The first sight of the house made me feel like a bolt of lightening had hit me.  I could only sit and stare.  Then I noticed the old lady in her garden.  Getting out cautiously, I said something like, "How are you today?", and told her that I just came by to see her house because I heard that she had built it.  She wasn't hostile, but reserved - I am familiar with the reserve of old black women who live alone with no visible means of protection.  I was scared to death.  Before I could ask anything about the house, she said, "Help me with this!”  A pile of twigs and sticks lay at her feet and next to them, a log of some kind.  Pointing to the log, I said I would carry it for her.  I will never forget her look when she said, "You can't take that by yourself!”  I said proudly, "No problem!"  How could she know that I was a strong woman sculptor, used to lifting large boulders and rocks and that, furthermore, my shoulders could move a car if I wanted to and so --I bent down, properly, to tackle this object only to discover that I could not move it at all.  Trying again and mindful of her eye, I was heartsick to find out that the task was impossible.  I prayed.  How to get God's attention was first, and then I prayed that the object could slowly be put upright.  What now, Sport?  Somehow I got it level with my hip and side and locking my knees together in a triangle shape I said from my gurgling throat, "Where do you want it?”  I let it drop in front of the house which seemed like a mile away.  I was grateful to be able to stand upright again.  Ms. Furcron was in the nursing home when I learned that it usually took two men to carry one of those logs.  That day, I asked her for permission to photograph the house and her.

Before leaving, I asked if she wanted anything from Athens.  "Yes, cotton stockings.  Not silk ones!”  I said, "OK", this time instead of, "No problem!”  She then informed me that the last person who told her that had never come back with the stockings.  I was to find out why.  She said to get them from Sears.  My grandmother wore cotton stockings, but that was a long time ago.  I tried everywhere.  I even stopped people on the street.  I called Sears in Chicago.  I prayed.  I found them, in Athens, Georgia, downtown.  I took them out to her the same day that I heard that my Mother had died.  Ms. Furcron and her guardian were installing a new stovepipe.  They had put out what had been a small fire whose smoke I captured in a photograph taken while she berated me for not taking the money for the stockings.

Ms. Furcron was proud of her garden, and whether you were there for a long time or not, she had things to do, and you felt intrusive.  She asked how old I was and if I was married.  She said that she had never married.

...Her house looks abandoned, as her yard and garden show.  Apparently, one time she "got loose" from the nursing home and walked ten miles toward her home.  I can hardly make it up a small hill.

Excerpted From "Sculpture for Ms. Mary Lou Furcron"

Beverly Buchanan

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