IN DEFENSE OF COMMON SENSE
By Hetty Gray
January 15, 2021
“Ode to Omilee”
It is a rare occurrence for me to write about one person in particular. And so, this is only one of three columns over the past twenty-plus years that I do so.
I was seventeen, out of high school one year, and working at a short-term mental hospital on the Indiana University Medical Center campus along White River in Indianapolis. Many of you will remember the distinctive x-shape of Larue Carter Memorial Hospital. A short-term facility, it had little in common with long-term psychiatric hospitals scattered around the state.
Working as a psychiatric pool secretary, I was responsible for typing up physical and mental examinations of patients. The woman in charge was Freda Stearley of Brazil. Serving as the Medical Records officer, she oversaw our work and made sure that records were available to the staff doctors and the medical students completing their education at the Indiana University School of Medicine. She was the epitome of efficiency and inspired each of us to do our very best.
Interesting is a mild word to describe the detailed information that went through our department. I met a young woman whose husband was a conscientious objector then stationed at Fort Harrison on the east side. They were Mennonite and she gave me the best recipes. Today they are retired farmers in Kansas. We have kept in touch consistently for sixty years this coming fall. Sadly, that doesn’t hold true for the rest
of my group.
The three other women in our complement were lovely black ladies, each of whom had an astonishingly different background. One of the women was married and an accomplished seamstress. Another was shy and said little when we would gather for lunch in the hospital cafeteria. She sketched beautifully, I appreciated her talent as an artist. Did she continue in her art? I don’t know. And then there was Omilee….
I’ve often wondered what happened to Omilee. She was a pure delight. Soft-spoken and very friendly, I can still see her smile. She just lit up when someone mentioned pets and family. Tiny, almost frail in appearance, she favored white blouses and fitted skirts. We chatted a lot and became friends in short order.
A few months after I began to work at the hospital, I had a chance to attend a Ray Charles concert at the newly-opened Clowes Hall at Butler University. At that time I drove the thirty plus miles to work every day. My father outfitted my tiny Ford Falcon with a transistor radio to allow me to listen to WIBC for traffic and weather reports. To drive back home county and return in time to make the concert would have been very difficult indeed.
Omilee knew that I was going and she was excited for me. She asked me if I would like to go home with her and change clothes so that I didn’t run such a tight schedule. I jumped at the chance. That trip to the Chandler household was seminal in my life. I learned a lot that fall afternoon. I remember that I had saved to buy a dark red dress at the Major T. Jester Department Store in Shelbyville. Since my grandmother was a professional dressmaker and my mother sewed beautifully, it was a rare thing to have a “store bought” dress. Funny that I remember things like that….
After work, Omilee hopped into the car with me and we were off. She walked to work. She lived close to the hospital. Twenty years later, in 1982, that street became the home of the Indiana University Natatorium.
Looking back, I can picture that street today with no problem whatsoever. Mature trees lined the streets. Sidewalks were narrow, but uncluttered. Most of the homes were two-story, clapboard structures with wide front porches and small front yards. Very few had garages, so residents parked curbside. Some owners cultivated lovely flowerbeds, while others chose simple shrubbery. Flower boxes adorned quite a few porches and window boxes added colors to other homes.
What made Omilee’s home a bit different was a long, gently slanted ramp carefully fitted to one side of the front porch railing. I saw it as we made our way up the eight or so steps to the porch, but it didn’t make sense until I was well inside.
Since the house sat on the east side of the street, the late afternoon sun streamed through the front door and the living room windows. Not a thing was out of place. Because I had plenty of time to change, the two of us walked back to the kitchen to have a visit. As I walked through the kitchen door a charming woman greeted me with “Well, now, I finally meet you, dear!” It was Omilee’s mother. Confined to a wheelchair, she beamed with enthusiasm and I felt so welcome. Evidently, Omilee had mentioned me and her mother probably curious about me.
I sat with her mother and chatted while Omilee went about beginning to plan their evening meal. For the life of me I cannot remember her mother’s first name, but she was such a nice person. However, my upbringing would have had me address her as Mrs. Chandler anyway. To have used a first name for an adult would have been rare for me. She asked me about my family. I told her my only sibling was a brother four years older than I and that he was serving with the National Guard as a crewmember on an Army helicopter.
She pointed to a picture on the wall. It was her son, Omilee’s brother, resplendent in his uniform. A U.S. Navy man, he inspired a lot of pride in his mother. I don’t know exactly what happened that left Mrs. Chandler unable to walk, but that disability certainly didn’t dim her zest for life. It was clear by listening to her that she and Omilee were active in their church. It was interesting to note how her family and my family had a lot in common.
Looking back, a that time nobody in my department earned a lot of money. We did our work and made the going wage for clerical workers in a state institution. Yet, each one of us honed a keen appreciation for good health, especially good mental health. Being privy to the records of people with mental problems really made you thankful for your own personal stability and instilled empathy for those afflicted.
Mrs. Chandler had every reason to be proud of her children. Omilee would rise very early in the morning to bathe and dress her mother. After preparing breakfast for them both, she would either pack her own lunch or plan to eat a light meal at the hospital. It was easy to see that they had a warm, loving relationship. I had no idea how long that Omilee’s mother had been unable to get around, but since the wheelchair was well-worn, it probably had been years. Time flew and we chatted that day.
When time grew short, Omilee directed me to an upstairs bedroom, and she made sure that there was a fresh towel in the bathroom for me to use when I changed clothes.
It was a short visit; but, to me, it was priceless. To this day, nearly sixty years later, I have not forgotten that afternoon in the Chandler home. Love reigned. It is critical to realize the time period. This was 1962, nearing the end of the Civil Rights Movement that had begun in the 1940s and just a year before Dr. Martin Luther King’s famous speech on the mall in Washington, D.C. August 28, 1963.
The black community was well-established on the west side of Indianapolis. Madame C. J. Walker’s fine building stood along Indiana Avenue, but the most notorious venue was the Fox Theater. According to the Indiana Historical Society, the theater’s genesis dated to the summer of 1909 when it was built at the corner of Illinois and New York Streets as The Colonial Theater. Its expansive interior seated 1400 people and it shared a building with The Colonial Hotel. Vaudeville was the darling of the day and performances were well attended. But by the mid-1930s, vaudeville’s place as the most popular entertainment of the day was eclipsed by Hollywood.
In 1937, the theater’s name changed to The Empress, a venue that showed motion pictures. The name didn’t last long, though; and in December of 1937, it changed to The Fox. Entertainment switched from movies to burlesque. Although that particular artform originated in Europe as a Victorian form of entertainment, the burlesque of The Fox was carefully choreographed strip tease to music — hence the reputation of The Fox on Indy’s West side. Today, the old Indiana Avenue no longer exists between Illinois and Capitol Avenue.
Artform changed once again, and in the 1970s The Fox screened so-called “adult films.” With quite a colorful history, The Fox can still raise an eyebrow of those of us over 75. A wry smile or a shake of the head…. But, in its day, The Fox was the pride of residents in the area, even if it had spawned quite a unique reputation.
Indiana Avenue also featured music. Take a look at the picture below that was featured in The Indianapolis Star. Retro Indy was a great article published February 25, 2015. Quoting the piece,”
“During its heyday in the 1930s and early ’40s, Indiana Avenue was the Broadway of black Indianapolis. From New York Street northwest to the old City Hospital near the White River was the center of black business and cultural life.
Known as “Funky Broadway,” “The Yellow Brick Road,” and “The Grand Ol’ Street,” Indiana Avenue was home to thriving black businesses and a vibrant club scene.
At the Sunset Terrace, one could hear Count Basie’s Orchestra, Lionel Hampton, B.B. King, Eddie Vinson and other big band and blues acts.
Patrons enjoy a jazz performance at Henri’s Café Lounge, a club located at 408 Indiana Avenue in Indianapolis owned by Henry Vance. The musicians are Wes Montgomery on guitar, Willis Kirk on drums, Monk Montgomery on bass, and Buddy Montgomery on piano. Photo, Indiana Historical Society.
Some of the era’s great jazz musicians and singers got their start on The Avenue, including the Hamptons, Wes Montgomery, Leroy Vinegar, Freddie Hubbard, Jimmy Lunsford, Jimmy Coe, J.J. Johnson, Earl Walker and the original Inkspots.
Like New York’s Harlem, Indiana Avenue was a product of segregation. Blacks were restricted from white neighborhoods and could not shop at many white-owned establishments Downtown.”
Given that background and what was happening in American society at the time, plus the fact that I hailed from a small town that accepted its black citizens as neighbors and friends, the Chandler household was a haven for me and a reminder that all of us are God’s children and that no one of us chooses our parents. We all have one Father in Heaven.
The warmth and hospitality shown to me by Omilee and her family, coupled with the intense loyalty and love of the Chandler children for their mother, made a deep impression on me — an impression that lives to this day. I’m sure that they had no idea of how deeply that afternoon visit affected me.
In the contentious climate of our inner cities today, it is hard to imagine a time when — despite poor treatment and discrimination — most folks, black and white, got along with little animosity. Like today’s saying, “It is what it is,” back then “it was what it was.” It would change. It has changed.
The family unit is central to society. And so it was with the Chandlers. I know that Omilee’s father had died, but I never inquired as to the circumstances. Relegated to a wheelchair, Mrs. Chandler depended on her children and they followed through in grand style. They welcomed me into their home as a friend. Neighbors who saw Omilee arrive with me didn’t so much as give us a second glance. Oh, that it were like that everywhere in America today.
We have lost the empathy and compassion so imbedded in the America of my youth. We worked through the rigors of integration, and had family units like the Chandlers held forth as the norm, I strongly believe that we wouldn’t be in the harried fracas we see today. The one emotion that destroys all in its path is hate. Hatred never accomplishes, yet it beckons. We see that today. Anger is easy to incite. And once incited, anger destroys people and property.
Yet, hope lives among the faithful. Pastors look to Heaven and ask that we love one another as Christ asked us to do. Truly, the Chandlers did just that. They loved one another and they loved others. Their home, however humble, was a haven for family and visitors alike. The pride they took in their home was evident at every turn.
The Chandler children earned my respect. Their example impacted me. Omilee was so devoted to her mother. I never heard her mention a boyfriend or dating. Reflecting on those days, I wonder if she avoided entanglements in order to care for her mother. If she did make that sacrifice, it was never evident in her attitude. I will always respect her.
I learned that Omilee’s brother sent money home to help his mother and his sister. I know it must have been hard for both brother and sister. Honor, love, loyalty, integrity, pride — hallmarks of the Chandler family.
I wonder, did Omilee ever marry or did she live out her life taking care of her mother and enjoying her friends and her church. She was about six years old than I was when we worked together. That would put in her eighties now.
Like me, she has an unusual name. Perhaps someone will read this column and recognize that warm, open, wonderful person that I knew so many years ago. Knowing her as I did, and recognizing the work ethic of her family, current events would flummox them. Theirs was not a family that harbored hatred. They would grieve and pray for change.
Think about it.