Mollie Black Wilson Obituary
submitted by Debra Maddox Wilson
Excerpt from the funeral service of Molly Elizabeth Wilson,
conducted by her grandson, on 22 Nov 2005:
Obituary from the Mobile Press Register:
Mrs. Mollie Elizabeth Wilson - a native of Georgiana, AL,
and longtime resident of Saraland, AL, passed away on Sunday,
Nov 20, 2005, at a local hospital. She was preceded in death
by her parents, Thomas and Ida Cole Black and her husband,
Herman Wilson. She is survived by her children, Robert Larry
(Paulette) Wilson of Saraland, Al, Jerry (Debra) Wilson of
Greenback, TN, and David (Lori) Wilson of Alpharetta, GA;
one sister, Recie Fayard of Mobile, AL; six grandchildren
and five great grandchildren. . . . Those are the facts, the bare facts. All of what the obituary points to is true. She was born February 18, 1919. She had three sisters and one brother, grew up in Georgiana, and knew Hank Williams, Sr., when he was just a kid. From the moment I find out that last fact, I gave my grandmother celebrity status. And whenever I hear someone talking about old Hank, I always say, “Oh, yeah, my grandmother knew him.” In the 1930s, during the Depression, she was a participant in the female version of the Civilian Conservation Corps. President Franklin D. Roosevelt created the camps as a way to rescue the unemployed and preserve the country’s lands and forests, and they were known as CCC camps. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt created similar camps for women, and they were affectionately known by the men as “She She She” camps. Molly participated in one down on the Mississippi coast; she was a part of history. She and Herman married in 1938, and they both came to Mobile for work not long after that. She reared three sons and lived the rest of her life in this area. . . . My earliest memory of Molly Wilson goes something like this. As a child growing up, on many occasions, if I became ill and couldn’t go to school, Mom or Dad would take me down the street to Nanny and Paw Paw’s house to stay for the day. And it would be early in the morning; I’d still be in my pajamas. We’d knock on the door. Nanny would raise the blind, let us in, and I’d head down the hall to her bedroom. She’d give me a boost into what seemed to me the tallest bed in the whole world. She’d tuck me under those heavy covers, covers that seemed like ten thousand blankets. Covers that conveyed safety, warmth,love. I’d sleep until I heard the sound of what became the most familiar sound in the whole world to me: the old clock. Most of you know what I’m talking about. You could hear the thing ticking all over the house, and I’d hear it in my sleep. Then, on the hour and half-hour, it would strike. Every time I’d hear it strike, I’d guess: 10:00 o’clock? No, 9 o’clock. And sooner or later I’d smell bacon and eggs. We’d be up in time to watch The Price is Right with Paw Paw and celebrate with all those people who won new dishwashers, trips to Las Vegas, or, if they were really lucky, a brand new Chevrolet. I spent several weeks of my childhood with Nanny at the river house, and it was she who taught me how to skin a catfish after nailing him to a tree. I doubt the majority of grandmothers on the planet pass that particular fish-cleaning secret on to their grandkids, but I’m glad I got to learn it from her. She taught me how to fish with bread when we didn’t have crickets, and she could whip a cane pole into a frenzy trying to get her hook into the perfect spot. It’s a wonder I still have both of my eyes. I’m proud to have these and other memories. When all is said and done, and we’ve reached the end of our days, memories are really the only thing that matters. It was Sunday a week ago. I was on the floor playing with my nine-month-old daughter, Elizabeth. She and my grandmother share a name, and I’m glad they have that in common. I couldn’t help but think about the differences. Nine-months old, thinking about walking but not doing it yet. Eighty-six years old, in the hospital, waiting for the end. Elizabeth won’t get to know Nanny; she won’t possess a memory of her. So it’s my job to pass on those memories, let her know who her great-grandmother was. And I can only hope and pray that my Elizabeth will live eighty-six long and fruitful years as Molly Elizabeth did. . . . Written by Mollie’s grandson, Dr. Mark Robert Wilson, Judson College, Marion, Alabama |
