A woman before her time

A woman before her time
There was an incident in 1942 that, if it happened today, would probably make the news. In my 74th year, I am the only person with a memory of the event and time is running out. As this is written, my mother would have been 93. Mom, this is for you.
She was a strong-minded, independent woman, probably forged from personal experiences, some fairly traumatic. My parents struggled to share in the American dream, often depending on the W.P.A. and other F.D.R. programs. We lived in Boardman Township. On Christmas Eve, 1936, we returned to our rented home to find it burned to the ground, leaving us with only the clothes we were wearing. As we had done several times, we moved in with my grandparents who had a small farm in the area. My younger brother was born the following year.
The troubles of the '30s are well documented with hunger, homemade brews, coathanger abortions and despair. There was a strong growth in the Ku Klux Klan, pro-Nazi and other right wing movements. My mother was an outspoken critic of these and would be dismayed at the direction our country is taking today. She had no use for hypocrisy, bigotry or intolerance.
When the war came, my father, thanks to union help, was making a modest income and we were building our first home. One week after Pearl Harbor, my mother's brother, my Uncle Jerry, joined the Army. Dad was drafted at 35. During the war, Mom worked in a meat packing plant.
In the summer of '43, my Mom took my grandmother, "Tootsie;" Jerry's daughter, who was about eight; my brother, and me on a bus trip to visit my Uncle Jerry at Fort Benning, Ga., where he was in training.
In those days, a trip of any distance required bus changes. All went well until we reached Chattanooga, where, when we boarded the bus for Atlanta, the driver rose and ordered several black people to move back and give us their seats. My mother adamantly refused and marched our little party to the bench seat across the back of the bus. The outraged driver ordered her to move back to the front, and when she refused, he called the sheriff. A uniformed deputy came aboard and officially ordered my mother to move forward. She again refused, saying they would have to carry her. A crowd was gathering and other buses were waiting for service. The impasse was broken when the driver said he had a schedule to meet, closed the door and pulled out. My mother and grandmother spent the night-long trip in conversation with new-found friends.
A lot of years have come and gone, but I will never forget the outright hatred in the eyes of the bus driver and deputy. It is disheartening that the intolerances that my mother despised are still with us and are even being preyed upon. Nevertheless, long before the world ever heard of Rosa Parks and her courageous refusal to move to the rear of the bus, my mother, Esther Clayton, risked civil disobedience charges for refusing to move to the front of the bus.
ROBERT H. CLAYTON
X The writer worked for many years at the Dollar Bank in Youngstown before retiring and moving to Florida in 1967.