Remembrance by Steve Scearcy

She was born in 1928 in a cabin in the woods of Louisiana. There was no running water, toilet or doctor at her birth. My grandmother’s best friend acted as a midwife. The men were shooed out onto the porch while nature did what she had done billions of times. Soon a new voice was added to the world. The men patted themselves on the back and took deep drinks out of a jug celebrating what a great job they had done.

Dorothy Williams was quickly introduced to her sister Genny, who became her lifelong best friend.

In many ways, Dorothy’s life was like a movie. She went to Webb City High School. There, she found her future husband Jack, a cocky smart-alec, and not to her taste. But that changed one fine day immediately after World War II. Dorothy was at her window at the Webb City Bank when Jack came in. According to Dorothy, Jack was in his white Navy uniform and cut quite a striking figure. At her window, he withdrew money to buy a car. She welcomed him home, and that was that. He walked out of the bank. Her heart pounded as she helped another customer. Then she saw Jack hurriedly enter the bank doors and come up to her window again. “I was thinking, maybe we should, you could… go to dinner with me tonight.” Dorothy said, “Sure!”And that was the beginning of the beginning.

They were inseparable. Jack painted her name on the passenger side of that new car. They ate hamburgers and danced close. They had a favorite song that they sang together, “My Blue Heaven.” One day, as they drove down Route 66, the busiest highway in America, Dorothy turned to Jack and said, “What do you think about us getting married?” Jack slammed on the brakes. Their car stopped. The cars behind them slowed and stopped. “Do you mean it, Dorothy? Really?” She nodded. He looked deeply into her eyes. “Yes,” he yelled. There was a long, passionate kiss as the cars behind them honked impatiently.

I came along a few years later, and then my brother. A parade of dogs marked off the years. Money was often tight, but we kids didn’t know it. There were camping weekends, fishing trips and projects on my grandparents farm. Life went on as it does.

The couple retired to Grove, Okla., and Grand Lake. There, Jack fished, and Dorothy began painting. It was something she had always wanted to do. People began buying her art, called Collywobbles. Soon, Mom and I were traveling all over the country, making appearances and going to shows. She appeared on national television. She was a guest at Opryland, and the lines were long. The voice of James Earl Jones introduced her during a syndicated news biography. I am not sure where it came from, but as each new adventure presented itself, we would turn to each other and say, “Here we go again, old lady.” As I traveled with my mother, we became best friends, a gift we both cherished.

One day, I got a call from my mother. “Steve, do you know that in this area, thousands of children don’t have enough food or clothing?” I acknowledged I didn’t. She said, “And they don’t have Christmas.” Mom was fired up. “I’m going to start a charity and do something about this.” She did; it’s called Santa’s Old Broads, or SOBs as they liked to be called. The organization has been going strong for over 20 years, feeding and clothing thousands of children in the area. Dorthy would say, “Get a bunch of old broads riled up, and there’s nothing that can’t be done.” She viewed this work as her crowning achievement and the most important thing she had ever helped create.

She came to live with me in Kansas City as the pandemic began. She got to play with her three adult grandsons regularly – and I do mean play. The boys would break out a board game or a deck of cards, and the beer would flow, and the colorful language would spice up the air. Mammy, as they called her, kept up with them to their delight. She often remarked that she wished she had moved to Kansas City sooner.

Dorothy fell on Nov. 14th. There was surgery on the 15th. As she was coming out of the effects of anesthesia, she turned to me and said, “Steve, we have about three weeks, maybe a little more.” She passed on Dec. 12th. She never lied except at Christmas.

I will miss my friend and my mother. When remembering someone who lived such a remarkable life, sadness feels out of place. I picked up her ashes the other day. The man who sat behind the counter was an Ichabod Crane’s clone. His sober expression was all part of the job. If he had known Mom, he would have smiled, shook his head, and said, Wasn’t she something!” I took the “Little Box” to the car and placed it on the passenger seat. Just for fun, I buckled the seatbelt. I got behind the wheel, started the car, and put the car in drive. I turned toward the little box, and said, “Here we go again, old lady.” We listened and sang “My Blue Heaven” all the way home.