations door to door for various charitable causes, sang Christmas Carols for the Fannie Battle Day Home, and passed out flyers for political candidates. With Grace, you got tenfold.
She worked the polls in Madison during elections for 50 years and became very involved lobbying to make the greenways happen. Grace built quite a legion of friends and neighbors, and so had we. She did it not for notoriety but for the good it brought the community.
When all of her kids had left the house and started living independently, Grace gave up the homestead and moved into a ground-floor condo. She planted a flower garden off the back porch. It was beautiful. Most of her neighbors loved the splash of colors but not the HOA, which said they exceeded the allotted allowance for a garden. Grace appealed the decision and was met by the ego of power with an unreasonable “no.” The next day, she started organizing her neighbors, ran for the HOA presidency, and won.
I tell this last story about my mother, Grace, because it crystallized the notion that the only way to effect change is to participate in your community. We must start by asking questions, reading and informing ourselves, organizing with like-minded folks, and being grassroots-minded to have a say in how this community moves forward. With our voices and votes, Come the Revolution, you will discover you have pretty good neighbors.
