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They said that in her youth, Annabelle had long, coal black hair,
high cheekbones, and deep, penetrating, brown eyes. Her eyes could
still penetrate the soul, but they were paler in color, maybe
because they were covered with the whitish film of cataracts. I
remember watching her take her hair from the neat bun she wore and
let it down to comb. Her hair was long, but no longer black as
coal. It was the color of newly formed storm clouds and fell in a
silvery braid to her hips. I watched her comb it out and then she
would braid it, wind it back into a bun and pin it low, just above
the nape of her neck. Everyone always said that I favored her a
lot. Annabelle was my great-grandmother; she was a Full Blood, a
Choctaw Indian from Savannah, Georgia. When a child, I thought she
was tall, larger than life. My admiration of her as we walked in
the yard and I helped her gather eggs and pick flowers, was
unsurpassable; but as I grew, I realized that she was a tiny woman.
Shrunken from her many years on earth, she stood barely four feet,
ten inches tall. In her older years, maybe even her younger ones
too, she was never without a jar of Garrett snuff. One summer, when
I was about twelve years old, I went to stay with my grandmother
Annabelle. And because her house was so small, I slept in her
bedroom with her. Each night before we went to sleep, she pulled a
leather bound book from underneath her mattress and wrote for a few
minutes before she extinguished the bedside lamp. She seemed intent
on what she was doing so I did not bother her with questions, but
after several nights, curiosity got the better of me and when she
finished and placed the book under the mattress, I asked what she
was writing in the book. She told me that she was writing her
thoughts on the events of the day so that if she wanted she could
look back and know exactly what she was thinking and how she felt
that particular day. "Is that how you remember all of those stories
you tell me, about when you were a child and about your kinfolks
back then" I asked. "It is a part of it," she replied, "but some
things you just do not ever forget. They remain with you your
entire life." "Tell me a story, Grandmother," I begged. "Tell me
about when you were a child; a young girl like me." She began her
story that night, by telling me how she met and married my
grandfather Jesse. She also told me about leaving her home and
family in Savannah to move to Mobile to live near my grandfather's
family. And in that telling, I discovered that my grandmother had
led a very interesting life, especially in her earlier years. Her
life was filled with heartbreaks, heartaches, great times, and sad
times. She attended Mardi Gras Balls and traveled extensively
around the South. She was involved with an assortment of ill-fated
lovers. Indulged in hoodoo, voodoo, even murder Hers was a life I
found extremely fascinating; a life, I wished I could live. That
summer, I decided that when I grew old, I wanted to be just like my
grandmother Annabelle. However, today, as I sat staring across the
haphazard layer of hills to the west and thought of Annabelle and
the olden days of grace and charm. I realized that those days were
forever gone. They were days that I myself would never know, except
through my grandmother's eyes and memories. No longer that young
inquisitive girl, I am an old woman now. On my own, I have lived a
long uneventful life. Only through her stories could I live the
life I dreamt of; therefore, I decided to share her story with the
world. I am certain she would approve. I hope you all enjoy reading
her story, as much as I enjoyed writing it. Her story began April
1865, at the end of the Civil War, as was told to me by my
grandmother, Rebecca Annabelle Maples Foster.
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