Grace was born in 1900, the second child among seven daughters and two sons, in a tiny town in southwest Louisiana where her father owned a small land title business. By the mysterious process common to some families, Grace was the daughter designated to remain at home, unmarried, to care for her aging parents. Grace had dreamt of being an attorney, of travel to far places, of romance. Instead she remained at home, learning to search land titles from her father, involving herself in the affairs of her church and her commity.
Grace was a born administrator. She took over the land title business, and made it the largest and most reputable in Allen Parish. She organized St. Joan of Arc; they wouldn't have had the new church building without her. When she got on the Parish Library board, the new bookmobile was assured. She even managed to raise the children of one sister, one brother, and one niece who either died or had a marriage go bad.
By the 1950s, Grace was appointed head (secretary) of the Allen Parish Sheriff's Jury (the Louisiana equivalent of Chief of the county comissioners). She had only left Louisiana once, travelling to Washington during WW II on a trip for the Ration Board, but "Miss Grace" was the one to see if you wanted to do something in Oberlin, or Allen Parish.
In 1954 she was to travel to Florida for the baptism of a godchild, my sister Debbie. My brother Michael and I were really excited. This was the era of the tv children's cowboy show: Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Sky King, the Lone Ranger, Hopalong Cassidy, Wild Bill Hickock, Annie Oakley, Red Ryder, the Cisco Kid--even Rin Tin Tin joined the cavalry! We pictured Aunt Grace galloping up on a white horse with a silver mounted saddle, twirling her lariat, wearing a fringed red divided riding skirt and vest with a big sheriff's star, embroidered boots, and a ten-gallon hat. She'd make her horse rear, fire off both six-guns, leap off holding them, twirl them and pop them back into her holsters, and say, "Howdy, pardners." 'That was what we expected.
What we got was a dusty black Buick, with two little old ladies (Aunt Grace had brought along Aunt Olive). They got out wearing flowered hats, flowered dresses, white kid gloves, and carrying wicker purses. The taller was Aunt Grace.
It took several years after that visit's end before Michael and I could value Aunt Grace for herself, but as time passed, we came to understand that that elderly lady was as much a force for right and justice as any tv cowboy. Her heroism was more mundane, that's all--the heroism involved in trying, every day, to make the world a better place. And even now, with the troubles around the world, I find myself wishing Aunt Grace were in charge of it all.
(c)1992 Marsha J. Valance