Caroline Connolly (3:15)

I spent the summer of my freshman year in college living with my then 75 year old grandmother in Boca Raton, Florida. If you don't know Boca Raton, it is a place with a lot of 75 year olds. That's what my grandmother told me when I called to ask if I could stay with her while I was interning at a company nearby. Now my grandmother goes by Lala in our family because we couldn't pronounce Abuela when we were little. And she is the ultimate Cuban matriarch, a fourth grade teacher who raised four kids, some of her nine grandkids, and never left the house without lipstick, earrings, and should you ever need it, at least five packets of Spirit Splenda in her purse. It's worth noting that Lala is begrudgingly a diabetic. And by begrudgingly I mean she just doesn't feel like being one. That's really the best way I can describe it. And that summer, she had been directed to change her diet and do something that absolutely horrified exercise. And because I was there, it became my responsibility to oversee all of this. So we established a routine. I would wake up early in the morning and make us two cups of cafe bustelo. I would take mine black and Lala would take hers with milk and a huge fistful of corn flakes that she would cram into the mug every day. This is a recipe she concocted to, quote, trick the blood sugar level test. Now, I was a communications major in college, so I wasn't like questioning her science. And the levels for the most part seemed fine. We would take our coffee out onto her back patio table where there was a small pool, and we would just chat about life. She would ask me questions that had been troubling her, like, why do so many white women do yoga now? And she would dispense love advice like, marry someone who you can have a conversation with for the rest of your life. And in the same breath, do not Marry someone who does yoga. And as for the physical activity, Lala had decided, allegedly with her doctor, that cleaning around the house and the occasional light stroll were sufficient forms of cardio activity. So when I would point out to her she had an exercise one day, she would get up from the couch with a smirk on her face, walk over to her kitchen counter and casually wipe it down. It was Lala's way of saying, go to hell granddaughter. And on the weekend to meet our strolling goals, we would drive to the local mall and do laps inside Nordstrom. And so we would start in the shoes section and then make our way over to cosmetics and jewelry and eventually work our way to the second floor where they had the higher end designer stuff. And we would walk around like two of the most lethargic robbers casing a joint. And we would reward ourselves for our effort. At night we would lay in her bed side by side, chowing down on sugar free wafers, watching a movie from her extensive VHS collection. And these were films by the way, that Lala had bought on sale at big box stores all around Florida in the 90s. So the genres ranged from Air Force One kind of action to Not Without My Daughter, that controversial Sally Field film. And this was us week to week. And I found myself a single 20 year old with no friends in the area getting so excited about a sugar free jello night and a third viewing of the First Wives Club. But several weeks into my visit, Lala wasn't feeling well. One day her blood sugar had spiked and we thought it was best she go to the hospital. And so while she was being driven there, I was asked to look after my then 10 to 12 year old male cousins. And generally speaking I am somebody who relates more to a 75 year old than I do a 12 year old boy. That is true at like every stage of my life. And so when I went outside to check on them, it was no surprise that things weren't going as planned. They had taken all of Lala's patio furniture and thrown it into her pool. So her white table and matching white chairs were all underwater. And by the time she came back from the hospital I had only managed to drag out one of the chairs. I was someone after all who had spent the summer exercising at Nordstrom. And at first I could not tell what she was feeling. Lala is someone who has always looked just as shocked by a car crash as she does the discovery that my boyfriend doesn't speak Spanish. And so I wasn't sure how mad she would be. But as she looked from the pool to her white chair, she started laughing because the chlorine from the pool had cleaned that chair. It had never looked better. Lala is now 92 years old and she no longer lives in that house. But I will always remember all the trips I took there, all the ridiculous funny things she said and all the advice she gave me. But I will especially remember how we spent the rest of that summer, which was once a week we would take our cafe con leche and cornflakes out onto her patio and we would throw all of that furniture into the pool because that was exercise.

Jodi Powell (9:11)

That was Caroline Connolly. Caroline grew up in Massachusetts and spent 10 years reporting the news in cities all across the country. These days she's back in Boston where she lives with her husband, their son and their very dignified 14 year old dog. Her grandmother. Lala just turned 94 this year. She now lives with family who absolutely dote on her. She says lala's always had this beautiful ability to find humor in any situation and that's something the two of them share, along with a sincere love of the dessert menu. Our next story comes from Stacey Sullivan. She told this at our Milwaukee Slam where Wisconsin Public Radio is our media partner. Here's Stacy live at the Mouth.

Stacey Sullivan (10:09)

In two days, it will be eight years since my dad died in his sleep. And it still hurts that I didn't get to tell him that I loved him. And I decided tonight, about a half hour ago that I wanted to do something to remember him by that he never would have done. He never would have done something like this. My dad was kind of a peculiar guy. He had a big red mustache, he wore suspenders and he was a welder. He loved my mom and he loved Budweiser, probably a little too much. And my dad kind of started to become a little afraid of me, probably when I started getting boobs and hit puberty. And we'd do the kind of ass out back patting hug. And my dad probably had some level of dyslexia and learning disability. He stopped being able to help me with my math homework when I was in about third grade. But he worked so hard. He worked at the same steel mill since 1974 and he showed up every day and worked tirelessly welding in Phoenix, Arizona. And those are some very hot environments. And I can remember being a kid and riding in my dad's 1987 Chevy pickup and it would be 110 degrees outside and he'd be driving me home from grade school and the heat would be on in this truck, and I would just be, like, sweltering and pawing at the window, and he'd be explaining to me that it helps him acclimate to his welding environment. So when I had to go home to Phoenix in February, it was unseasonably hot. In 2016, it was like 90 degrees in February. And sudden death is such a chaotic thing. And one thing that I was tasked with was dropping off my dad's death certificate to the HR department at the steel mill that he worked at since 1974. And I never had a reason to ever go visit my dad at work or see what a steel mill was like. And I had this phenomenal existential crisis seeing where my dad worked, where he showed up to every single day and worked so hard to provide a wonderful life for me. It's a very cold, steely environment. No nice place to rest and have a lunch. Overhead cranes, a lot of heavy equipment. I had to drive to get to the HR department, and I had to approach this chain link fence with wheels on it to allow me to go in. And there was a security guard there, and I rolled down my driver's side window and I introduced myself as Stacy Lansdowne and explained that I needed to go in to drop off some paperwork for my dad. And this man that I'd never seen before in my life kind of leans forward and says, oh, boy, are you Bruce's daughter? Are you the nurse? Boy, was he proud of you. And I just completely lost it. And just having this moment of knowing that my dad would never be able to tell me that he was proud of me again. And I would never get to tell him that I loved him. But knowing that he loved me as much as he did and talked to me, talked to the security guard about how proud he was of me just made it hurt a little bit less. And in two days, we'll be at eight years and I still miss him. But, yeah, I'm proud to have done this little thing for him tonight.

Jodi Powell (14:15)

That was Stacey Sullivan. Stacy is a nurse practitioner and she put her name in the hat and got a chance to take tell this story at our monthly story slam in Milwaukee. If you'd like to learn more about our slams or even tell your own story, head over to themoth.org. In a moment. We'll continue this hour of legends and take you into two kinds of magic. The kind you find inside small, quaint shops and the kind that pulls you out into the middle of the streets. That's when the moth radio hour continues.

Narrator/Producer (14:59)

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

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Pastor Herbert Broome (16:35)

I'm Spencer and I work at UnitedHealthcare.

Caroline Connolly (16:38)

So Spencer, why do you care?

Pastor Herbert Broome (16:40)

I care because my daughter Adelyn has special needs. I am motivated by Adeline who inspires me every day. I am driven to help families like mine navigate the healthcare system. I'm so blessed to lead an amazing team at UnitedHealthcare, focusing on the member

Narrator/Producer (16:57)

experience and making that better.

Pastor Herbert Broome (16:59)

Hi, I'm Spencer and I'm committed to care.

Jodi Powell (17:06)

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jodi Powell. In this show we're hearing stories from and about legends, the people who make a moment unforgettable and make you grateful you got to cross their path even for a very short while. Our next storyteller is Marques Celestine. He told this at a Louisiana Story Slam where New Orleans Public Radio is our media partner. Here's Marcos live at the mosque.

Marques Celestine (17:37)

I must admit, I really appreciate this prompt because there's so much in the world out there that seems to be so opposed To I joined. And I really needed this reflection today, so I needed this. I needed this. Y' all all right if I talk about Mardi Gras, too? I know somebody already did that, but my joy really, really lives in Mardi Gras, you know? I love it. I always have loved Mardi Gras. I mean, the whimsy, the charm of it all. I mean, there's just something about it. You know, you can fall into it if you allow yourself to just be free enough to do it. I mean, the whimsy, the music, the movement. Mardi Gras is a mood, and I'm here for it. I even love the smell of Mardi Gras. Now, Mardi Gras does have its problematic parts, too, I won't lie. I mean, its origin story is kind of shrouded in that Lost Cause mythology. I mean, think about that next time a hooded horseman gallops past you as we stand in front the mansions of the former sugar barons and people traders in the flambeau. I mean, they're amusing for sure, but is it just me, or is that kind of problematic? You know, in the royal courts, the debutantes and the monarchs, every man a king, but segregated as ever. But that's all right. I still love Mardi Gras anyway. I still love it. Because, see, Mardi Gras is not just a mirror. It's a magnifying glass of our innermost impulses. You know, the stuff we spend the rest of the year trying to suppress. And, you know, it's never been as much about the what, but the who with? See, those memories about those times we spend together with the people we love? That's Mardi Gras for me. And now I'm able to see the joy of Mardi Gras through the eyes of my dad, daughter. And thank God she loves Mardi Gras even more than I do. And before I even had words, I had memories. I remember waking up Mardi Gras morning crisp, grasping my mom's hand, chasing down float number 12, lower deck, neutral ground side, to see my dad in his full Zulu glory. Every moment perched on top his shoulders. I was mesmerized by the spectacle. I couldn't get enough. You might even catch me at a parade in Metairie if it's early enough in the season. I mean, you know, no shade to the suburbs, but y' all know what I mean. But I'd be hard pressed to share a Mardi Gras memory without thinking back to my dad. Cause it's almost cruel, if not poetic, that this one Particular season we entered into it and he went into hospice and a giant of a man reduced by his battle with dementia. I can remember back in my earlier years, and it was a couple of weeks, maybe even a couple of months, and the last parade had passed and my bedroom was still Canal street, my bed was still a king's float. All my toys were the crowd. And everything I caught that year, those were my throws. And my dad walked in on me mid route and he looks at me and he's like. He laughs, you know, he laughs a little bit and he looks at me like, son, come on now, Mardi Gras is over, it's Ash Wednesday. And see, that refrain would be a metaphor he'd used throughout my life because it signaled when I needed to leave something behind to make way for what was in front in my actual Ash Wednesday arrived. It was inevitable. We knew he was getting ready to depart. But I held out, prayed to the God of my childhood for one last blessing. And I don't know if it was the conversation I had or the prayers that I had or just telling that nurse, hey, slow down on that Lorazepam, but I'm telling you, something indeed did happen. Ashes on my head, ashes on his. And a light shone. Something filled the room. And almost with a resurrective aura, my dad's eyes opened. He cracked a smile. He even laughed. He did something he hadn't done in weeks. He got up and he walked. It didn't even feel real, almost like a tableau vivant. And I'm going to tell you, he lasted eight more months after that. He even came home for a little bit. Even as I'm telling you all this story now, I'm taking back to those rows and rows of coconuts in my garage. And see, back then we used to shave them and drain them and paint them and decorate them ourselves. Couldn't order it from overseas. Already done. I remember the first time we rode the truck parade together. And the next year I bet I said, dad, I want to ride the real parade. This year he did. 1 bet I rode on the Kings float. I was a page. And the next year I was big time riding the big shot. I mean tailing the Spy Boy, trailing the bands. The Claiborne Bridge and the Galliar hall stands every single moment powerful. Love, joy. Thank you,

Jodi Powell (23:20)

Margaret. Celestine is a New Orleans born storyteller whose travels around the world have only strengthened his love for his hometown. His work has taken him from the Midwest to Asia to the east coast. And now Back to New Orleans, where he's rediscovering the city's deep cultural magic. Marquis says he's still all about Mardi Gras, but it's still hard to watch the Zulu parade, which was such a core memory he shared with his dad. But these days, along with his wife and daughter, they made muses their new tradition, the all female parade that tosses bedazzled shoes. When I asked Marquess about his definition of a legend, he wrote, a legend to me is someone who puts so much of themself out there that the impact they leave behind never dies. They say you know, a tree by the fruit it bears. And so much of how I try to live, parent and give are extensions of how my father led his life. My dad's impact on me and so many others was nothing short of legendary. Our next story is from Brenda Williams, who told it at our New York City Grand Slam, where WNYC is our media partner. Brenda mentions Obia in her story. It's a West African spiritual practice that shows up in all kinds of ways across the Diaspora. Think rituals, spells, folk medicine, mostly for healing or protection. Here's Brenda live at the Mother.

Brenda Williams (25:07)

Thank you. So Haiti has voodoo, Cuba has Santeria, America has all kinds of witchcraft. And some Caribbean countries have Obia. To this day, I don't know how my religious Jamaican dad connected with an Obia woman, but he did. After 25 years living in England, he emigrated to the US ahead of the rest of the family and must have connected with her before we came over to join him in New Jersey. I was 14 when we moved, and beyond miserable. I had no friends. We were living in a really rough neighborhood and the local high school. The stories about it terrified me. Bullying, drugs, terrible teachers. I had been this nerdy scholar in London. I knew I'd just be mincemeat there. I started having nightmares about it. My parents saw my distress and recommended the one thing guaranteed to help me. You can probably guess. Ceramics classes. Yep. They knew a lady with a kiln who I was to call Aunt Edie. So right off, I knew something was wrong. Not the part about getting a new aunt. We were raised to call our elders aunts and uncles as a sign of respect. But ceramics classes? And why would my parents spring for this when we were so broke? Anyway, Aunt Edie was this plump, sweet and salty lady who kept praising my grades and how polite I was. So I knew my dad had talked me up a lot. We did the ceramics in her basement, but we didn't create anything from Scratch. She ordered figurines and statuettes and painted and glazed them to sell in her shop. I was very curious about this shop. Something else was really weird. She deliberately painted them to look unnatural. Like the little Dutch girl with the two long braids, flame orange, pitch black face, purple eyes, and these enormous ceramic cats. Hot pink, yellow eyes. I told my older sister Sunny about it, how ugly they were, and we laughed about it. That my same sister. It was around late July. She took me to check out the high school. And when we got there, there were these boys at the entrance and they made really crude cat calls at us, so we were too afraid to go in. Naturally, my nightmares continued. Around the same time, Aunt Edie invited me to her shop and my sister Sunny came with me. So the shop was on a side street, tiny space. We walked in and there were all her creations and all those purple, pink and yellow eyes. They looked kind of confused to me. On the same shelf as figurines of prophets and saints. And then there was this shelf of potions with labels like Postulants Brew and Protection Tonic, and my personal favorite, Lover Come Back Oil. And then from a room in the back, a lady hurried out clutching a bag that smelled like rancid meat. I was not going near that door. Sonny and I left as soon as we could. I got home and confronted my parents. Did you know Aunt Edie is an Obia woman? And my dad sheepishly said, well, do you not feel safe? And actually, I did feel safe. I kind of liked her. Dad said, aunt Edie has no children of her own and she's very well connected. You have to stick with it a bit longer. So the lessons continued, and after the visit to the shop, Aunt Edie asked me what did I really think of her creations, her figurines. And of course, the words horrendous and hideous came to mind. But instead I said, strange. And she seemed pleased that I didn't try to lie. She actually told me that her customers expected strangeness. They saw beauty in it because it made them believe that she might be legit and maybe could actually help them. She had been doing this kind of work since she was 16 years old, and back then she wanted to be a nurse but couldn't afford to go for training. So she turned to a different type of healing from this very different direction. So after all of this outpouring, I was ready to leave. And she kind of held onto my hand, and on impulse, I gave her a tiny peck on the cheek. Come mid August, the lessons had been continuing and My parents got the call they were hoping for. Aunt Edie had a client, an elderly Jamaican lady, who agreed to let me use her home address, which was zoned for an excellent high school about an hour from where we lived. The lady would not accept money, but she and Aunt Edie insisted on seeing my report card every quarter. And so it was, I gained another new aunt, Auntie Mildred, from this circle of Jamaican ladies who occasionally gave a gift to a young immigrant girl. And I repaid them simply by receiving, by receiving the kind of education that had not been available to them. Thank you so much.

Jodi Powell (32:03)

That was Brenda Williams. Brenda is a writer and human resources professional based in Brooklyn, ut Brenda said the home address arrangement only lasted one year, but that was enough time for her to make a good social and academic transition to the US and enough time for her parents to move to a neighborhood with a decent high school. When I asked Brenda how she's paying it forward, she told me I continued my nerdy love of school all the way to college and was able to qualify for and attend an Ivy League university, something I owe entirely to the circle of ladies. I've carried that gratitude with me, and I've tried to pass it on through years of teaching and mentoring, both formally and informally. I started with kids and teens, and now I mainly work with young professionals. In a moment, we take a trip down memory lane and meet a legend as they're becoming one. A reminder that legends can show up at any age. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

Narrator/Producer (33:21)

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

Pastor Herbert Broome (33:31)

Hey, Sal. Hank. What's going on? We haven't worked a case in years. I just bought my car at Carvana, and it was so easy. Too easy. Think something's up? You tell me. They got thousands of options, found a great car at a great price, and

Marques Celestine (33:45)

it got delivered the next day.

Pastor Herbert Broome (33:47)

It sounds like Carvana just makes it easy to buy your car, Hank. Yeah, you're right. Case closed.

Emily Couch (33:54)

Buy your car today on car. Delivery fees may apply.

Jodi Powell (34:01)

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jodi Powell. Our final story comes from Pastor Herbert Broom. Pastor Broom told this at our main stage in Boston, where we partnered with WGBH and the Wilbur Theatre. Here's Pastor Broome live at the Moth.

Pastor Herbert Broome (34:24)

This is a pastor's dream, to see so many people out here in the audience while I stand before you. But I promise you, I'm not going to preach tonight. But can I get an amen?

Jodi Powell (34:38)

Amen.

Pastor Herbert Broome (34:43)

February 2020. The Mississippi Civil Rights Museum in Jackson, Mississippi had opened door in celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. I had just retired. So I'm like, I got time on my hand. Let me go and experience some of my past. As I walked into the main lobby, I was really amazingly pleased to see so many people there. Matter of fact, it was a lot of people older than I am, and they were sharing their stories with their grandchildren, their great grandchildren, when all of a sudden I heard a familiar sound. It's the same song we sang at our church, St. Jane Bethel Missionary Baptist Church in Tulu Community, every Sunday. The song is Dis Lite a Man. As I turned to find out where it was coming from, I was really shocked because it was coming from the Jimmy and Sarah Boxtel Expo. Now, what made it shocking was I had just retired from being an automotive sales consultant from Jimmy Barksdale. He owned the Cadillac dealership in Jackson. I never thought that he was involved in civil rights. So naturally my curiosity, I went into and explore the exhibit. I found a map of the state of Mississippi. And if you know Mississippi look like a great big nose. The map had indication of those counties that had voter registration. So as I looked at Wilkerson county, which is the tip of the nose, there was no map. Now, I knew that there was voter registration going on in that county because I am a living witness, an eyewitness, an eye witness that voter registration occurred. Both of my parents taught school there. My dad was industrial art, he taught algebra and he also was a football coach. My mom, she taught English, Mississippi history and home economics. Which other words mean I know what fork and knife to use to cut a state. Let's go back 61 years. 1963. I had just turned 10 years old. That afternoon, two cars pull up in our yard. A sedan and a station wagon. The men in the sedan got out the car, they walked to the door and I heard a peculiar knock. My dad opened the door and these men came in. They were so tall, they had to kind of bend down and go up under the door post. They literally walked in each one of those rooms and they made sure they looked in the bedroom, they looked in the closet, they looked everywhere. Matter of fact, one of the tall men made one step on the ladder and he could shine in the attic. They were making sure that the only people that was at that house was the Broome family. The other two men went around the house and because our house was placed on center blocks, they shined the flashlight all up under the house, making sure was no bomb. There. When the thumbs came up, the door of the station wagon opened up. This man walked to the house. My dad was so excited to see him. They did a manly hug and a handshake and my dad introduced my family. He said, this is my wife Hurley. She shook his hand. He said, this is my daughter, her DeGeneres. Now she 5 years old. He reached down and he shook her hand. Then he introduced me saying, this is my son, Herbert James. When I reached up to shake this man's hand, I was shaking the hand of Medgar Wiley Evers. He was the secretary of the State of Mississippi. NAACP meeting. My parents and Mr. Evans immediately sit down at the table. Now back in 63, children weren't allowed to just hang around and see what grown folks were talking about. That next morning I was woken by the smell of breakfast. My mother had fixed everything that you want to imagine because my dad's friend, who by the way attended Alcorn State University together, located in Loma, Mississippi, so they was old classmates, but they had stayed up all night long talking. My mom had grits, eggs, bacon, toast, even dad's favorite biscuits along with syrup, coffee and milk. We all had a wonderful time after they left. A few days later they had the first NAACP meeting in Wilkeson County. It was held at the local Methodist church. Now the meeting start at 7 o' clock, but his was 7:20 and we were still at home. My mother, bless her heart, was just so slow. She used to frustrate my dad because she was always slow. When we finally got there about 7:30, the parking lot was full of cars and trucks. As a matter of fact, there was bicycles leaning on side of the church. Now in 63 they didn't have central air, so the windows of the church was open. The ladies that was in there, they had their little fan along with their patent leather purses. They were trying to stay comfortable. I don't recall everything that was said that night, but I do remember there was two songs that we sung. The first song was I'm Not Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around. The guest speaker, he got up and he started talking about how important it was to be registered voters and that we didn't have to count beans in a jar. You didn't have to pay poll taxes. The only thing that was required was that you was a citizen of the United States and you go down and you register to vote. Road trip. My daddy got all of us together and we stopped by the St. Clair Service Station. Now my dad pulled up and the first thing he said Was ooh wee. This gas is so high. When I looked out the window, 17.9 cent a gallon for premium gas. After we filled the car up, the next stop we made was at the Gulf service station. Of course, in 1963, black people couldn't go into the restaurant and order their food. We had to go by the kitchen door on the side, which was okay with us because the main cook was Ms. Paralee Lacey, my best friend. Mom and Ms. Lacey put our hamburgers in separate bags. When I opened up my bag, they had a big piece of meat. It had lettuce, tomatoes, onion, pickle. And even the grill was toasted to a nice crunch. The buns was excellent. We drove 100 miles one way to Jackson, Mississippi. They drove downtown on Capitol street and they pulled in front of the federal post office. They was mailing a letter to Washington dc. Of course, what I observed was they put that letter inside another letter that was addressed to my aunt in Chicago. Because in 63, if you mail a letter in Wilkerson county talking about going to Washington D.C. i promise you that letter would have never left the county. June 12, 1963. My dad friend, after attending an NAACP meeting in Jackson, Mississippi, pulled up to his house only to be shot in the back. His wife rushed him to the emergency room at the local hospital only to be rejected and turned down because the hospital was segregated. He died right there on the spot. We got the news while my parents and us, we only had one TV in the whole house and we all was watching dad's favorite show when all of a sudden the news flash came on announcing that Mega Wiley Edwards was dead. That was the only time I saw my strong dad break down and cry. As a matter of fact, we all cried that night. But it was too late to run and hide. As a matter of fact, instead of burning the stores down in looting stores, they put on one of the most vicious boycott in that county. No black people even spent one red cent in the white stores. A few days later, people came to our house wearing their dark suits. These was men from Washington D.C. who presented my mom a letter. The letter that she sent to Washington D.C. was a request for a grant to put on voter registration drive in that county. And it was approved that next day. Thank you. That next day it was voter registration day. And I stand before you and I promise you that was the only time that I can remember my mom being on time. As a matter of fact, she was blowing her horn talking about, come on James, we gonna be late. She sent my sister across the street to Mr. Johnson's house because remember, she was only five years old. So I rode downtown with my parents. They got out the car and they went in the courthouse. Dad passed me the keys to his 57 Chevy. He said, son, I want you to go and get somebody else and bring them down to vote. My dad could trust me driving his car at 10 because he taught me how to drive at 6 years old. As a matter of fact, at 7 years old, I had my own keys to my own transportation. I could literally drive downtown Woodville, Mississippi, wave at the police, tip my hat to the sheriff and they didn't pull me over. Now you all might think it was that 57 Chevy, but no, it was that little 435 tractor on my way to the sweet potato field because my dad was also a farmer. As I went back to our neighborhood called Kegler Bottoms, I drove past Mr. Monroe House and instead of turning to the right, I decided to go straight. When I got to the end of that drive, it was a dead end street. When I turned around, there, sitting on that porch was Mr. Sydney and his wife Demillis. So I asked Mr. Sidney Miller, when I got out the car, naturally, you know, I spoke and he said. And I said, are you all registered voters? With some excitement, he looked at me with a divorce. No, son, we too old to vote. I'm like, I know he was served in the army and he's a well dressed person. So in my mind I just immediately said this. Well, Mr. And Mrs. Milley, were you all registered to vote? So one day I can vote. Ms. Milley didn't say a word. She got up, she went in the house. Now I'm thinking, oh, is she going to get that old pump shotgun? Cause they did say they were too old to vote. Instead, Ms. Miller came out, she had her little patent leather purse and ladies, you know those shoes you used to wear out? Now you make house shoes out of them. That's what she had on. She touched her husband, she said, suge, come on, we going downtown and we gonna register to vote. They got in the back of my car and I remember, I'm 10 years old, I'm driving like this, looking through the steering wheel and the dashboard so I can reach the gas and the brakes. They were quiet all the way down the street. One of the reasons they may have been quiet was because during that time, if a black person wanted to register to vote, he could possibly lose his job, he could go to jail, a worse scenario, he could even be hung to Register to vote. When we pulled up at the courthouse, they got out, the car, still quiet, and they slowly walked into the courtroom or the courthouse. I stayed in the car and I looked in the rearview mirror, and there was people on the other side of the street. And you know who I'm talking about. They was taking names and writing tags down. I wish everybody here could have seen what I saw when the Millers came out of that courthouse. The head was high. They was actually holding hands, as if they went in the courthouse and just got married. They walked back to the car and got back in the backseat. Now, all of a sudden, I went from being their driver to their chauffeur. When we got back to his house, he said, young man, I am so glad that you took us down. And now we are registered voters. When I turned 18 years old, for my birthday present, my parents took me down to the courthouse chancery court office, and I became a registered voter. And the feeling that I got when I cast my first vote, that was the first time I really felt like I was a true American citizen. As long as I live, the story of the Millers, the Brooms, Medgar Evers, Martin Luther King, those stories will never die. Not on my watch. This little light of mine I'm gonna let it shine this little light of mine.

Jodi Powell (51:44)

Pastor Broome was born in Laurel, Mississippi, to the late Reverend James Dee and Mrs. Holly Pierce Broome, who were both teachers and community activists. Service was a part of his everyday life. He began spreading the good News more than 60 years ago. I called Pastor Broome with a few questions, and he answered the phone over his Friday night game of dominoes. Hi, Pastor Broom. So a question that I asked all of the storytellers in this hour is, what or whom is your definition of a legend?

Pastor Herbert Broome (52:20)

My definition of a legend would have to be my father, Pastor James D. Broom. And the reason being is because he illustrated what fatherhood it's all about with his teaching. Young men in scouting, basketball court, football coach. But he raised me to fish, to hunt, just to be a. A man, a family man. And I love him for it. And, you know, he passed away on Father's Day, which means God himself feel like he's a legend to be remembered. So that's my father. Reverend Broome would be my legend.

Jodi Powell (53:06)

That was Pastor Herbert Broome. That brings us to the end of this episode of the Moth Radio hour. Thank you to our storytellers, to the Moth team, and to you for listening. We hope you'll join us next time.

Narrator/Producer (53:39)

This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison and Jody Powell who also hosted. Co producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate producer Emily Couch. Additional grand slam coaching by Meg Bowles and Jennifer Hickson. The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Cluce, Sarah Austin, Jeunesse, Jordan Cardinale, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson and Patricia Llorena. Mall stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the Storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Ry Kuder and Manuel Galban, Brad Meldow and Daniel Rawson, James Andrews and Trombone Shorty Brothers Ernest Ranglin and Bruce Coburn. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including Executive Producer Leah Rees Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching as your own story and to learn all about the Moth, go to our website themoth.org.