"What a powerful story! Thank you for not thinking it robbery to share. Isn't love an amazing thing? "Papa" wrote very well. He was brilliant in his observations. I never knew any of my grandparents and I "envy" ever so slightly, those persons blessed to have that richness as part of their family quilt. God bless. Continue to share your grandparents with the rest of us." ---Annette Smith, Author of Etched ............................................................................................. "I was blown away! Your detailed descriptions of your loved ones, accompanied by those magnificent letters from 1914, left me speechless. There is nothing more inspirational and soul stirring than reading a story about true love based in reality. Thanks for sharing." ---Rebecca McFadden, Author of Surfing to Find the One ............................................................................................. "You've given us such a lovely gift. I was touched on so many levels by: The determination and devotion of your grandfather and the abiding love between your grandparents that is revealed in excerpts from his letters The glimpses of the challenges faced by a West Indian immigrant determined to make it in America The parallels between your son and his great-grandfather The reminder you have given us to maintain the precious human connection through letter writing in this age of technology" Barbara Gardner, Instructor, Boricua College ............................................................................................. "Your grandfather is awesome! His writings are poetry from the heart. Several times, I just stopped reading and said, "Oh my God, this man is bad!" "My head is full, my heart is overflowing, my pen is ready, paper is convenient and ink is nearby: All I have to do is write." Shoot...pure, passionate, prayerful poetry!" William A. Jones III, Community Leader

Papa's Letters

Love via First-Class MaleBy Judith C. Lovell

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2013 Judith C. Lovell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-9977-7

Contents

Introduction....................................................11. Papa and the Old Country.....................................72. Papa and the New Country.....................................353. Papa's Letters to Grandma....................................554. Papa and Grandma: Life after the Letters.....................1115. This is Not the End..........................................119Notes...........................................................131About the Author................................................135

Chapter One

Papa and the Old Country

So he sent, and brought him in. Now he was ruddy, with bright eyes, and good looking. And the Lord said, "Arise, anoint him; for this is the one!"

— 1 Samuel, chapter 16 verse 12.

About ten years ago, I inherited a bundle of love letters and diary notes written by my maternal grandfather, David Clarence Hurd. He composed these writings while living in Brooklyn, New York. Papa, as my grandfather was lovingly called, was born in Brown's Town, Saint Ann, Jamaica, West Indies, on April 13, 1885. Beginning in October of 1913, he wrote to Avril Louise Cato, who lived in Port Antonio, Jamaica. Initially pen pals, they wrote to each other for nearly a year. The pen pal phenomenon was quite popular back then. Customarily, through letter writing a pen pal connected with another to learn about his country, customs, and lifestyle. Some pen pal relationships, like that of my future grandparents, blossomed into blissful romance.

David got to know his future bride through letter writing. After forming a loving bond built on trust and faith, he poured out his heart to her. He sent many impassioned love letters. He proposed marriage in a letter. She accepted the proposal in a letter. They physically met each other for the first time on Tuesday, August 25, 1914, in Port Antonio, the day before their wedding ceremony.

Papa's love letters are characterized by a keen sense of novelistic detail. They are a record of my grandfather's courtship of my grandmother and his observations as a Jamaican immigrant living in Brooklyn during the very beginning of the twentieth century. After reading and digesting the collection of writings, I realized that besides building a strong, loving relationship with his future beloved wife, he meticulously set the stage for her smooth transition to America with his letters.

He informed Grandma about the United States with deep thought and insight. Papa enlightened her on a social, cultural, and historical level, possibly circumventing the culture shock he himself had painfully experienced when he arrived. I inherited only some of Papa's letters and none of Grandma's letters. I know many more existed, because my mother and aunts remember reading all of Papa's letters and Grandma's responses. Sadly, through the years, letters were somehow lost. Some of the story had to be carefully pieced together with research, an undertaking I enjoyed tremendously. The rest of our story I leave to your imagination.

I grew up with Papa and with my parents in a strict, religious Caribbean home in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. It is no accident we thrived in that area. Caribbean people have been flocking to that neighborhood and buying homes since the 1920s. Crown Heights is centrally located, and the IRT (Interborough Rapid Transit) subway along Eastern Parkway and the IND (Independent) subway train lines are easily accessible. Caribbean commuters traveled to and from Harlem, downtown Brooklyn, and other areas of New York City frequently and easily. They settled in Crown Heights, opened businesses and restaurants, and established an amazing network, creating a Caribbean home away from home.

And of course, every summer, during the Labor Day weekend, Caribbean people from all over the world come together in Crown Heights to "play mas" (to join in the masquerade) and reconnect with loved ones at home and abroad. Since my childhood, The West Indian-American Day Carnival Association has organized the parade of elaborate customs, colorful and creative costumes, and calypso and reggae bands. My family, Papa, and I did not have far to travel to join in the carnival celebrations. We lived only a block and a half away from the parade route along Eastern Parkway.

During the nine years I lived with my Papa, I got to know him well. On the other hand, I was only three years old when Grandma died. I do have memories of walking down Eastern Parkway's prodigious treelined sidewalks hand in hand with her, feeding the birds. I remember the excitement felt each time Grandma came to visit. My younger brother and only sibling David Alexander and I screamed hysterically, "Granny's here, Granny's here," upon spotting her at the window. We would run and usually hide inside the bathroom.

Once she had entered the living room with mommy, we dashed out of hiding, screaming, "Surprise! Surprise!" We would then run into her humongous, powerfully strong arms with their long, regal fingers and stunningly perfect nails.

Grandma was a natural beauty with a flawlessly chiseled little nose, dainty mouth, and a long gazelle-like neck. Her soft gray hair was usually pulled away from her face. At home, Grandma usually wore a housecoat, and her well-endowed bosom comforted all twelve grandchildren, at one time or another.

When she added a tinge of makeup and styled herself for church or a social event with Papa, Grandma transformed from naturally beautiful to strikingly gorgeous.

I also remember how Grandma and Papa opened their home and heart to the entire "Hurd Herd" and their friends every Wednesday evening for supper. The most scrumptious aromas and meals sailed out of Grandma's kitchen. On a Wednesday night, my mother and aunts could be found busily helping Grandma with the cooking. While creating magic with utensils, they chatted about almost everything: whose child was the most amazing, the latest fashions, workplace challenges, and their most heartfelt topic—their men. As a toddler, I did not understand everything they were saying; however, those same discussions continued through the years every time we got together.

In the dining room, the men heatedly debated with pounding fists, dramatized words, and exaggerated expressions their three most favorite topics: race, religion, and politics. It was the 1960s, and those were turbulent times in America. Minister Malcolm X, Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., President John F. Kennedy, his brother Bobby, and various civil rights activists were constantly in the news. The men of the family always had new questions to argue about before, during, and after Wednesday night dinner. These intellectually passionate exchanges and zealous discussions still inspire me today, for the younger generation of cousins has taken up right where the elders left off.

In the living room, the children, mostly cousins, played games with each other. We played different games: tag—you're it; red light, green light, one, two, three; and hide and go seek. Though we were often chastised for being too noisy or too playful, we had lots of fun together. Usually children in my family were forbidden to listen to, much less join in adult conversation. However, I spent most of my time with the adults. I do not know why they allowed me to listen to their private conversations, but they did. I simply conjecture that maybe it was because I exuded an...