The Best for the Last

By Margaret Jean Howard

With this factual account of Rev. Dr. Margaret Jean Howard's life, she shares the numerous challenges that she faced while growing up in Alabama, conquering her big dreams no matter where she started from or ended up. Her story will motivate and inspire you to loo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Jean Howard
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798893959284

Margaret Jean Howard

Rev. Dr. Margaret Jean Howard brings a wealth of experience and passion to her role as an ordained minister in the American Baptist Churches. Through her preaching and teaching, she has dedicated herself to spreading the gospel of Jesus Christ. In addition to her spiritual leadership, she is the visionary founder of the Keeping it Real Mentoring Program, which empowers eighth-grade girls to build self-esteem, take responsibility, and stay motivated. Prior to her ministry, Howard enjoyed a successful 37-year career in dentistry. Outside of her professional endeavors, she finds joy in reading, traveling, staying active through exercise, and engaging in friendly Scrabble matches.

Book preview

Foreword

Train a child in the way she/he should go, and when she/he is old, she/he will not depart from it (Proverbs 22:6, King James Version).

I

was taught and believed that all good things were possible if I worked very hard and held on to God’s unchanging hand. To some, this may appear naïve and even ridiculous. But it worked for me. Hard work has never frightened me, and I have grown accustomed to it. Working hard to achieve my goals was a way of life that I learned from my parents and all of the successful people I admired. I grew up believing my achievements would be appreciated much more if I worked hard for them. All the people I loved and admired had achieved their successes through hard work. 

I am a descendant of enslaved Africans and African Americans, the daughter of fourth and fifth-grade educated parents whose primary source of income was from sharecropping. According to my family’s oral history, which has been passed from one generation to another, my paternal grandfather, Henry Williams, was born in slavery. After the Civil War, his former slave master taught him to read and write. My paternal grandfather was ten years old when this occurred and lived in Georgia then.

As a young man, my paternal grandfather married his first wife and fathered five children. His first wife died while the children were still very young, and my paternal grandfather arranged for relatives to raise his five children as their own. Afterward, my paternal grandfather moved to Abbeville, Alabama, where he met and married my paternal grandmother, Mandy Kelly. Papa Henry and Grandma Mandy had 13 children. Dad was the third youngest son. 

Papa Henry was a sharecropper and pastor of several small churches in Alabama. He traveled from church to church each month, and my uncles and aunts were responsible for working the farm in his absence.

At the age of 12, Daddy asked permission from Papa Henry to quit school, and his sisters be allowed to attend school full-time. Daddy did this so that his sisters would not have to continue performing the heavy chores that were required of them. Daddy convinced his father that he was much stronger and could out perform all of his sisters on a daily basis. He promised his father that his sisters would teach him everything they had learned in school in the evenings after supper. Papa Henry gave his permission, which is why Daddy had a formal fourth-grade education.

In regards to Mama, she was adopted at the age of three weeks. Her birth mother named her Margaret. During the adoption process, Mama’s new parents changed her name to Bernice. My maternal grandmother and my maternal grandfather were childless until they adopted Mama. By the time they officially became parents of a three-week-old baby girl, they were considered an older couple back in the day and even possibly by today’s standards. Mama told me that her mother and father spoiled her with lots of love and indulged her in everything she wanted. When Mama expressed her desire to quit school, her parents gave their consent. Mama had a fifth-grade formal education.

When Mama married Daddy, she did not know how to cook and wash clothes. Daddy was almost ten years older than Mama, which meant that he was 26 and mama was 16, according to their marriage date that was recorded in the family Bible.

Although my maternal and parental grandparents and parents had very little formal education, they all emphasized the importance of obtaining as much formal education as possible and accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Primarily, the teachers were the only people I heard speaking correct English during the first 17 years of my life. Nevertheless, I managed to obtain five college degrees and a certificate in ministry in my lifetime.

The life lessons I learned at a very young age have helped me remain focused and work through the most challenging situations. If I included every one of them, my first book probably would be far too depressing. Although I attempted to write my first book when I was in my twenties, there was much work remaining for me to complete and many years of experiences that hindered my first attempt. I’ve lived many decades since then, and now I have the time and freedom to share my life’s journey without hesitation. This is my story.

Acknowledgments

I

thank my husband, Robert Howard, who fell in love with me at first glance and remains the love of my life. My eternal gratitude goes to my son, Robert Howard, Jr., who encouraged me to write this book several years ago so that my story would be told accurately and well-documented. To God be the glory!!

1

Growing Up in Sweet Home Alabama

T

here was a time when home, church, and school worked in unison together. The people respected each other’s homes, they respected the church, and they respected the school. It was the responsibility of the parents to nurture, raise, and teach the children right from wrong. It was the church's responsibility to accept each person as she/he was and teach everyone God’s principles and promises. The school was responsible for providing comprehensive quality education to all children. The home, church, and school were the village, and the village was only as strong as its weakest link. This was the era I was born into. 

I was raised in a spiritual home by my devoted Methodist parents. I was baptized as a newborn, and I grew up knowing that God had blessed me in the presence of my pastor, parents, relatives, and members of my church, which was Saint Stephens African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E) Church in Columbia, Alabama. Saint Stephens A.M.E. Church was a rural church located on Alabama Highway 95. It took Daddy approximately 15 minutes to drive from home to Saint Stephen's. Sunday School was held every Sunday, and worship services were held two Sundays each month.

On the Sundays that my home church did not have worship services, we attended other churches’ worship services. It did not matter whether they were Methodist, Baptist, or Pentecostal as long as Jesus Christ was the head of each church.

My mother and father read the Bible to my siblings and me frequently as we gathered around the fireplace in the evenings. I am the seventh child of 18 children. My baptism was confirmed at a very young age. I was taught the Lord’s Prayer and several Bible verses before I learned to read. I heard numerous Biblical stories told by Daddy and in Sunday School. I knew several of them from memory at a very young age. Daddy was a gifted storyteller, and I was mesmerized by the different tones expressed in his voice and the skillful way he emphasized certain words. 

Sometimes, as we gathered around the fireplace, Mama and Daddy focused on teaching us proper deportment suitable for my siblings and me. My parents emphasized that our public behaviors represented the Williams family and that we were raised to be upright and contributing individuals. In addition, those family gatherings were opportunities for all to share with Mama and Daddy the things and events that were happening in our lives.

Mama was a gentle woman with a soft voice. She would go about doing her housework, raising and nurturing us as she sang some of her favorite spiritual songs. When Mama was not singing, she would hum the songs. I thought Mama had a gifted voice. Even today, I still believe this. I am still amazed at how Mama completed the endless tasks of housework and raising and nurturing 18 children every day without losing her mind. All 18 of us were only a little over a year apart in age. I honestly believe that since Mama was an only child, she felt that being the mother of 18 children was a blessing rather than a curse. 

Not only was Mama an only child, but I was told that Mama’s youngest cousin was ten years older than her. Although being an only child had many advantages, I can only imagine that Mama was very lonely at times during her childhood, especially on rainy days when she was not permitted to venture outside to play with her friends. Back in the day, children were encouraged to play outside and move around daily; this was the same way Mama taught me. When Daddy went to work, Mama was inside nursing her babies and during housework, and the other children were outside playing. During my formative years, I only came inside to eat, drink, bathe, and sleep.

I was never lonely during my formative years because I had plenty of sisters and brothers. My siblings and I enjoyed playing dodgeball in the front yard. Mama and Daddy would be at each end, throwing the ball occasionally. But, most of the time, this task was accomplished by two of my older siblings. The purpose was to hit one of us with the ball to get us out of the game.

Usually, the youngest ones were thrown out first. I remember being thrown out very early in those games. Another game my siblings and I played together was racing. I remember racing down the hill, which was located near Macedonia Baptist Church and ended directly in front of my parents’ house. And there was a hill in the opposite direction, located a short distance from my first cousins’ house, and ended near a bridge. On some occasions, Mama and Daddy raced down these hills with my siblings and me. My siblings and I played these two games year-round, and I grew up enjoying playing and walking in the rain and the cold.

Mama had a weekly washday, which depended on the weather. On her washday, the oldest child had to take care of the younger children while Mama was washing the clothes. Washing clothes took the entire day because everything was done by hand. Daddy would build a fire under the large boiling pot to heat up the water to be used.

Then, Daddy would fill up the large tin tubs with water from the well and add hot water from the boiling pot. Mama would separate the dirty clothes and proceed to wash the lighter-colored clothes first, beginning with the white ones. She used a scrub board for the dirtiest clothes. There were two or three tubs of water used for rinsing the clothes. After rinsing each load of clothes, Mama would hang them on clotheslines outside for drying. 

Occasionally, Mama would stop washing and come into the house to check on her children. I remember having to watch my younger siblings on washdays while I was still too young to attend school. During my formative years, the school district did not have any preschool and kindergarten programs for African Americans in Alabama. 

On this particular washday, I fell asleep while my younger siblings were in my care. My brother, David, had crawled into the fireplace and burned his forehead. Mama came in and discovered David lying in the fireplace in the hot ashes. Mama’s hysterical screaming woke me, and then I realized what had happened. Eventually, Daddy appeared, summed up the situation, and he and Mama quickly took David to the nearest hospital, which was 18 miles away. 

When they returned home from the hospital, neither one of them scolded me. They both knew that it was an unfortunate accident and nothing could change what had happened. My tears and body language told them how terrible I felt. I learned a valuable lesson that day: I would never fall asleep again when I was in charge of caring for my younger siblings. 

Since there were no official preschool or kindergarten programs for African Americans in Alabama, all children entering first grade the next school year attended school with their older siblings for a couple of weeks or months before the current school year ended. This allowed the entering first graders to become familiar with what would be required of them in first grade. I clearly remember when my older sisters, Arola and Carrie, took me to school with them. Although I do not recall the details of those days I spent in school with them, I remember how excited I was to ride the school bus and see all the other students and teachers. I was eagerly looking forward to starting school in the first grade. 

The school's name was Columbia High, and all grades were located on the same campus. The Town of Columbia had two separate school systems – one for black and brown students and one for white students.

It turned out that attending school was my favorite activity from first grade and beyond. I enjoyed riding the bus each day and learning new things. I looked forward to Monday mornings and dreaded Friday afternoons. All subject matters were my favorite subjects – I couldn’t pick just one favorite. I excelled in reading, writing, arithmetic, social studies, history, geography, science, and gym. Fall and winter became my favorite seasons because I was in school five days each week, doing what I enjoyed the most: learning.

My first-grade teacher was very smart, firm, and kind and demonstrated her love for teaching. 

Whenever I mastered a lesson in any subject, she would praise me and say, Margaret, I knew you could do it. Those wide smiles and verbal praises made me feel good internally and motivated me to work harder. I believe her name was Mrs. Robinson. She was very tall and slender and wore beautiful dress suits. She had beautiful, straight white teeth, and her entire face lit up whenever she smiled. 

I adjusted very well to first grade. I obeyed my teacher’s instructions. I learned to raise my hand whenever I needed her attention, to participate in a class, or needed her permission to go to the bathroom. Many of my classmates didn’t adjust well. Now, Mrs. Robinson took her job as an educator very seriously. She did not waste her time, and she was determined that students did not waste theirs.

Because I had two older sisters, I could verbally say my alphabets and numbers at least up to ten. Mrs. Robinson would have each student practice writing the alphabets and numbers on the blackboard first because as we made mistakes, they could easily be erased. I clearly remember struggling as I learned to write. Verbally, saying my alphabets and numbers was much easier than learning to write them. Mrs. Robinson always scheduled story time for her first graders, and I enjoyed all of her stories. My parents could not afford to buy children books for us to learn to read at home. 

In the evenings and weekends, Cassie and I played school. I was always the teacher, and Cassie was always the student. I imitated Mrs. Robinson during each class session. I taught Cassie everything I learned in school.

By the time Cassie was in the first grade, she knew as much as I had learned during my entire first grade. Mrs. Robinson told other teachers that Cassie was smarter than her other students. Cassie and I continued this practice throughout our formal educational experiences at Columbia High School. Cassie and I were more than sisters from the onset. I was never jealous of her, and she was never jealous of me.

We had much in common since I was only one year older than Cassie and were both girls. I had four older brothers and two older sisters. I discovered that my brothers mostly complained that I was a nuisance to them, and they never played school with me or helped me with my schoolwork. 

The scheduled recesses were always fun because my classmates and I could play tag games as we dirtied our clothes. Mrs. Robinson would supervise every recess as she talked with some of the other teachers. My classmates and I were always under our teachers' watchful eyes and care. And as a result, we grew up feeling safe and secure at all times.

Back in the day, all of the parents in my hometown knew each other, which meant they associated with each other in their homes, churches, schools, ball games, and fish fry parties on Saturday nights. The teachers were well respected among the parents; they were close friends with many parents who expected the teachers to educate their children. So, the parents and teachers worked collaboratively for the welfare of all children and the benefit of the community at large. 

Because all the parents knew each other, they were the eyes and ears of the community at large. All parents relied on each other to model proper behaviors in the presence of children. I remember that my parents did not initially have a telephone, yet by the time I arrived home from school, they already knew